El's Literary Library

✩｡:*•.─────  ❁ ❁  ─────.•*:｡✩

The land was young , but so were you. 

It was cold and that was all she remembered.

Perhaps it was the overwhelming dress that was sewn onto her , or maybe it was the giant veil that dragged behind her feet when she walked. Though she had remarked to the old (C/N) Empire that the dress was beautiful and deserved to be worn by someone greater than her. Oh the white jewels , they glicened in the sunlight that had crept through the church’s stained glass. 

It was a dress approved by her husband, so she had been told. But she didn’t believe that men cared about such trivial things- especially since he had never seen her before . 

She sealed her letter at her vanity with the words :

“Bye ,Grandmother, for this is my last letter as (Y/N)(L/N). I am now Lady Ludwig Beilschmidt”.

With nimble and graceful hands, the young country handed the letter to the older brunette who watched her from the corner of her eye. She had once been forced to marry too, now it was her duty to welcome the young (C/N) into her home. Though she remained happily married to the Austrian, she still feared for the awkward youthfulness that overcame the young country’s shaking hands. A crystal was forming in her eyes, but she did not look up at Mrs Hungry.

“He vill treat jou vell,” The older country interrupted the pregnant silence with her slight lisp. “He vill not mistreat you. I knov’ vhat jou feazr. If anything, his brother vill be more ov a chore than he”. 

“Are you his sister?”

“His cousin’s vife.” she smiled at the maiden bride’s trembling voice. For once, she seemed real through the transparent veil that clung to her face. “Ve live together. All of us.Even that balfácánt he calls ‘bruder’”.

A white smile formed upon the maiden’s face. A maid stepped back from fixing her veil and she stood up from the pink chair that had been sat in front of the vanity. “Not even my Grandmother could make it.” (C/N) remarked “She refused to see me marry him. Such a historic day in my country’s history and she doesn't even seem to care.”

The wooden door was burst open and (Y/N)’s boss burst in with all his glory plastered on his chest. Medals made of silver and gold that had been mined in the deep (C/N) caves that they now only have half control over. The flashes of silver and gold almost seemed to mock the girl who was only there considering that he had lost the (C/N)-German war due to his lack of leadership. That was her opinion. The opinion of many.

He was half-German himself. The people had been reluctant to coronate him for they believed that a certain bias would be present when dealing with the Europeans . They were right , of course. There is no other explanation for being so oblivious in a time of war. His sharp glare watched her slowly ascend and take the cornflower bouquet that rested in the case of water. Her gloves wet and she watched as they slowly became a deep red when she took the hands of her boss. Hungry took the train of the dress and straightened it, earning a grumble from the royal. 

He rushed her forward , but the bride turned to look at her newly found companion , “Thank you, Ms Hungry.”

“Sok szerencsét, lánytestvér”.  

✩｡:*•.─────  ❁ ❁  ─────.•*:｡✩

The immaculate door intimidated her as light seeped through its delicate cracks. Two guards stood at either side , awaiting for the grand piano to sing its awaited song. She wiped her gloves on her white dress in an attempt to rid of the red liquid that stained the pure witness of her gloves. Then the people started talking and the door slightly cracked open and she worried that the sweat forming on her forehead would mess up her hair. 

Her boss squeezed her hand, annoyed at her trembling and crying. Her eyes found his cold dark pools of blue and wondered if her bridegroom would be as cold and distant as he. What if he hit her? What if he made her a territory ? What if he decided that (C/N) should no longer be a country and simply just use her for the resources she has, slowly killing her. The piano began to play, but (C/N)’s feet did not move. Chains grew in place of the satin shoes that were a few sizes too small for her feet. Her boss pushed her forward, the guards opened the door, and she was free no more. The aisle was long and tedious, but when she appeared everyone stood from their pews to sneak a look at the freshly matured country.  It did not please her to look at the people around her, so she looked forward. But when she looked forward, a blurry silhouette of a country that was to be her husband awaited . Maybe he was as reluctant as she and would divorce her as soon as he got his fair share of gold and weapons. 

No, a respectable man would not do such things.

The whispers of others taunted her. They all turned and commented about how meek and young the country was. Some of them wished that they had known that she was so young , for they would’ve attacked her, but after knowing who her bridegroom was , they did not fancy the idea.

She walked up the altar steps , her shoes slightly taping on the cool marble. 

“Mister Germany, please take the hand of your wife.” The minister spoke.

Her boss gave her hand to Germany, letting him touch her for the first time. He seemed clueless as to what to do with her hand. He fumbled her hand before squeezing it tightly so as to not let her go, as if a harsh breeze would sneak into the church and knock her over. 

She glanced down at her hand, feeling the sudden pain of his strength before glancing at his face. He was made of stone , a statue imported from Rome. The thin line that was held by his lips told her that he was as reluctant as she, and though he gained more from the marriage than she ever will, he still did not fancy the idea of being married to some random country. 

The piano stopped playing and all attention was diverted to the couple. Lingering murmurs were silenced by the minister’s soporific voice and speech as he opened his book and side eyed the albino man who stood near the altar. She had never seen a man so white , but Hungry was sure to warn her of the ‘devil spawn’ that was Prussia, the brother of her husband. 

A speech so long and boring would make anyone tired and (C/N) was no exception. She decided to look up and examine her bridegroom for the man he was , and though her vail did make it hard to see, she was still able to see the pools of blue that resembled the sternness of her boss. ‘They really are the same’ she thought to herself, ‘at least he’s not bad looking.’ However, her daze was cut short when he glanced at her swiftly. 

“Vilt‘ thou have zhis voman to thy vedded vife, to live together ufter god's ordinance in zhe holy estate ov matrimony?” The minister began as his attention grew on Germany. She noticed his grip growing tight and his eyes becoming slightly constricted. The couple looked at each other in the eyes, for a moment he doubted his decision. He only agreed to the marriage as a consequence of  the pressure that Austria and Prussia had bestowed upon him. The truth was that his economy was unsteady and he had grown sick from the peril known as inflation. He had stood in on a meeting, her boss and grandmother sat at the end of the table in grand thrones while Prussia and his own boss had sat at the opposite end. 

<i>“Vhy don’t jou just get married? Un eazy vey tu solve jour probvlem.”  </i>

<i>Prussia whipped his head back and let out a howling laugh. “Are jou kidding me? To zhat uld hag?”  </i>

<i>“I have a daughter,” The old (C/N) empire spoke out, her hands moving to remove her spectacles “But if you had any honour you would not take her”.  </i>

<i>“Und vhy is zhat?”   </i>

<i>“She is far too young to leave her land and move onto another. After all , she is (C/N)’s personification .”  </i>

<i>Prussia leaned back in his chair and looked back at his younger brother “how doez she look like. Is she hot vith voluptuous-” </i>

<i>“That is her right there.” The king of (C/N) pointed to the large portrait on the wall with a girl in ceremonial (C/N) dress. Her hair was pinned in the traditional fashion and her hands were fashioned chastily on her lap.  </i>

<i>Germany had first noticed the gentle simper that had been painted with the painter’s red. She seemed pure, amiable, and unknowing. Her posture had indicated that she had never seen war, something he was so accustomed to seeing.  </i>

<i>“So vest, jou vant ‘er ?” </i>

<i>Being lost in the colours of the painting, Germany looked back down at his brother. His cheeks were a crimson and he was at a loss of words . How could he be offered a wife without meeting her first ? Prussia grumbled something about being too awesome to marry anyway and that this woman would be a birthday gift to him, Germany ignored him. </i>

<i>“Ja, if it vhat i must do”. </i>

And now here he was , as powerful as could be. His uniform dripped with medals and gold that had reflected from the sunlight into her eyes to make them burn. One of the golden pendants was a gift from her. It was golden of course, and in the shape of a star which symbolized something in her culture but he couldn’t remember. 

“Vilt thou love er‘, comfort ’er, ‘onor, und kepe ’er in sickenesse ubd health? And forsaking all uther kepe thee only to ‘er, so long as jou both shall ‘live?”

Germany slipped the ring onto her finger before glancing into her eyes. He could barely see her through the veil that had been so heavily draped across her face . But he knew one thing, she was trembling.

“Ja”

The minister gruffed . Looking at the veiled country, he began to read the words from his book. 

“Vilt thou have zis man to zy vedded husband, to live in zhe ’oly estate of matrimony? Vilt thou obey him, und serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness und in health? Und forsaking al other keep thee onely to him, so long as jou both shall live?” His voice trailed off as the prolonged stare between the couple continued for a lifetime.  Her shod feet twitched as her toes moved in a way so that they were facing together; it became hard to stand.

“I will”, she responded in her language , unable to translate the words in his. Then she put the golden band on his finger

It didn’t matter if she said ‘I will’ or ‘I don’t’ , as long as she was married and away. The minister didn’t understand her language, nor did he make an attempt to read her body language. He hurryingly closed his bible and sighed in almost a mocking way as if this marriage was not significant or valid. “Jou many kiss jour bride”.

The bride and groom grew flustered, it would be the first time either of them kissed. Germany’s hands reached to pull her veil from her head but he halted as if he were frightened to view his wife bare from her veil. 

“Hurry up, vest” Prussia nudged his brother “I bet jou she’s cute under zhat veil und under zhat dress too.” He whispered the last part expecting her not to hear him. But she did and her cheeks turned redder.

Other countries began whispering amongst each other, eager to leave the church and attend the reception. If only he would kiss her and leave, this whole ordeal would be over. She would not be standing there, absorbing all the lingering stares that were concentrated on her body. They whispered false ideologies about her , how they believed her to be the weakened version of her grandmother and the empires that came before her. 

Then he pulled the veil back, viewing her genuine features for the first time. He nearly stepped back, her portrait did not deceive him. He awkwardly pulled her in, his hands firm against her shoulders as if to keep her from escaping. Slowly she closed her eyes, allowing him to kiss her. 

Cold and hard lips met her luscious and soft ones. soft ones as they kissed in front of the marble altar. It was an awkward kiss, his teeth fortuitously grazing her lips as she nearly jolted back. But just as the kiss began, the kiss ended with him pulling away. 

 ✩｡:*•.─────  ❁ ❁  ─────.•*:｡✩

The reception bored her. Nor was she pleased with the food that she was served. 

He sat beside her , ignoring the dancing and music as much as she did. 

The colors of fair maidens' dresses blurred in her vision as she rested her eyes on the hectic ballroom. ‘If only I were so fair that my husband would look at me longingly’.

“So…” she looked at him and waited for his gaze to turn to hers “What is your favorite color?”

It was a sad attempt  but an attempt nonetheless to get him to talk to her. He didn’t seem annoyed at the question until he bluntly answered “orange” and went back to eating his food.

She sighed and played with the foreign food on her plate.

“Und Jours?” he asked.

“(F/C), it’s the color of my country.” 

He looked upon her smile before going back to finishing his meal. Germany, while at the head of the table , sat next to his older brother who whispered dirty jokes into his ear. His face turned a deep crimson red, but (C/N) acted oblivious. She wrapped her hands around her waist tightly in fear that all her organs would spill onto the table and she would make a fool out of herself. She heard her boss’ voice in her head scold her, telling her to sit up straight and act as an (C/N) lady would. She didn’t want to be a lady. 

“Gentlemen ,” A man placed a hand on the trembling girl’s shoulder and looked over at her new husband “May I steal your bride for a dance?” 

The young country only nodded, not knowing the sharp grip that pressured the girl’s shoulder would leave a lasting bruise. Though an ‘acquaintance’ and only having just met his wife, the weary expression she held was enough to alarm him. He turned in his chair, watching the uncoordinated couple trip onto the marble floor. Something didn’t seem right about him, nor the little woman he arrived with. 

Germany looked back at his brother who tried to cover his laughter with his gloved hand. 

“Vhat are jou laughing at?” He cut a link from his plate.

“He’s a little rough with her , no?” Spain sat at her empty seat, drinking her nearly untouched goblet of wine. “The señora doesn't drink?”

Belligerently, (C/N) found herself being pushed into one of the many rooms of the estate. It was of a similar fashion to all the other rooms that she had seen, but the walls seemed to close in on the country and her king as music and laughter still managed to overpower the room. She whimpered, her face confused and her dress stained with tears , she did not look as a bride would on her wedding day. 

“You know what you must do.”

“You are putting all this pressure on me . I can’t-” 

<i>Slap</i>

The sound was clear as day. If only the door was slightly ajar then it wouldn’t have blended in with the music. Just like the slap, her bruise blended in with her already red face.

“In order to successfully unit the two countries you must consummate. It will be watched by a priest and two diplomates to make sure it is done correctly-”

Then the door cracked open and the king took his hands off (C/N) when he saw Germany standing in the doorframe. Unbeknownst to them, he had been standing there the whole time, listening to every little word that was said. He had had the same talk with his own boss, though the talk was a little less violent and emotional. 

“It’z time to retire.”

“Yes, I believe so too.” her boss acknowledged , “It’s after midnight, what is a bride doing away from her husband on her wedding night.” he joked though the new couple did not seem to find the jest amusing.He took her hand and stepped from the room with her, making sure to not step on the train of the never ending dress. The sea of arachnids grew silent as they parted to make way for Lady and Lord Beilschmidt. 

And in that moment , innocence was lost and she was made a woman. Their dance was awkward at first, with him being stiff and her being unknowing, but the marriage was final, and her lily and loyalty was given to him.  That was all that mattered , to her boss at least.

 ✩｡:*•.─────  ❁ ❁  ─────.•*:｡✩

“That iz my piano. Do not touch my piano”

“That iz zhe first thing jou say to jour new cousin , Austria ?”

Light cracked through the windows as she stood there awkwardly , hitting her dress slightly to outline the golden and yellow seams. It matched her wedding band which locked so heavily on her ring finger. If only it didn’t bother her so much then maybe she would have acknowledged the thick band’s beauty. 

“I am tired of zese ‘children’ moving into my home. First Prussia and now zese girl.”

The oak doors burst open, revealing Hungry holding a white envelope with the seal of (C/N).

“(C/N)!” she  had a distressed look on her face and she closed in on the girl “It comes from jour boss.”

“My boss has passed. We haven't crowned a monarch yet.” 

Overtime , Hungry had noticed a slight change in the country’s attitude. After the death of her boss, the people of (C/N) began a revolution, killing those with the emblem of Germany etched into their hearts.  

The young woman seemed panicked, clenching her satin covered heart and helping herself to the velvet seats made for Austria.

“(C/N),” Hungry placed her hand on the shoulder of the younger girl, thankful that she was not in her place “Jou must asx jour husband for council.”

“No, I am a country. I must deal with this on my own.”

“No. Jou are a joung gurl, jou must ask for help when needed. Germany vill know what to do.” 

And so, later that night when she had had her dinner and dismissed her handmaiden , she dressed again and did her hair in the fashion in which she knew he liked. He once gifted her perfume from France which she had never worn. Though she had doubted that he himself had picked out the perfume for he rarely thought of her (or so she thought) , she decided to adorn herself in it in order to appeal more desirable to him. 

She needed money. 

She was going to ask for money.

After all, he had owed it to her. 

The crown his queen wore was crafted from her blood. The ring his king wore came from the teeth of her grandmother . The child she would hopefully never birth would be carried by her. 

She did the sign of the cross.

She ascended into the hallway , sweeping her skirt along the tile. 

Laces that sinched her waist and held her body constricted her , making her smaller and smaller as she stood beneath the immaculate doors . Those doors , the doors that separated her and him. In those days during that time, women were not allowed in the studios of men. It was respected as his space , a space in which she was not allowed.

Tonight, she was not a woman. 

Tonight, she was (C/N).

The air that flooded the hallway became heavier and heavier until she stopped breathing. A tear began to form and she did not know why. Was she afraid to talk to her own husband ?

Suddenly, the door swung open and hit (C/N) on the nose . Causing her to stumble back and hit her head on the tiled floor. There was no carpet to break her fall, only the stone which nearly caused her to bleed.

“(C/N)?” Germany looked down at her, startled . He offered his hand to hers , hoisted her to her feet. “I did not expect jou to be up so late”

She was too startled. Her heart raced and suddenly she forgot to speak her own language. The world around her spun and she worried that he would kill her then and there. No, he wouldn’t do that , would he ? She didn’t know. What she did know was that he had the money that she needed. 

“Germany,” she kissed him on the cheek gently, regaining her composure “I must speak to you, it’s urgent.”

“Vhat could be so urgent at this hour sigh … jou knov vhat, come inside. Jou are my vife after all.”

He opened the door for her, allowing her to step into the room for the first time . 

Everything was tidy. The curtains were perfectly ironed , the books were arranged by author and colour, and his medals were nicely seated next to each other in the order in which he received them. There was not a speck or a crumb on the floor, as if he had just swept the floors.

“(C/N), Jou bleed.” He states , coming close to her body. 

The mirror she looked into showcased her bleeding nose. She was perfect in every way but that. She wanted to cry, she had put so much effort into her makeup and just a simple mistake had ruined everything.

“Here let me help.”

He sat her down and came upon her with his handkerchief. Somehow it disappeared, and her face was cleaned from his magic hand. Even the red stains that had sunken into her pores were gone, as if he were a painter painting a clean, pure woman. 

“Thank you.”

“Ja” he turned around and placed his handkerchief carefully on his desk. “Knov vhat is it jou vant?”

“I need help!” She blurted out . “I am ashamed to ask you for it, but I need you to help me. Your people have mined hard and deep into my soil. Women are raped by your occupiers and boys are taken to become soldiers. All I ask is that you police your men and compensate me for my precious medals.”

He placed a finger on his chin, as if he were thinking.

“Vhou is jour debt to?”

“England.”

“Then the matterz iz finished.”

“But I need you to send at least half of your men away.”

“Done.”

“Just like that.”

“Und just like that.”

She straightened her neck and wondered why she had even stressed in the first place. Still, he stood in front of her tall and strong , intimidating her immensely . She felt small and weak still, even though she had just gotten her way.

“Alvright, if zhat iz it then let me valk jou to jour room.”

“That would bring me much joy, yes.”

He offered her his arm to latch herself onto, to which she gladly accepted . She wanted to leave that room as quickly as possible . So once they stepped from the overly clean room, she let out a sigh of relief and a small prayer to her god. 

The amount of steps it took them to reach her room was 392, which was only one or two off from the amount it took her to reach the office. She probably miscounted , or got distracted by the sound of her heels hitting the tile. 

“Alvright,” he kissed her on her cheek, ”gute nacht.”

“Gute nacht.” She responded and watched him turn her back on her , making his way in the direction of his room. 

Their arranged marriage had been a union of convenience, a merger of two powerful countries, but the emotional distance between them was palpable. Tonight, however, C/N was determined to bridge that gap.

“Wait!” She called out to him, figuring it was either now or never. “Would you like to come in?” 

She no longer wanted to feel lonely, she wanted the feel of his skin and the kiss that came from his lips.  She wanted him to love her , like a husband loves a wife . In her books she had read of this love, when a man whispers sweet prayers into a woman’s ear, and begs that she do the same. She had experienced love from him physically, but wanted him emotionally. She wanted his heart to join with hers , she hoped he could see that.

His nod was all she needed .

She invited him into her room, making room for his tall and bulky frame. 

“May I speak freely?”

He nodded again. 

“We spend our nights alone though we are husband and wife. Why is it such?”

A crimson blush crept upon his cheeks and he shuffled uncomfortably, searching for an answer in the pure white tile. 

“Vell-“

She abruptly cut him off.

“I want to know you as a wife knows her husband.” 

“Ve have already come to knov eachother in zhat vhey.”

“No, we have not.”

"Then lets us."

The air was thick in their unspoken tension. His blue eyes bore into hers , making her feel small but not inferior to him. It was an odd feeling. 

In the dimness of the room, she noticed his blush and his fumbling hands. She reckoned that he was shy. Even with all his military regalia and medals, he did not know how to come with a woman. Slowly but desperately , he closed in on their small gap, wetting her lips with his own. 

His kiss was warm and his body hot against hers. 

As their kisses grew more fervent, C/N stepped back slightly, her hands moving to the ties of her gown. With a slow, deliberate motion, she loosened them, the fabric falling away to reveal her bare skin. Germany's blue eyes widened, his gaze roaming over her body with a mixture of awe and desire. It was a feeling he had not felt in awhile. Even on their wedding night, he did not lust for her. It was a duty, a chore . But now, she was a goddess, her curves soft yet seductive , her nipples tight against the coldness of the room.

He removed his clothing and picked her slim body from the floor to throw her on her bed. He had chosen that bed for her, that much was true. It was purchased before their wedding in (C/N) of hopes that she would come to feel at home in her bedroom.

His touch ignited her body, creating a flame that warmed her body. She lusted for him, and he for her. 

She grabbed his manhood, slowly pleasuring him until he felt it was right to insert himself. Her walls closed on him, creating a warm , wet embrace over his manhood. He thrust himself into her, over and over again.

It didn’t take long for him to release, with his seed pouring into her. As countries, it was highly unlikely that a child would conceive , but if one did , then it would become the land in which it was conceived. 

(C/N) moved to the left of the bed, allowing Germany to sleep on the right. 

"Gute Nacht," he whispered to her with a short kiss.

He would not return to his bed that night.

“Should I have it reprinted ?”

Matthew was not an unremarkable man by any means, he was kind, hygienic, and punctual, which is already an incredible feat when you consider the metric you have for other men. Besides being a decent man, he was attractive, intelligent, soft-spoken with a nerdy twang, all traits that should make him incredibly likeable, yet it felt like the world kept glossing over him, and you couldn't understand why. Your friends didn't even know who he was until you spoke of him one day.

He was the kind of person who sort of blended into the background, never in any circles, rarely ever thought of, seldom spoken to. You thought you would crumple in on yourself when, one day, you asked Matthew why he always hangs around you, with a bit more bite to your tone than intended, and he simply replied; "I don't even know anyone else."

You felt a strange sense of responsibility over him. If no one will witness him, who will? To feel human is to feel seen, and it always pains you when you think of how lonely Matthew's life must have been before that fated day you asked him where your first class was.

"... Yeah, sure, we can hang." You finally let up, sighing with a tired smile on your face. That warm grin he gives you always feels like such a nice treat after sacrificing more of your time to him. Guilt settles slightly in your stomach when it dawns on you that you might be allowing him so much leeway just because you find him cute.

"Y-Yeah? Oh, thank god." Matthew breathes out happily, looking like he was absolutely glowing. He pushes his glasses up his tall nose, "Um, I-I'll take you to my place? We can do whatever you want, honestly. I don't mind anything." He rushes this out with a fervor that comes off as a little creepy. His teeth catch his lower lip as he looks at you in anticipation.

You hum and stuff your hands into the pockets of your coat—Well, his coat that he gave you. It's a nice coat, a nice, sandy beige trench coat with a simple plaid pattern on the inner linings. It sat warmly and loosely around your shoulders.

He gave it to you after your first day of classes. It was pouring outside, neither of you had an umbrella, but he decided to provide you his coat anyways. He went home that day soaked from head to toe, sneezing, but with the biggest smile on his face he's had in years.

When you tried to return it, he was already wearing another coat, and insisted you keep it. From the look in his eyes and the way his hands tremble, you can tell he absolutely adores the look of you in his clothing. You felt a little evil right now, truth be told, feeling like you were taking advantage of this man who was so clearly wrapped around your finger.

"Wanna binge-watch something?" You suggest, "Was thinking of the Sam Raimi Spiderman movies. They were fun." Matthew nods eagerly, "O-Of course!"

You give him a tight-lipped smile, "Alright then, I'll see ya after class, Mattie. You should go now, you'll be late to yours."

He returns your smile with much more enthusiasm than you have shown, "Yeah, yeah, um, just– Thank you so much. I'll see you." He's visibly giddy even when he walks off, and the universe decides to only add to your guilt when someone bumps into him on his way out, not having even noticed his presence.

-----

"Ah, damn, I shoulda brought some extra clothes before coming over." You curse, while Matthew stared in mortification after spilling water on your jeans. He's sputtering like he's begging for his life, and you have to quickly bring him back down.

"Hey, hey, calm down! It's just water, Matthew." You laugh lightheartedly, "It's just uncomfortable at most, is all."

His lower lip quivers, you called him by his full name instead of the nickname he's come to see as a term of endearment. He's nervous. "I can– I-I can dry them off for you. I'll give you some pants to borrow." And before you could even say anything in response, he scrambles to his feet and runs off to his bedroom, quickly returning with a pair of black sweatpants.

"Here, um, I dunno if y-your underwear's wet," his voice drastically lowers in volume as he says those last two part, like a child saying a cuss word, "but, uh, I-I've got some boxers you can borrow, too." He nervously readjusts his glasses, his mouth running faster than he can think.

"Please." You request, just about as embarrassed as he is, but you knew if you showed any weakness you two would be bumbling messes the rest of the night. He nods and almost trips over his own feet running back to his room.

Truth be told, Matthew is absolutely fucking ecstatic that things are going so well for him right now. Of course it was a mistake that he spilled the water on you, but now it's the thing he's most grateful for this week. He gets to see you in more of his clothes, in his boxers, for christ's sake! You know how sharing straws or cups or utensils would be called an indirect kiss? So, of course, just the thought of sharing underwear and what it implies makes his heart beat way too hard for what it is.

Admittedly, he's having a bit of an underwear shortage right now, since he's had to keep changing them, always leaking way too much precum in your presence. He knows it's a little excessive, but he's so self-conscious about things like his appearance and his hygiene that he can't help but fuss over it. He fetches the newest, freshest pair he's got, and returns to you. You take it graciously, and as you change in the bathroom, Matthew wonders if he can snag your spent underwear and indulge a little later when he has to excuse himself to the bathroom.

-----

Matthew glances sidelong at you, studying your serene, happy expression with your eyes on the TV screen.

"You seem to really like this movie."

You are snapped out of your stupor by his observation, and let out a small, embarrassed laugh at being caught at such a vulnerable moment.

"Oh, well, yeah, 'course I do. I think it's also just cause I really like Spiderman."

"Is he your favorite superhero?" Matthew asks, pulling his long legs onto the couch, resting his elbow on the backrest, and facing you with his cheek resting on his palm.

You nod, meeting his gaze for a moment, his heart skips a beat, then you return your attention to the screen. "Yeah, he's cool. I like Peter Parker more than I like Spiderman, though."

Matthew pouts slightly, trying to keep his voice playful, "What, is he your type, or something?"

You snort, "You could say that!"

The moue on his lips deepen, and he begins to compare himself to said character. Matthew is also an awkward, nerdy white boy who tends to get walked all over. He wonders if, just maybe, he was your type, too. He's always been down on his luck, but maybe it's finally turned around, and by some divine blessing, his upbringing and its resulting personality made him just a little more likeable to you.

"I kinda relate to him." Matthew mumbles, and it captures your attention.

"Huh, you're right," you agree bluntly, looking him over as if you're seeing him for the first time, "surprised I never made the connection before."

A shy smile replaces the troubled frown on his face, and there it goes again, that feeling of gratification from making him smile.

"Halloween's coming up." You suggest teasingly, turning your full attention to him and mirroring his pose.

"Mhm?" He hums, slightly oblivious.

"You'd suit it well, cosplaying him." You clarify.

Matthew's cheeks redden. "A-Ah, really now?" He rubs the nape of his neck bashfully, his honey blond curls brushing against his knuckles.

"Yeah! It'd be super fun." You try to goad him on.

"It's such an embarrassing thing to wear, though..." Matthew whines, before a thought pacifies him. He glances away for a moment, then continues eye contact. "I'll do it if we match." He boldly bargains.

"Shall I be Green Goblin?" You laugh, and Matthew whines louder, which in turn makes your noise graduate into a cackle.

"Nooo! I want you to be Mary Jane."

You blush. "Well that's not very flashy or embarrassing at all. How will that comfort you?"

"You'll be with me."

He always knew exactly how to tug at your heartstrings.

"... I'll think about it. I'll update you in a few business days."

Matthew rolls his eyes and laughs, hitting you with a throw pillow as weakly as possible.

-----

As the night comes to a close, you find yourself instinctively growing more and more nervous with the knowledge you'll have to say goodbye to Matthew soon. Not because it's late, or because you'd miss him, but because you knew exactly what would happen once you'd try to return to your home. You glance at the clock one more time, before taking a deep breath and speaking up.

"Hey, uh, I should probably get going."

And like always, the soft smile drops from his face chillingly.

"... Oh, really?" Matthew breathes out quietly, sounding almost ghoulish.

You grit your teeth and feel a tightness in your head as you anticipate his next words.

"Can't you... can't you stay for a little longer? Can you stay the night?" He pleads. His voice is pathetic. Fragile. Decrepit. Pitiful.

"No, I'm sorry." You reply curtly, with as much sternness as you allowed yourself. You knew you had to be strict, that you had to show you weren't fooling around, but you felt like you were kicking him when he was already at his lowest, and you couldn't stomach that thought.

Matthew's eyes well up with tears, his violet eyes twinkling with the reflections of the warm lamps in his apartment. You were screwed.

"But I..." His voice shakes a little, "I want you around. I'll be lonely. Can't we spend a little more time together? Just a bit. We can watch one more movie, then I'll let you go." This was a lie. He knew this. He'd try and keep you as long as he could long after said movie was done.

Running a hand through your hair, you duck your head slightly to try and hide the frustrated expression on your face. "No, Matthew." There it is, the lack of a nickname, and his heart breaks again. Normally you'd be elated that the weekend would begin tomorrow, but right now, you cursed it since it didn't leave you with many excuses to avoid Matthew. "I've, uh, got some errands to run."

"I can come with you. It'll be more fun if we do it together, right? You can sleep here and we'll go and do them first thing in the morning." He's practically arguing at this point, but his soft tone of voice makes it sound more like begging than anything else.

You could barely hold back the hint of a groan in your voice. "No, Matt– Come on, I could just come over again some other time. I'd rather be alone tonight."

In response, Matthew's pitiful, pretty face scrunches up in hurt, and he lets out a quiet, pained noise as a few tears roll down his freckled cheeks.

"Why? Did I do something wrong?" He chokes out through the painful lump in his tightening throat, "I-I'm sorry– What did I do? I'll make it up to you. Don't– Don't leave yet, you need to let me apologise properly first."

Before you even have the thought to start rising from your seat on his couch, his long, cold fingers wrap around your wrist, and keep you from leaving.

"Let me, let me, please–" He begs weakly, and your irritation from all his dramatics, his crying, his grovelling, his incessant whining—it catches up to you, and this time, an irritated groan cuts through his wobbly ramblings

"Oh my god, could you just let me have a weekend alone for once, Matt?!" You snap, and you visibly recoil at the way Matthew flinches and looks like his heart had just been ripped out.

With a gulp that was a little hard to force down, you continue with a thick, shaky voice, trying meaninglessly to mend the emotional damage you had dealt him. "Please, dude, you've– You've been taking up all my time this past month, a-and I really just need some time away."

It's like he heard nothing you said, and the only idea that was clear to him was; "I've gotten tired of you, and I don't want you anymore."

"... Do you hate me now?" Matthew whimpers, sniffling and hiccuping openly, just letting his tears roll down his flushed cheeks and drip off his thin jaw. He hoped that the heartbreaking sight would coax some sympathy from you, even though he knew it always did.

He has to hold back a relieved laugh when he sees your fingers twitch, hesitating to comfort him, but you give in anyways, pulling his glasses off his face, and wiping his tears away with the heel of your palm.

The gesture wasn't the most gentle. It was a little callous, maybe even done out of pity rather than love, but the act meant you cared either way, and just the thought makes Matthew smile warmly and nuzzle his wet face against your palm.

"No, I don't hate you, I–"

"Then why do you wanna leave me?" His glossed lower lip trembles as he argues this, as if it were a valid point.

You let out a strained sigh, and comb his wavy hair back with your fingers before settling them back on his lap, where his trembling, clammy hands immediately hold onto yours. The sight of them slightly dwarfing yours remind you of how strange the situation is, but it also makes you feel relieved. He was larger than you, but, still, he showed you docility. Like a large dog with attachment issues.

"Matthew." You say sternly, and he whimpers like a kicked puppy at the coldness in your tone, "At least for the weekend. That's just two days."

His mouth keeps opening and closing, trying to find some bullshit logic to dispute your reasoning with, but he can't find anything besides just outright begging you to stay solely because he feels like he could die without you by his side.

Despite all his docility—Rather, because of his docility, Matthew has come to use less than noble methods to get you chained to him instead of using brutish violence.

"I... I'm not good at taking care of myself." He whispers hoarsely, "I'll do something stupid again."

Your gaze immediately softens with worry when you realise what he was implying, and your gaze unconsciously drifts down to his slender forearms, and the thin scars that littered along it like ladders.

Matthew can't help a small, victorious smirk this time, but due to his tragic state, it looked more like a desperate, pleading smile. A smile in the attempt to appear strong.

"Hey, hey, no, c'mon..." You mutter softly, all your previous irritation dissipating and being replaced with that terrible kindness Matthew loved exploiting just to keep your eyes on him.

"I... I-I've been having a lot of stress from my thesis paper, and the bullying, a-and you're the only one I have." His voice cracks shamefully at the end of that confession, but he presses on. It was a good thing, anyways. All it would do was just make you dote on him more. "I just wanted to spend more time with you. You make me happy. Really happy."

You knew you'd scold yourself for this, come some time after he eventually wins you over. He always manages to, so you find yourself crumbling under all his guilt-tripping and the use of those damned puppy eyes of his.

You hesitate, glancing at the door for a moment, and his heart sinks, immediately squeezing your hands to pull your attention back to him.

"Please, you're all I have." Matthew begs, with a sincerity and adoration so genuine that it hurts him, and makes a few more twinkling tears spill from his glistening eyes.

With an uneasy look on your face, you finally relent. Immediately, a shaky, bright grin spreads on his flushed, dripping face, and you hate how the sight makes your heart flutter.

-----

Nights spent with Matthew are surprisingly normal, despite the messy altercations that usually preceded them.

Somehow, he's manipulated you into thinking that sharing a bed with him was something completely normal and innocent, despite his very obvious attraction to you.

"My couch isn't that comfortable."

"I don't own any other blankets besides the one in my bed."

"You'll get cold. I can keep you warm."

"You can have all my pillows. Y-You can cuddle me too, if you want."

"I'll get lonely."

Matthew waits for you to settle into his bed first. It was nestled in the corner of his room, so you'd be on the side that was against the wall. He's always insisted on it, since it was a silent effort on his part to keep you trapped there. Maybe if he held you tightly enough, you'd find it hard to leave him in the morning.

Once you were laid down on his soft mattress, he lies next to you, immediately drawing closer to you like a magnet. His lanky arms hesitantly drape over your waist, as if worried he'd upset you more, but, selfishly, his desire for closeness wins out over your own feelings. Just like always.

You were laid on your back, staring straight up at his mundane, creamy beige ceiling. Matthew was on his side, gazing at you with that familiar awe and yearning constantly swirling in his hazy, violet eyes.

His pale hand rests on your stomach, his long fingers shyly playing with the fabric of your sweater, like he wanted more from you. Matthew himself didn't even know what exactly he was pleading for, but he wanted it anyways. He wanted you. A soft sigh leaves his nostrils, and the cool air brushes over the skin of your face.

It remains silent for a long while. You were still stewing in the headache-inducing frustration of the earlier altercation with Matthew, and, like always, you coped by forcing yourself to forgive him.

He was just lonely.

He needs me.

He's my responsibility.

I am his only friend.

I am all he has.

"Can I come closer?" Matthew whispers, the sound of his weak voice so close to your ear sends shivers down your neck and across your shoulders. You don't answer, you look annoyed, but you're not fighting him off, and that's good enough for him. His arms tighten a little around your waist, and he scoots in so close the tip of his nose nudges against the soft skin under your ear. You can hear every little breath, swallow, and mouth sound, and despite the quietness of the room, it feels overstimulating.

"You look like you're thinking really hard about something." He murmurs, sitting up slightly for a moment to pull his thick duvet around the two of you even tighter. "Are you still mad at me?"

"... I just need to rest." You reply vaguely.

Matthew's heart hurts a little. He knows you're still upset, but you tolerate him anyways. You really were a saint. He nods, and shuts his eyes, trying to calm himself down for your sake, willing himself to slow his breathing and his heart rate so yours could sync up with his. Your scent and the feeling of you in his arms does just the trick. "Okay, rest, then." He whispers reassuringly. "I'll keep you warm."

"Night." You mumble stiffly, rolling to face the other way. While it was meant to be a small act of defiance, Matthew was just happy he gets to be the big spoon now. That, and you even greeted him a good night despite it all.

"... Goodnight."

-----

When you weren't awake, Matthew liked to pray.

The young man wasn't very certain if he was religious at all. He grew up surrounded by ideas of Christianity, but besides a brief period in his childhood where he attended mass regularly, he wouldn't really consider himself one. It did, however, impact his beliefs in a way that went beyond just faith and kindliness.

In his adolescence, Matthew learned a formula for prayer. ACTS was the abbreviation for it. Matthew would use this formula to pray for small things in his life, like exams, someone he thought needed help, animals, and, most commonly, he'd utilise it for those late nights when he'd pray for someone to finally notice him.

Something strange and cruel in the universe would finally respond, and decided to offer you as his most perfect blessing. You would become his god.

A is for adoration.

"You're so amazing... so pretty... You're so beautiful. Oh, you're so kind to me, e-even when I'm being so annoying." A deranged, self-deprecating chuckle forces its way out of his tight throat. He has to swallow a little forcefully to try and soothe the hoarseness with his spit. "I'm sure you're so tired of me, but you still lov– A-Ah, should I even use that word? Hehe, I'm not sure if I'm allowed to, but, ohh, it would make me the happiest man in the world if you did..."

The air is heavy and damp, yet cold enough to make your cheeks sting. He kisses them with his soft lips, and the ragged exhale that follows warms them up.

C is for confession.

"I'm... I'm really dirty, though." He chokes out quietly, before his racing heart demands a sharp, ragged gasp to help it settle. It doesn't do much. "I act so nice around you, a-and I am a nice guy, I swear, but... But I'm human, too. I've been hiding so much from you. I'm so sorry for doing this to you, but you– y-you'd hate me if you knew this side of me..."

"Oh, you'd hate it if you knew just how often I think about you in the most... t-the most unholy ways... S-Sometimes, I get so excited when I'm around you that I have to excuse myself, and, w-well, you know." In an absurd act of bashfulness, he glances away from your face when he mutters this last word, as if he weren't stroking his dripping cock over your abdomen right now.

"You'd hate it if you knew that what happened to your friend was my fault... That I'm the reason your door's lock has so many scratches on it, that I'm the reason your window's hinges are so loose... A-Ah, my angel, today, I... Just earlier, I sniffed your underwear, and it made me cum instantly." A quiet, sickening giggle follows this putrid confession. "That's horrible, i-isn't it? I barely lasted a few seconds, b-but, I swear, I won't be like that with you. I'll go much longer. I'll go as long as you'd like me to, honey. You can use me all you'd like, and I'd love it. I'd always love you."

He almost lets out an unrestrained moan at the thought of you using him for your pleasure, but he bites on his tongue at the right moment, and it results in a stifled whimper.

"I know... S-Somehow, I know that I'm being ridiculous. Sometimes, when I'm picking your lock, when I'm licking your toothbrush, when I'm spitting in your body lotion, o-or when I'm cumming inside your bottle of conditioner, I... I know how terrible it is. I-I know I'm doing something disgusting, but it makes me realise how much of an angel you really are... You're so nice, even to someone as irredeemable as me. I love you."

His right hand fists at the fabric of the pillowcase right beside your head. The veins twitch beneath his pale skin with the strain of holding himself up above your sleeping body.

"... I'm sorry I isolate you so much, but I'm s-such a loser, and you're the only person in the entire world who's given me a-any attention. I don't want to lose that. I don't wanna lose you, don't wanna see you give this attention to anybody else, hurts so much, feels like I'm dying whenever I see it..."

Along with sweat, precum, and drool, tears now begin to join the mix. Matthew's weak voice begins to crack.

"I love you so much. I love you, I love you... Please never leave me. You're all I have. I-I'd die if you ever did."

T is for thanksgiving.

"But still, you... H-Heh, you still spend time with me..." Matthew swoons, as if the simple act of companionship were something sacred. "I'm so happy that you do... Thank you so much... Thank you, thank you, love you..." He babbles on breathlessly, his hand stroking his flushed, slick erection with more fervour as he felt that familiar, thrilling tension begin to build in his lower abdomen.

"Ahh, you're such an angel, you really are..." Matthew hisses in pleasure, his gritted teeth showcasing the points of his canines, which, usually, were a charming point, but right now, all it did was really drive home the idea that he was nothing but a predator. "S-So good to me, even when I don't really deserve it... So kind, so precious, s-so holy... I'll be yours forever. H-Hah, merde, I already am, I always was..."

He's panting, gasping, gritting his teeth and whimpering through pressed lips.

S is for supplication.

"Oh, the love of my life, my angel... Please be mine. Please. Ah– I'd... I-I'd never ask for anything else once I have you. You're all I need. I want you to only look at me, only smile at me, g-give me all of your time, spend y-your life with m-me– Oh, f-fffuc–!"

His fully dilated violet eyes roll back blissfully in their sockets when he finally spills his load all over his hand. At the same time, he lets out a choked gasp that was just a little bit too loud.

Matthew has to collect himself, sit back on his haunches, and dig his teeth into his right hand's knuckles in a clumsy attempt to muffle his needy, orgasmic moans. All the while, his left kept stroking that painful hard-on he's had ever since he cuddled up to you in bed.

His long fingers, pink-tipped and trembling, messily aim his spurting cock upwards, wanting to make a mess of his own clothes instead of yours. It truly pained Matthew to force himself not to paint you with his seed. He saw it as something like an offering to a deity. His semen was a product of his love, desire, and all the admiration he felt towards you. It was proof of his devotion. It was proof that you owned him.

Matthew is now a panting, quivering, flushed mess. The look on his pretty face was nothing short of debauched, with the slight, sweaty sheen on his reddened cheeks. His eyes, half-lidded, framed with long lashes, heavy with pleasure and love. His lips, swollen and pink after he had bitten on them in the useless effort to silence himself. Oh, and if you looked at the corner of his mouth, you'd see a bit of a spit trail glistening on his skin. He always got way too excited whenever he had the chance to 'pray' to you. Forgive him.

Well, the small droplets of drool on your face were the least of your problems, when, right now, as Matthew began to collect himself, noticed a spurt of cum that had landed on your cheek.

A shiver racks through his sweaty slender body, while the corners of his spit-glazed lips curled up into a disgustingly aroused smile.

He takes a few deep breaths, sloppily tucks himself back in, and wipes his cum-covered hand on his pyjama pants. He would clean this all up anyways. He'll clean you up, too.

Those dirtied fingers, still stained with the scent of salt and an unmistakable masculine musk, gently hold onto the side of your jaw. Matthew's eyes, now softened in his post-orgasm glow, just silently admire you for a moment. Here you were, his angel, his love, the centre of his entire universe, with the evidence of his worship on your cheek.

Ah, he was so happy...

He leans down, his warm tongue only hesitating for a moment before he shakily—eagerly laps at the cum on your face. Gotta keep your altar clean, right? He thinks this to himself with a satisfied, pleasured little hum in his throat.

When he pulls back, Matthew fully squeaks and stops breathing at the sight of your barely open, squinting eyes in the dark.

"... What are you doing?" are the only words that seemed to make sense at the moment, so it's what you chose to croak out.

The damp chill of the air cools the patch of saliva on your cheek, and it makes your hairs prickle and raise.

"N-Nothing." Matthew sputters out, his voice a little rough from the strain of trying to keep himself quiet. He coughs to clear his throat. "I'm sorry, did I wake you? I just, ah... I..." Matthew was always good at lying, but in the damning situation of being caught right after prayer, he fumbled a little. "I was... I-I was just looking at you."

As creepy as his excuse sounded, it was one that didn't faze you much when considering everything else he's ever done. Him watching you in your sleep was nothing compared to when you found a small ziplock bag of your what looked like your hair in one of his drawers. What did make you second-guess his excuse, though, was his heavy, shaky breathing.

Your narrowed eyes, stinging and squinting in effect of being prematurely woken from your sleep, slowly begin to adjust to the light. The moonlight seeping in through the blinds and the dim, warm lamp on his nightstand illuminated him just enough for his features to be properly discernible. The light caught the glistening fluids first—the sweat on his throat, the tear tracks on his red cheeks, the trail of drool on the side of his mouth, the drying ropes of cum on his shirt—and that was all you needed to see.

You spit out a startled, horrified curse, and immediately sit up straight, shoving Matthew's weakened body off of your own.

"What the fuck?!" Your cry comes out mangled, slurred with adrenaline and disgust.

"No, no, it's not like that!" Matthew hurriedly tries to defend himself, and even he knew how ridiculous and damning this was, to try and excuse this act. Damning was an incredibly weak word for the gravity of what he had done. He had ruined it all, he had desecrated the one good thing in his life, and he could only (as ironic as it was) pray that the kindness you had repeatedly shown him would save him from this.

You, while mortified, saw this as an opening. You finally had a reason to abandon him, to cast him away like the rest of the world did. In that moment, Matthew didn't see a single sliver of that expected empathy in your eyes, and he felt like he was going to die.

"You piece of shit!" is a guttural scream that tore his heart into shreds. You disentangle yourself from the blankets and his long limbs to try and scramble off of his bed, but a firm, trembling hand to your waist stops you.

"I didn't touch you!" He sobs. It's a pathetic, useless thing. It felt terrible to lie to his god like this. It was blasphemy.

"You touched yourself! That's fucking gross enough!" You shriek, kicking him away so your feet could finally touch the ground. Matthew scurries after you, his body unceremoniously falling to the ground with a harsh impact against his knees. They were sure to bruise, but like always, Matthew saw the harm to his person as another show of devotion. With you, he's come to see every single thing you do as a kindness, regardless of your actual intent. Right now, all you were doing was punishing him for being so sacrilegious.

He frantically wraps his arms around your knees, wailing and begging for forgiveness, and you feel like you could be sick at the knowledge that he was smearing his dirty fluids all over your clothing. With his sniffling nose pressed against your stomach, he knew he had nothing else to do but grovel.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Matthew cries miserably, "Please don't be mad. Please, please don't leave me! Ahh, I'm sorry– hic– I'm so sorryyy..." He whimpers your name repeatedly, as if pleading for repentance. "I-I know I've been bad. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I won't do it again. Y-You can– You can go out with your friends, okay? I'll– I'll let you. And you can have some alone time. Just please don't hate me for this! Please don't leave me!"

Matthew's belief that he had authority over your actions almost disgusted you as much as the feeling of his erection against your leg. You felt bile burn at the back of your throat when it twitches the moment your eyes meet.

A violent shudder racks through your entire body, and you have to slam a clammy hand over your mouth to suppress the gag that builds in your oesophagus. It comes up anyways, but at least your palm against your lips muffles the gross sound and grounds you slightly.

You force your legs out of Matthew's desperate grip, and bolt to his bathroom. He chases. Your own knees ungracefully land on the floor in front of the toilet, and contrary to his own pain, which he saw as love, this was a tragedy. Like a chip in expensive porcelain. How could he allow his angel to be ever harmed in any way? Let alone in a situation that was completely his fault.

With a sickening retch, you dry heave, then empty the contents of your stomach into the toilet bowl.

Matthew, still trembling and snivelling, kneels beside you, and wordlessly holds your hair back with one hand, while the other, try as it may, fails to comfort you by rubbing your back. Still, it's all you have at the moment, so for the meanwhile, you don't fight it.

Once you've gotten it all out, you spit, rinsing the taste of puke out of your mouth, watching your saliva land in the slurry of your vomit. Matthew flushes it down for you.

"Are you okay now?" He whispers, his voice still shaky from trying to stifle his sobs. His cold hand repeatedly pets your hair, and you just want to scream and puke again at how it reeks of semen.

You raise your head slowly, trying to focus on Matthew's red, snotty face through the glaze of tears in your hollow eyes.

"Matthew," you start roughly, your voice gritty from the stomach acid, "you can't keep being friends with me anymore. You realise that, right?"

His face crumples immediately, and he whines, like a child throwing a tantrum.

"No, I-I don't want that." He cries, "I really don't want that. I can't do that. I'd hate that. C-Can't I make it up to you? Please? I can– I can buy you something. Whatever you want. I-I'll save up for it."

The idea that he could buy your forgiveness after something like that was appalling.

"Oh my fucking god..." You let out a low, destroyed laugh, resting your forehead against the cold surface of the toilet seat. "Why are you like this?"

Matthew's never seen you like this before. So cruel, so blunt, so mocking. It makes him feel ill. "W-What do you mean, sweetie?"

You choose to ignore that pet name, as much as it makes you want to slam your head into the toilet seat right now.

"That," Your voice softens after you swallow, your saliva soothing your hoarse throat, "instead of everything you do, you could've just... Y-You fucking like me, don't you, Matthew?" You accuse him with another weak wheeze, a tear finally dripping from your waterline. It was so obvious, it had been that way from the start, but as stupid as you were, you kept choosing over and over again to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he had just been that lonely, maybe he had been so alone for so long that he didn't know how to interact with other people anymore, maybe he just cared.

In the end, you couldn't help but feel like it was your fault for continuing to enable this. You ignored all the red flags, and that is what ended you up in this situation. You were to blame.

Matthew, in his naivety, genuinely had no idea that his feelings were this apparent. He didn't want them to come to light like this. He wasn't even sure if he had the courage to confess sometime in the foreseeable future. He never wanted it to be like this, though, that was for certain. He's thought about it a million times. It's what he spends his time doing in lectures while the rest of the world forgot about him.

He's daydreamed about confessing in the form of a love letter (he's even written a few that would all eventually end up in the trash), spending a painstaking amount of time making your favourite sweets for Valentine's and spilling his feelings then, or even in a scenario like that rainy day he met you. You two would've gotten stuck in the rain, ran off to his apartment to get away from it, and in the intimacy of cleaning up, borrowing his clothes, and spending time together in the storm that followed. Then, his confession would come. Unplanned but easy, slipping out in the comfort of the moment, and you would accept it with a blush and a smile on your face that finally mirrored his own.

Anything would've been better than this. Himself, dirtied with his own cum, snot and tears, and you, his angel, looking at him with tears in your exhausted eyes and the scent of fetid bile in the air.

"I... I do, yeah." Matthew responds hollowly, "I love you." He whispers with a crack in his weak voice, "Had it been that obvious?"

You scoff and wipe your tears, finding a tragic humour in his confession.

"Why didn't you just ask me out, then? You– You jumped straight to giving me your clothes, making me stay the night, and fucking jerking off on me while I was sleeping!" You cry hysterically. Matthew flinches at the sudden escalation of your tone. You continue after taking a few heavy breaths, "You were already acting like a damn boyfriend anyways. Why couldn't you just... be normal? Oh, god, Mattie, it didn't have to be like this..." You sob helplessly, getting up from your knees just to sit on your bottom with your back against the cold wall.

Matthew absorbs your words, not with defeat, but with the thrilling idea that, in some way, you would've been okay with being with him. That's what this meant, right? He was just a huge mess right now, and when he's all cleaned up and normal again, you could forgive him. Like you always do.

He gets back up on his feet, and heads for the sink to hurriedly scrub his face and hands clean of any traces of sin. Then to his wardrobe, where he fishes out clean clothing and races to dress in them before you even thought of moving. He almost stumbles over his own feet, but soon enough, he's in front of you, kneeling and casually tying his hair back in the effort to look more presentable. He thought of putting his glasses on, but decided against it. Maybe he looked more handsome this way.

"I can be normal." He affirms with a chilling certainty. He knew he couldn't be that, not ever, not when it came to you, but he'd pretend. He had been sloppy, but that came out of the eagerness that came with falling in love for the first time. "What else do you want me to change? What do you want me to be? I can do it."

You look at him, now cleansed from the physical manifestations of his depravity, and he looks so beautiful right now that it hurt.

"Just grow a damn backbone, Matt." You plead, your anger held back slightly just for this one, genuine, request, "We've known each other for months now, yet I feel like I don't know a single fucking thing about you besides the fact that you're clingy and that you like me."

His chapped lips parted, and for a good long moment of silence, his mind went unnervingly quiet. How could he even respond to this? That he is different, that he is his own person, that he is unique, when all he's been obsessing over this entire time was you, and how to be perfect for you.

That lost, kicked puppy look on his face haunted you, and somehow, it made you feel terrible. Again, all you could feel was pity. It was the closest to your affection he could ever get.

"Yeah, of course you'd have nothing to say about that." You mutter to yourself bitterly. Some terrible part of you preened in the attention that such a beautiful man gave you. For a while, you had actually wanted to get to know Matthew, to begin liking him for other aspects besides his attractiveness. Perhaps that's why you kept bothering with him, why you kept tolerating him, and it made you feel repulsed by yourself.

"... I'll just... Matt, I'll leave. I can't look at you right now. I need some time away from you. You don't have a say in this." You mutter with a disappointed, exhausted coldness.

You stand up, use his sink for a moment to rinse out the lingering taste of acid in your mouth, and then you're gone.

Matthew had a lot to think about.

-----

The weekends were quiet. Matthew, true to his word, kept minimal contact. At most, he'd text you "good morning" and "good night" texts, along with a few words of encouragement for the day. He couldn't bring himself to stop doing that. It seemed terribly distant and rude.

In his time away from you, he tried to, for once in his life, really focus on himself. Matthew thought himself to be a selfish person, but for all the wrong ways. He spent a lot of time on grooming himself, keeping his home clean, and doing his best with his own studies and whatnot, but he wasn't really sure what to make of himself outside of that. He liked cooking, maybe. He wasn't sure. He just really liked pancakes, so naturally, he'd teach himself to make them well. Was that an interest, or just a necessity?

He liked things, of course. Everyone had things that they liked. Matthew liked movies, games, music, and books, but could it even be described as a hobby? It's like saying that you liked fried chicken. Sure, some people may not like it, but the vast majority did, almost to the point that it was a given. What good was it that Matthew liked the first Avengers movie? Who cared that he liked Stephen King's novels? Wasn't it pointless to say that he listens to Bruno Mars? Who the hell didn't play Minecraft?

This was Matthew's great problem. He saw no value in his pre-existing interests, or any interests at all unless they had some sort of connection to you. It was a mental blockage that truly needed some outside intervention for him to realise, but all he had was you, so he was stumped.

Then he started trying to link his interests to you. He could make your favourite foods, then maybe that could ignite a passion for cuisine within him. Maybe he could ask you to play Minecraft with him. He could try and make good on that fantasy of his, and start writing the perfect love letter. He could also try to learn something new. Who knows? Perhaps he just hadn't explored enough, and the hobby made for him was just somewhere out there.

Currently, by his desk lamp on a Sunday evening, Matthew had since found that hobby. Things that involved him tinkering with his hands. It explained how quick he was to learn how to lock pick. He had learned how to fix basic household appliances, sew the small tears in his clothes and even tailor a few, and just today, he learned how to make bracelets. Nothing really fancy, of course. It was basically just braiding a very short rope made of thread, but it was something. He had redone these specific bracelets quite a few times by now, tugging on the embroidery floss so hard that he frayed a few in his frustration, and left little indents on his reddened fingertips.

Matthew was frustrated he kept breaking the hairs, too. He hated wasting the ones of yours he had collected, and his scalp was starting to sting where he kept plucking a single strand from.

These two red bracelets were completely plain and unassuming, yet hidden in the slight sheen of the red embroidery floss he had chosen, were your hairs, braided together and into the bracelet. It was creepy, even he could acknowledge that, but the small, soft smile on Matthew's face showed that he was confident you would never know. This was just a little thing for himself.

He continued to fuss over these until midnight struck, but by then, he had snipped and sealed away any little imperfection, and now, he had two perfect, dainty, braided red bracelets.

The red strings of fate.

-----

"Hey?" Matthew starts, his voice incredibly quiet and careful, intercepting you by your classroom for your first class of the day.

Seeing him again, after everything that had transpired, brought up a disgusting, warm, aching feeling in your chest.

You had missed him.

You had spent so much time with Matthew, that any moment without him felt unnerving and empty. Without the blond man constantly sitting next to you like a cat who didn't really know how to ask for affection, or constantly staring at you with that heartbreaking, yearning gaze, your weekend had felt... boring.

"Yo." You great him back with a curt nod and a smile, feeling so awkward interacting with him now that you knew just how biblically he wanted you.

"Good morning," He breathes out reverently, a brilliant smile lighting up his face. He was so happy you even acknowledged him. "I-I, uh... I got into a hobby over the weekend, and I... I made us these."

Matthew's long fingers trembled as he pulled the bracelets out of his pocket. They were well-made, of course they were—he even thought so last night—but now, to Matthew's bespectacled eyes, they currently looked like trash.

"They're, um, nothing special, I know," He whispers with a self-deprecation that pained you, "but... I thought you'd like to see proof that I'm... I'm doing something else with my time."

His heart leaps when you gingerly touch one of the bracelets, and take it.

"No, it..." You mumble, examining it quietly. The scrutiny made his heart race so fast it hurt. "It looks good, Mattie." Your smile softens into something less stiff after you say his nickname, and his grin sweetens up.

"Really? Oh, I'm so glad you think so..." The young man swoons, "D-Do you want me to help you put it on?"

You weren't planning on wearing it at all, but it was significantly easier to agree instead of putting him down.

"Yeah, please." You answer casually, holding your wrist out. He pockets his own, and holds onto the bracelet you had taken. His trembling hands, usually so stable in the mundanity of his life, struggle a little to tie the bracelet around your wrist. His cheeks burned with embarrassment, and the sweat on his palms definitely didn't help, but he eventually managed to do it.

Matthew lets out a shaky exhale, his hand holding onto yours for a moment to examine his work. The bracelet was sort of secondary, though. Getting to touch you was the real blessing.

His hands drop to his sides, and he takes his bracelet back out from his pocket. He shyly tries to put it on his own wrist, and he genuinely almost squeaks when your hands wordlessly take each end, and you tie them up yourself.

"Oh!– Ah, thanks, um, thank you." Matthew stutters. He'll make sure to seal the knot—the memory—so it never undoes.

"They're matching." You point out bluntly. Not really to insult or to compliment, but to acknowledge. It makes him a little shy.

"Yeah, they are." He murmurs, "It's... It's like the red string of fate, isn't it?" His anxiety bubbles out in the form of a quivering, unsure giggle.

The mere suggestion that this man could ever be your soulmate made your throat constrict with a familiar tightness.

"I guess so." Your vague agreement is slightly clipped. "It's... cute."

Matthew is absolutely overflowing with warmth right now.

You couldn't stand to see it, that bright, rewarding smile on his flushed face.

"I'll head in. You should go, too."

Matthew's little dreamy bubble pops, and he tries to stifle his smile a little, so he wouldn't look like a lunatic. He was unused to really schooling his expressions, considering no one would ever notice it anyway, but now that he existed in your world, he'd have to learn.

"Okay, I'll... I'll see you later?" He asks hopefully.

A shiver runs down your spine when you remember what happened the last time you agreed. It was probably time to begin distancing yourself from him. It was long overdue, actually.

"Ah... No, you won't, sorry." You don't know why it felt like a knife through your heart watching how you had managed to instantly erase that happiness you brought him. The bracelet around your hand felt heavy. It was a symbol of his hard work, of his intent to change for you, but really, all it was, was a string. "I, uh, I'd still rather have some time to myself."

He could beg you to change your mind. He could cry. He could go home, slit his wrists, and show you the scars the next day, but he promised his god that he could be normal. He's already sinned enough, and it felt like this was at least the one thing he could do to repent.

"... Okay." Matthew murmurs, though as much as he wanted his voice to be stable, it breaks a bit. "Umm, I-I... I'll... I hope you have a good day. Y-You can text me whenever you want, about whatever. I'll always be there."

You can't help but chuckle a bit. "Yeah, I bet."

"Bye-bye." You give him a small wave before entering your classroom, while Matthew watches your back, before letting out a hopeless, dreamy sigh.

-----

Halloween would be at the end of the week. A Friday. Matthew had kept what you said a week prior in his mind. He'd even bought a Spiderman costume in advance, but he was a bit too afraid to outright ask you if you two would still be matching, let alone even interact on Halloween. This week had been a series of watching you from behind corners, trailing behind you like a shadow, and sending needy texts from a distance, always asking how you're doing and if you'd ever like to hang out again.

He's even been texting you about his hobbies, which was a big deal to him considering how unused he was to sharing anything about himself.

On Tuesday, he showed you an origami bear he had made, with multiple messier versions behind it. His perfectionism was apparent, even then.

Wednesday would bring you a picture of a mysterious slab that Matthew called an attempt at baking bread, and a screenshot of his Minecraft base that had gotten blown up by a creeper.

Thursday was a timid selfie of him in that Spiderman costume, though he had accidentally put the suit on backwards, and was poking fun at himself.

He hadn't planned on sending that picture of himself, but, hey, he looked particularly good in it, and he used the chance to ask you about Friday, about Halloween.

You, seeing that he'd already gotten the costume, felt terrible if you just backed out on the plans that you yourself made to match with him. Considering you hadn't even planned on celebrating Halloween anymore after what had happened, you were incredibly strapped for time to find a costume. Thank god Mary Jane wore normal clothing, because you managed to get away with just a black headband, a lavender shirt, jeans, and a green coat. On your own, you looked like just an ordinary person, but next to a guy dressed like Spiderman, it'd be recognisable enough, right?

You had offered to go to Matthew's place to meet up there before heading to that haunted house you two planned to visit, but he had insisted on coming to you instead. It was something about not wanting to bother you with walking all the way from your dorm to his apartment, even if it'd only be around ten minutes of your time. In the end, you oblige.

Matthew is there at the exact time you agreed on, six on the dot, and knocks excitedly. This is the first time in a week since you two have spent any real time together, and while that would be an extremely reasonable amount of time to anybody else, to Matthew it felt like an eternity.

When you open the door, his shy, smiling face is the first thing you see, and he greets you with the enthusiasm of a soldier returning to his wife.

"Hi, Mary Jane!" He addresses you playfully, his heart thrumming right beneath the webbing and the spider symbol on his chest. The modifications he had made to the costume were intriguing. Considering the cold weather, it made sense that he wouldn't wear the suit alone, and decided to wear jeans and a navy blue jacket. His attention to detail shone through in what would be such a common costume, because you swear the casual clothing he wore on top was exactly what the actor had worn when he was Peter Parker instead of Spiderman.

That, and owed to Matthew's sewing skill, he had made the suit fit himself perfectly, clinging to his slender waist, flat chest, and surprisingly broad shoulders. It didn't have those strange wrinkles, or awkward bagginess in unsavoury places that came with the convenience of buying a one-size-fits-all costume. Since Matthew had a huge preference for wearing loose clothing or multiple layers of such, no one would've ever known that Matthew had such a fit figure, especially for such a socially-stunted nerd. You tried to hide the shock in your eyes, and the flustered attraction that followed.

You let out a small, amused scoff, and nod at him in greeting. "Penis Parker."

Matthew laughs merrily, "No, that's not your line. C'mon now. Flash would fit my brother more."

You raise your eyebrows in surprise, "A brother? Huh, you never even mentioned you had one until now."

Matthew had done this on purpose. His brother, a stereotypical popular jock, was the polar opposite of himself, as much as they looked alike. The terrible thing was, that unlike those stereotypes, his brother was actually a somewhat decent person who had spoken of Matthew in a good light, while all Matthew had ever done was try and erase his existence from his mind. He felt that his brother was superior to him in every way, and to be constantly reminded by his reflection that there was a better version of himself out there was a pain he could not bear. He never wanted you to know this.

"R-Right," Matthew's smile shrinks a little. It's clear he's still learning how to control the faces he makes. "I guess it never came up in conversation."

He coughs, and gingerly holds out his hand, almost shoving it forward a little clumsily in his eagerness. He's wearing the bracelet. You're not. "Anyways, should we..." The words die in his throat. Right, you had wanted him to have more of a backbone. He clears his throat, and starts over with a slightly more assertive tone. "Let's go, before it g-gets too crowded there."

Matthew was terrified for a second that maybe that had come off as too aggressive, despite having as much brawn in him as a baby deer, and the relief hits him like a punch to his chest when you accept.

Your hand felt so perfect in his.

-----

That night was the happiest Matthew had ever been in his entire life.

Your friends weren't present since they all went to some house party, so Matthew had you all to himself. Like this, walking through the haunted house hand-in-hand, with you yelping and laughing like a maniac whenever a scare actor jumped you, and you clinging to his side whenever you got antsy, he could pretend this was a date. In this moment, he could pretend.

The thought never left his head, much like the loving smile never left his face. How wonderful would it be, if his everyday life were like this? To be spent by your side, feeling your warmth, smelling your scent, listening to your giggles, admiring your face, and memorising every single feature of your body...

Matthew, too distracted by you, walks into a pole at that moment, a prop for the prison bars in this room. It makes you laugh, and this just makes his smile widen and reaffirm his romanticised belief that his pain equated to devotion.

"Jesus, dude, look where you're going." You scold him, though the giggles breaking up your words showed you meant it out of care rather than malice. It makes his heart flutter. "You should've worn your glasses. Why didn't you?"

Matthew laughs sheepishly. "It doesn't fit the character, does it? Peter stops wearing them once he gets his powers."

You sigh dramatically, and brush his hair away from his face. His breath hitches, and he immediately lets out a ragged exhale before he leans into it. "Okay, yeah, but you aren't Peter Parker, are you?"

"Nooo, guess not." He pouts kittenishly, though a small smile still lifts slightly at the sharp corners of his mouth. "Going to a dark haunted house without my glasses wasn't the smartest decision in hindsight, was it?" He jokes with a mischievous glint in his dilated eyes. He then adds with a self-deprecating chuckle, "I think I prepared for just about everything except for this. I'm a dummy."

"Eh, being a little unprepared is fine." You brush his bumbling off with a flippant shake of your head. The reassurance makes him stop pouting, and he holds your hand a little tighter. You're not sure why, even now, you choose to go out of your way to show him such kindness. He just looked so pretty tonight, he had even begun to put in an effort to change for you, and he was staring at you with so much adoration in his gaze, just like he always did...

"... What are you thinking about, angel?" Matthew asks quietly, with a shy blush on his faintly freckled cheeks. You hadn't even noticed you had been staring in silence for much longer than socially accepted.

You are caught a little off guard by this. Never before had you ever found yourself looking at Matthew in this way. He had always been handsome, it's why you tolerated his behaviour for so long and continue to do so, but right now, it was devastating how good he looked.

His eyes, always so full of warmth for you and a devotion that was terrifying in its ferocity, had softened a little in the darkness of the room. His moist lips were parted slightly, as if waiting for you to respond. His wavy blond hair fell just right around his cheekbones, framing his sharp jawline in a way that made him look ethereal. Like he was something holy, like he was an angel looking at the god he served. Though, the red light that leaked in from the next room illuminated just half of his face, and shrouded the other in darkness, undercutting the divine imagery with the eerie reality of Matthew's place in your life.

You blink dumbfoundedly, and force yourself to speak.

"Sorry, I... I just zoned out." is the excuse you decide on, and it was a weak one, you knew it, but due to Matthew's docility, you trusted he'd just accept it and let it go. He did.

A soft, warming smile spreads on his lips, deepening the thin dimple by the corner of his mouth. "Are you feeling sleepy already?"

"Yeah," you chuckle, "you can say that. Maybe those fumes from the fog machine finally got to me."

Matthew snorts a little dorkily. The sound endears you. "Okay, yeah, we should get you home."

His fingers, while still trembling slightly from the rush of having you look at him in that way, in a way he's only ever witnessed in the media he consumes, felt more sure now as they reached for your hand.

His fingertips brush against your palm in a silent, cautious question, and when your hand tilts slightly to accommodate his, he immediately slots his fingers between yours and gives it a small, firm squeeze. He can't help the shaky, pleased sigh that escapes his mouth at the mere sensation of holding his beloved's hand.

With a small, gentle tug, Matthew leads you out of the haunted house. It was an incredibly bittersweet feeling he didn't know how to place. On one hand, this perfect night was ending, but on the other, it was ending so, so perfectly. He hated this. He had wanted it to last forever.

For once, the pain he felt didn't feel like love, and was more like a stab wound that wouldn't stop bleeding until he was left hollow and cold.

-----

When Matthew drops you off at your door, his long fingers stay clutched to your sleeve, like he didn't want this night to end quite yet. He wasn't sure he ever wanted it to, and to be frank, the thought of this day passing by and only becoming a memory for him to cling to made his eyes sting a little.

"I had so much fun tonight," Matthew admits bluntly with a small crack in his voice, "I really did. I'm... I'm so happy. I've never been this happy before."

His gloved fingers tremble and hesitantly intertwine with yours. "I-I don't want it to end, but..." His heavy gaze flickers from the floor to your face, and the weariness on it makes his heart ache. "... I... I promised I'd be good for you, didn't I?"

"You did." You whisper gently.

Matthew nods, and the gulp he has to take to hold back his tears was incredibly painful. "A-Am I doing a good job?"

Try as you may, whenever you think about all the pain he had caused you, the memories of all the good he's done instead quickly took over. He is the only person who checked in on you whenever you didn't show up to class. He is the only person who makes sure to text you every day, even if you don't respond. He is the only person to see you in that state, vomiting and crying because of him, and still think you were the most beautiful thing in the world. Despite how you had treated him, he still wanted you. He would always choose you.

"... You've been doing a great job, Mattie."

His bottom lip quivers with the desperation to not break down, but when you're looking at him like this, like you actually cared about him, and saying his name so tenderly, he couldn't help but let out a choked, pitiful sob.

Matthew, for once, did not want to use his tears as a weapon. He was ashamed. He didn't want his dirty tricks to ruin this night. He didn't want to be reminded of his sins. It was perfect, it was perfect, it had all been going so perfectly, oh, stupid, how could he do this?

His free hand lifts to cover his face, wanting to stifle his sniffles against his palm and hide from your eyes, but then you do the unthinkable. You grasp his forearm gently, and tug on it to part his palm from his mouth. He was about to let out a small whine of confusion, when you suddenly pull him in for a warm hug, and rub his back soothingly.

Matthew's crying completely stops for a moment, with his arms awkwardly bent by his sides. He was too in shock to even process it, before a quiet sob tears its way out of his throat, and he hugs you back with a crushing force that almost makes you stumble.

This was the first time you had ever hugged him.

It has happened many times before, yes, but it was always Matthew who initiated it, while all you did was accept them casually. He was already happy with that, of course he was. His most favourite person in the world could stand to be held by him. What more could he ask for? This was something he barely even dared to entertain, though. The concept of you wanting to hold him.

Matthew had thought this night was going to be a disaster the moment his tears started flowing. That it would end up being another incident for you to mark as a reason for why you should leave him, and that he would end up making you cry and hate him all over again. Instead, you gave him a gift that was so magnificent that he had never even thought of it in any of his wildest dreams.

The idea that he was wanted, not tolerated.

You would then pull him into your apartment, and this would also be the first time he had ever been invited inside instead of showing up and asking to be let in. You just didn't want to humiliate Matthew by leaving him crying in the hallway, but to him, all that mattered was that you had let him in.

As you wiped his tears, and fussed over the hot mess that he was, he couldn't help a small, awestruck smile as he gazed right into your eyes.

Even at his lowest of lows, you still cared for him. You looked deep into this broken down man, and saw something inside him that perplexed even himself. What it was, he hadn't a single clue. But you saw something that was worth caring for, worth wanting, worth choosing. Something that was worth salvation.

You spot him first, his silver hair catching the light as he leans against the kitchen counter, a red solo cup in one hand and that smug grin plastered on his face. He’s wearing a tight black t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders and those ridiculous abs he loves to flaunt. At home, it’s even worse. He parades around shirtless half the time, flexing casually while grabbing a beer from the fridge, boasting about how he “barely even has to workout” to look that good.

“Come on, admit it, you’re jealous,” he’d say with that infuriating wink, and you’d roll your eyes, snapping,

“Ew, gross, put on a shirt before I throw up.”

But he never does; he just laughs that loud, barking laugh that echoes through your tiny shared space, making you want to hurl something at his head.

Fake flirting is the worst. He does it just to get under your skin, leaning in too close when you’re both on the couch watching TV, murmuring stupid lines like,

“You know, if you weren’t so uptight, we could have some real fun,” all while pretending it’s a joke.

But it’s not funny, it makes your blood boil because you know he’s only doing it to watch you squirm. You’ve told him a hundred times to knock it off, that you hate him, that sharing an apartment was the biggest mistake of your life. Yet here you are, at what was supposed to be a liberating party, and he’s invaded this space too. You were counting on this night to unwind, to flirt with someone cute, to forget about rent disputes and his dirty laundry left in the living room. But no, Gilbert’s presence is like a dark cloud, threatening to ruin everything.

You duck behind a group of giggling sorority girls, pretending to check your phone as you mutter to yourself. Your best friend, Mia, is right beside you, her arm linked through yours as you both navigate the chaos. She’s the one who dragged you here, but now she’s listening intently as you vent in hushed tones, your voice barely audible over the remix blaring from the speakers.

“I can’t believe he’s here,” you hiss, glancing over your shoulder to make sure he hasn’t spotted you yet.

“Like, seriously, Mia? This party is huge. Hundreds of people and of course, Gilbert shows up. It’s like he has a radar for wherever I am, just to torment me.”

Mia snorts, sipping her drink as she scans the room with you. She’s always been your voice of reason, or at least, your enabler when it comes to complaining about roommates.

“Girl, what are the odds? Maybe he’s stalking you,” she teases, but her eyes widen when she catches sight of him. “Oh wait, there he is. Damn, he does look good tonight. That shirt is doing him favors.”

You elbow her sharply, your face heating up despite yourself.

“Don’t even start. He’s a walking ego with legs. Remember last week when he ate my last yogurt and then had the nerve to say it was ‘community property’? Or how he blasts heavy metal at 2 a.m. and claims it’s ‘inspirational’? And the flirting! Ugh, he thinks he’s so hilarious, pretending to hit on me like it’s a game. ‘Oh, you’re looking feisty today,’” you mimic in a terrible imitation of his accented voice, which always carries that faint German lilt from his background. “As if I’d ever fall for that. I just want one night without him busting my chops.”

The two of you slink toward the backyard, where the party spills out onto a sprawling patio lit by tiki torches and string lights draped over palm trees. The cool night air hits you like a relief, cutting through the stuffiness inside. People are gathered around a fire pit, while others splash in the pool despite the slight chill. You and Mia claim a spot on a wicker couch near the edge, half-hidden by a cluster of plants. From here, you have a vantage point to watch the door, but you’re mostly focused on unloading more grievances.

“He’s always leaving his gym clothes everywhere,” you continue, your words tumbling out faster now that you’re safely ensconced in your hiding spot.

“And don’t get me started on his ‘cooking experiments.’ Last month, he tried making sauerkraut from scratch, and the whole apartment smelled like fermented death for days. I had to open every window and burn candles just to breathe. But does he apologize? No, he just laughs and says, ‘Adds character!’ Character, my ass. And the abs thing. Seriously, who walks around half-naked all the time? It’s like living with a peacock who’s constantly preening. I tell him to cover up, and he just flexes more, saying, ‘Jealous much?’ As if. I’d rather date a cactus.”

Mia bursts out laughing, nearly spilling her drink.

“Okay, but admit it, there’s some tension there. Like, hate-flirt tension. You two bicker like an old married couple.” She dodges your playful swat, grinning.

“Come on, you’ve been roommates for what, six months? Maybe deep down—”

“No,” you cut her off firmly, shaking your head. “Deep down, I want to move out. Or push him out a window. Preferably the second one.”

But even as you say it, you feel a twinge of something. Annoyance? Sure, but maybe a flicker of reluctant amusement at how predictable he is. Still, you’re not about to admit that. Instead, you scan the crowd again, your heart skipping when you think you see a flash of silver hair near the sliding doors. Is he looking for you? No, probably not. He’s too busy charming a group of girls with his over-the-top stories, gesturing wildly as they hang on his every word. Typical Gilbert, turning every space into his personal stage.

You sink deeper into the cushions, pulling Mia closer as you whisper more complaints.

“And the parties he throws at home? Unannounced. I come back from work, and there’s beer pong on the coffee table I just cleaned. He acts like it’s no big deal, like ‘Live a little!’ I do live! I just don’t want to live in chaos.”

The words pour out, a cathartic release amid the party’s energy. Mia nods sympathetically, offering her own stories of bad roommates past, but your mind keeps drifting back to Gilbert. Why does he get to you so much? Is it the confidence, the way he never seems fazed by you? Or maybe it’s how he pushes your buttons just right, making you react every time.

As the night stretches on, the party’s pulse quickens, the crowd growing louder and more uninhibited under the haze of neon lights and thumping bass. You’ve lost count of how many drinks you’ve had. That first fruity cocktail Mia thrust into your hand, then a shot of tequila to “loosen up,” followed by a beer chaser that goes down too easily. The alcohol warms your veins, blurring the edges of your irritation fuzzy, making everything feel a little less sharp, a little more adventurous. You’re giggling more freely now, your complaints about Gilbert dissolving as Mia refills your cup, her own cheeks flushed with the same liquid courage. On the other side of the spectrum, you’ve caught glimpses of Gilbert taking shots with his buddies, his laughter booming louder than before, his movements a tad sloppier as he gestures wildly.

Mia’s been your steadfast wingman all evening, her eyes scanning the room like a hawk while you two huddle in your semi-hidden corner of the backyard. She’s the perfect partner in crime: quick-witted, brutally honest, and always ready to hype you up.

“Okay,” she says, her voice slurring just a bit as she nudges you with her elbow, “you need some action tonight. Enough hiding from Gilbert. Let’s find you a distraction that’ll make you forget that silver-haired pain in the ass exists.”

You nod, the alcohol fueling a sudden surge of boldness. The party’s in full swing now, bodies swaying to the eclectic playlist blasting from the speakers, a mix of hip-hop, reggaeton, and pop that has everyone moving. The backyard has turned into an impromptu dance floor, with fairy lights twinkling overhead and the pool’s blue glow reflecting off sweaty faces.

That’s when Mia spots a tall guy with tousled dark hair, an easy smile, and a man that screams “your type” without even trying. He’s leaning against the bar setup near the fire pit, chatting with a couple of friends, wearing a fitted button-up that’s rolled up at the sleeves to show off some ink on his forearms.

“Him,” Mia whispers urgently, her eyes lighting up like she’s just uncovered buried treasure. “The one in the blue shirt. Artsy, confident, not a total bro. Go talk to him!”

You hesitate for a second, the buzz making your heart race, but Mia’s not having it. She grabs your arm and practically shoves you forward, hissing,

“You’ve got this! Just say hi and mention the party’s vibe or something. I’ll be right here if you need backup.”

You weave through the crowd, the alcohol lending you a sway in your step that feels almost graceful. Up close, he’s even cuter. Hazel eyes that crinkle when he smiles, a light stubble that gives him that effortlessly rugged look. You introduce yourself with a casual “Hey, this party’s wild, right?” and he laughs, introducing himself as Alex, a graphic designer who knows the host from work. The conversation flows surprisingly easy, the drinks making your words tumble out without the usual filter. Mia gives you a thumbs-up from afar, mouthing “Score!” as she sips her drink, clearly proud of her matchmaking skills.

Just as you’re starting to feel that spark, the playlist switches tracks, and “La Romana” by Bad Bunny fills the air. The crowd cheers, bodies pressing closer as the energy shifts. Alex’s eyes light up, and without a word, he grabs your hand, pulling you toward the heart of the dance floor.

“Come on,” he says with a grin, “this song’s too good to waste.”

You let him lead you, the alcohol erasing any lingering shyness, and soon you’re in the thick of it, the music wrapping around you like a spell. His hands find your waist, guiding you as you sway to the beat, your bodies syncing up effortlessly. It starts innocently, but as the chorus hits, the grinding begins, your back against his chest, hips rolling in time with the bass. The heat between you builds, his breath on your neck sending shivers down your spine, the party’s chaos fading into a blur of lights and sounds. It’s freeing, exhilarating, a perfect antidote to the roommate drama you’ve been stewing in all night.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the party, back in the living room where the air is thicker with smoke and spilled drinks, Gilbert’s still holding court like he owns the place. He’s surrounded by a trio of girls. Blondes with perfect tans and crop tops who are hanging on his every word. He’s in his element, shirt stretched tight over his chest as he launches into his boring-ass gym routine, the one you’ve heard a million times at home.

“So, yeah, I barely even hit the weights these days,” he’s boasting, flexing subtly as he takes a swig from his red solo cup.“It’s all about high-intensity intervals—keeps the abs shredded without the grind. You girls should try it; I’d spot you anytime.”

They eat it up, giggling and touching his arm, treating his monologue like a holy sermon from the fitness gods. One of them leans in closer, batting her lashes.

“Oh my god, that’s amazing! How do you stay so motivated?”

Gilbert eats up the attention, his ego inflating like a balloon, adding details about his “secret” protein shake recipe and how he once bench-pressed his body weight after a night out. It’s classic Gilbert, ever so charming, self-absorbed, turning a casual chat into a personal TED Talk.

But then, through the open sliding doors to the backyard, his eyes drift across the party, scanning the crowd out of habit or maybe some subconscious pull. And there you are, in the midst of the dance floor, grinding up against Alex with abandon, your laughter cutting through the music as his hands roam your sides. Gilbert freezes mid-sentence, his story about that one epic deadlift session grinding to a halt. The girls exchange confused glances, one tilting her head.

“And then what happened?” she prompts, but he’s not listening. His grip tightens on the solo cup, the cheap plastic crumpling under his fingers with a sharp crack, beer foaming over the edges and dripping onto the floor. His face shifts. Jaw clenching, eyes narrowing into slits as a flush creeps up his neck, not from the alcohol but from something hotter, sharper. Jealousy? Possessiveness? Whatever it is, it’s raw and unfiltered, cracking through his usual facade of unbreakable confidence. The girls notice immediately.

“Hey, you okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Gilbert snaps back, forcing a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, his voice coming out through gritted teeth like he’s biting back a curse.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just… remembered something annoying.”

He straightens up, tossing the crushed cup into a nearby trash bin with more force than necessary. Inside, though, he’s seething. Why the hell does seeing you with some random guy twist his gut like this? It’s not like he cares, right? You’re just the roommate he loves to tease, the one who snaps back at his flirting and tells him to put a shirt on. But the image of you dancing, lost in the moment, sticks like a thorn. He tries to shake it off, turning back to the girls with a forced laugh.

“Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the key to killer abs is consistency…” But his words trail off again, his gaze flickering back to the backyard, the party’s vibe suddenly feeling a lot less fun.

The frustration boils over in Gilbert like a storm cloud bursting, his usual cocky demeanor cracking under the weight of whatever’s twisting in his chest. He’s mid-sentence when he slams his fist down on the counter a bit too hard, drawing startled looks from his adoring audience.

“You know what, girls?” he says, his voice strained, forcing that trademark grin that’s now more grimace than charm. “I’ll be back later. My friend just got here, and I have to go grab him. Old friend from back home, you know how it is.”

It’s a blatant lie, and from the way his eyes keep darting back to the backyard, it’s clear his real target is you. The girls pout and exchange glances, one murmuring,

“Aw, hurry back!” but he’s already pushing through the crowd, his broad shoulders cutting a path like a shark through water, silver hair glinting under the lights as he mutters curses under his breath.

You don’t notice him coming at first, you’re too lost in the song still echoing in your ears. Alex’s hands are firm on your hips, your bodies moving in sync. But then, out of nowhere, a strong hand clamps down on your arm, familiar in its grip, calloused from those gym sessions he brags about, and yanks you backward with surprising force.

“Hey!” you yelp, stumbling a bit as the world tilts from the booze and the sudden movement. Alex looks confused, his hands dropping away as Gilbert inserts himself between you two like a wall of unwanted interference.

“Sorry, man,” Gilbert says to him, his tone clipped and not sorry at all, his red eyes flashing with something dark. “I need to talk to her real quick. Roommate stuff—emergency.”

Alex blinks, glancing at you for confirmation, but before you can protest, Gilbert’s already dragging you toward the house, his fingers digging into your wrist just enough to annoy without hurting.

“What the hell, Gilbert?” you snap, trying to wrench free, but he’s stronger, especially with that liquid-fueled determination propelling him forward.

The crowd parts around you, a few people shooting curious looks, but the party’s too loud, too chaotic for anyone to intervene. He doesn’t stop until he’s navigated the packed living room, dodging a group playing beer pong on the coffee table and sidestepping a couple making out against the wall, spotting a half-open door down a dimly lit hallway. It’s the nearest empty room he can find. A small study or guest bedroom, cluttered with stacked boxes, a dusty desk, and a single lamp casting a warm glow over mismatched furniture. The door clicks shut behind you with a finality that echoes in the sudden quiet, muffling the party’s roar to a distant thrum. Gilbert releases your arm, running a hand through his silver hair as he paces a couple steps, his chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon.

“You’re welcome, stupid girl,” he says, turning to face you with that infuriating smirk, though his eyes betray a flicker of something else… Anger? Relief? It’s hard to tell through the haze of your own buzz.

You’re seeing red now, the alcohol amplifying every ounce of your pissed-off energy as you plant your hands on your hips, glaring up at him.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘you’re welcome’?! You just dragged me away from a perfectly good time like some caveman! Who do you think you are?” Your voice rises, echoing off the walls of the cramped room, and you can feel your face flushing hot, a mix of the drinks and the adrenaline surging through you.

Gilbert crosses his arms over his chest trying to play it cool but failing miserably.

“I just saved you from that creep grinding on you out there. Guy looked like he was two seconds from turning into a total sleaze. You’re drunk and someone had to step in before you did something you’d regret.” His accent thickens with the heat of the moment, that German edge sharpening his words like a knife.

You laugh, a sharp, incredulous bark that fills the room. “Saved me? I was grinding on him too, you idiot! We were flirting and dancing’ You’re such an egotistical maniac, Gilbert. Why can’t you just mind your own business?”

He straightens up, his smirk fading into a genuine scowl as he steps closer, the space between you shrinking until you can smell the faint mix of his cologne and spilled beer.

“Really?! That guy?! Come on, he’s not your type. Bland as hell! Please. You need someone with a backbone, not some hipster who probably has no personality.”

Your eyes widen, fury bubbling over as you poke a finger into his chest, feeling the hard plane of muscle under your touch.

“How do you even know what my type is? All you do is sit around the apartment annoying the fuck out of me—leaving your stuff everywhere, blasting your music, fake-flirting just to watch me squirm. You don’t know anything about me beyond how to push my buttons!”

“Not true,” he fires back, his voice dropping an octave, laced with that heated intensity that makes the room feel even smaller. He grabs your poking hand gently but firmly, holding it in place as his gaze locks onto yours. “I know plenty. I know you say you hate pineapple on pizza but sneak bites of mine when you think I’m not looking. I know you binge-watch those cheesy rom-coms late at night and pretend you’re above them. And I know that guy’s not gonna make you laugh like I do. Even if it’s because you’re yelling at me. Admit it, I’m under your skin for a reason.”

You yank your hand free, but you don’t step back, the argument pulling you in like a magnet. “Oh, please. You’re delusional if you think your ‘charm’ is anything but torture.”

He laughs, but it’s bitter. “I flirt because it’s fun watching you get all flustered. But that guy? He’s safe, boring. You deserve better than some dude at a party.”

The back-and-forth escalates, voices overlapping in the heated confines of the room, the alcohol stripping away filters and turning every jab into something sharper, more personal.

“Deserve better? Like what, you? Ha! I’d rather grind on a cactus!” you retort, but even as you say it, there’s a spark in the air, the tension thickening like smoke. Gilbert’s face is inches from yours now, his breath warm against your skin, eyes darkening as he leans in.

“You don’t hate me as much as you pretend.” The argument’s not just words anymore, it’s electric, charged, the kind that could tip over into something else entirely if neither of you backs down. Outside, the party’s bass thuds like a heartbeat, but here, it’s just you two, locked in this whirlwind of frustration and unspoken heat. You’re both drunk enough that inhibitions are crumbling, turning what started as a roommate spat into something raw, electric, and dangerously close to the edge. Gilbert’s looming over you now, his face flushed from the alcohol and the heat of the fight, his silver hair disheveled from running his hands through it one too many times.

“Oh, come on,” he snaps back, his voice a low growl that vibrates through the space between you. “You act like I’m the villain here, but let’s be real. You love the chaos. Why else do you stick around? If I annoy you that much, why not move out? Or is it because deep down, you get a kick out of it? Out of me?”

You step forward, closing the gap until you’re toe-to-toe, your finger jabbing into his chest again, harder this time. “A kick out of it? You’re delusional! I stick around because rent in this city is a nightmare, not because I enjoy your endless parade of bullshit. And don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that interesting. All you have going for you is that stupid gym routine you drone on about like it’s the eighth wonder of the world. ‘Oh, look at me, I barely work out and stay ripped.’ Newsflash, Gilbert: nobody cares about your abs except those airheaded girls out there who fall for your one-trick pony act!”

He laughs, but it’s sharp, laced with frustration, his eyes narrowing as he grabs your wrist mid-jab, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to hold you in place. The touch sends an unwelcome spark up your arm, mixing with the anger bubbling in your veins.

“One-trick pony? If my body’s such a joke to you, why do you always stare when I’m shirtless at home? Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

Your face burns, a mix of rage and embarrassment fueling the fire. “Stare? In your dreams! I tell you to put a shirt on because it’s gross, not because I’m impressed. You’re just flexing to compensate for your massive ego deficit. Fine, prove me wrong then. I fucking dare you. Take your shirt off right now and start showing off your abs like the one-trick pony you are.”

The challenge hangs in the air, heavy and taunting, the room suddenly feeling too small, too hot. Gilbert’s eyes darken, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he releases your wrist. For a split second, you think he might back down, laugh it off like one of his stupid jokes. But no way, he’s too far gone, the alcohol and the tension pushing him over the edge.

“You want a show? Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

With deliberate slowness, he reaches for the hem of his black t-shirt, peeling it up and over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside onto the dusty desk. There he stands, shirtless in the dim lamplight, his sculpted torso on full display. Those infamous abs, the V-lines dipping into his jeans, shoulders broad and defined from all those “minimalist” workouts he brags about. He flexes subtly, rolling his shoulders back, his chest puffing out as he steps closer, invading your space.

“See? Is this what you’ve been secretly wanting—a private viewing?”

You’re fuming, words bubbling up like lava, ready to unleash a torrent of insults about how predictable he is, how this proves your point exactly.

“You arrogant—” But before you can finish, before the words can fully escape, Gilbert surges forward, his hands framing your face as he presses his lips against yours in a fierce, unexpected kiss. It’s heated, demanding, fueled by the argument’s fire and the night’s booze. He pushes you back against the wall, the cool plaster a shock against your heated skin, his body crowding yours, all hard muscle and insistent pressure. The taste of beer lingers on his tongue, mixing with the faint salt of sweat, and his hands slide from your face to your waist, pinning you there as if to silence any protest.

At first, you’re shocked, frozen in place, your brain short-circuiting from the whiplash of hate to this. Your hands come up instinctively, pressing against his bare chest. Anger surges hotter, a voice in your head screaming that this is Gilbert, the roommate you despise, the one who drives you insane. How dare he? But then something shifts. The push weakens, your fingers curling against his skin instead of shoving, the heat of him seeping into you like the alcohol in your blood. You melt into it against your will, your lips parting as the kiss deepens, a reluctant moan bubbling up as his mouth moves with surprising skill, coaxing rather than conquering. The tension that’s been building all night, all those months of bickering and fake flirts, explodes into this, electric and consuming.

Yet even as you give in, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, the anger doesn’t fade. It’s there, simmering beneath the surface, making the kiss fiercer, your teeth grazing his lip in a bite that’s half-passion, half-punishment. You’re still furious at him for ruining your night, for dragging you in here, for being so damn infuriatingly right about getting under your skin. But right now, in this stolen moment amid the chaos, that anger twists into something else, something you can’t quite name, as the world outside the door fades away.

The kiss breaks abruptly, both of you gasping for air in the dim glow of the guest room, the party’s muffled chaos seeping under the door like a distant reminder of the world outside. Your lips tingle, swollen from the intensity, and reality crashes back in like a wave. Rage surges through you, hot and unfiltered, overriding the lingering heat in your core. Without thinking, your hand flies up, connecting with his cheek in a sharp slap that echoes off the walls. The sound is satisfying, the sting in your palm matching the fire in your eyes as you step back, chest heaving.

Gilbert reels slightly, his hand coming up to rub the reddening spot on his face, but instead of anger, a slow, wicked grin spreads across his lips. He chuckles low, that signature bark of a laugh edged with something darker, more teasing.

“Ouch, feisty as ever,” he says, his voice husky from the kiss, red eyes sparkling with amusement rather than pain. “If that’s your way of saying ‘thank you,’ I can’t wait for the encore.” He flexes his jaw, still rubbing the spot, but his gaze never leaves yours, challenging, daring you to deny the spark that’s just ignited between you.

You stare him down, the air crackling with unspoken words, your breaths syncing in the heavy silence. Anger boils in your veins. You’re furious at him for starting this, at yourself for melting into it, at the way your body betrays you with a flush that has nothing to do with the alcohol. His shirtless form looms in front of you, abs still on display like a taunt, his silver hair tousled from your earlier grip. The stare-down stretches, seconds feeling like minutes, your fists clenched at your sides as you fight the pull, the undeniable tension that’s been simmering under every argument, every fake flirt, every shirtless parade at home. But beneath the anger, there’s a hunger, a frustration that’s twisting into desire, and you hate how much you want to wipe that smug look off his face… or maybe kiss it off. Impulse wins. You lunge forward, grabbing his face with both hands and pull him down into another kiss, this one even fiercer, fueled by the rage you can’t quite shake. It’s messy, teeth clashing at first, your nails scraping lightly against his skin as you pour all that pent-up frustration into it. Gilbert responds instantly, his surprise melting into eagerness, his arms wrapping around your waist to yank you closer, bodies pressing together in a clash of heat. The kiss deepens, tongues tangling as he backs you up against the wall again, but this time there’s no shock, only a shared urgency that’s been building for far too long.

His hands roam, sliding up under your top with bold confidence, fingers splaying across your bare skin. He tugs the fabric upward, breaking the kiss just long enough to pull it over your head and toss it aside, exposing you completely. No bra underneath, just the cool air of the room raising goosebumps on your skin. You gasp at the sudden vulnerability, but before self-consciousness can creep in, his mouth is back on yours, swallowing any protest. His large hands cup your breasts roughly, thumbs circling your nipples with a pressure that’s just on the edge of too much, kneading and massaging with that same cocky precision he applies to everything else. It’s intense, almost punishing, sending jolts of pleasure straight through you, making your back arch against the wall. A moan escapes your lips, unbidden and throaty, vibrating into the kiss as your body responds despite the lingering anger.

“Fuck, Gilbert,” you murmur against his mouth, half-curse, half-plea, your hands fisting in his hair to pull him closer.

He chuckles into the kiss, the sound low and triumphant, his breath hot against your skin as one hand trails down your side, gripping your hip possessively. The laugh says it all. He knows how much you both want this. Emboldened, your own hands move with purpose, fingers fumbling at his belt buckle, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room as you work it open. The zipper follows, your touch brushing against him through the fabric, and he groans into your mouth, the vibration sending shivers down your spine. His laugh bubbles up again, muffled but genuine, breaking the kiss for a split second as he nips at your lower lip.

“Eager now, huh? Knew you’d come around,” he teases, but there’s no mockery, just raw want mirroring your own.

The anger’s still there, simmering like embers, making every touch sharper, every moan louder, as the room fills with the sounds of your shared breaths and the promise of what’s next.

Gilbert’s hands are everywhere. Rough and possessive as he breaks from massaging your breasts, his fingers trailing down your sides with deliberate slowness, hooking into the waistband of your skirt. He tugs it down in one swift motion, the fabric whispering against your skin as it pools at your feet. You kick it aside impatiently, the cool air of the room hitting your bare legs, sending a shiver up your spine. Now you’re exposed even more, standing there in just your panties, your body flushed and aching under his gaze. He drinks you in, his eyes dark with hunger, that smug grin still playing on his lips like he knows he’s won this round.

Without a word, he dips his head, his mouth finding the sensitive curve of your neck. He starts with a graze of teeth, then bites down firm enough to send a jolt of pain-laced pleasure straight through you. You yelp, the sound escaping before you can stop it, your hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle there. He sucks harder, purposely marking you, his tongue soothing the sting only to bite again, leaving a trail of hickeys. The mix of pain and ecstasy has you moaning, low and throaty, your head tilting back against the wall to give him better access despite yourself.

“Gilbert…” you gasp, half-protest, half-invitation, your body betraying you as you arch into him.

All the while, his hand snakes lower, palm flat against your stomach before dipping between your thighs. He rubs you through the thin fabric of your panties, slow circles that tease without satisfying, feeling the damp heat building there. It’s torturous, your hips bucking involuntarily as you chase more contact. The anger from before twists into frustration, your breaths coming in ragged pants, the room spinning slightly from the drinks and the overwhelming rush of sensations. You’re pinned against the wall, his body a solid wall of heat and muscle, shirtless and unyielding, his free hand bracing beside your head as he works you over with expert precision.

Then, abruptly, he pulls away. His mouth leaving your neck with a wet pop, his hand stilling but not retreating. He looks down at you, that infuriating smirk widening as he takes in your disheveled state: hair messed from his grip, lips kiss-bruised, neck marked like a claim.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough and laced with amusement, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over the soaked fabric of your panties. “All riled up already? You’re so wet and I haven’t even touched you properly yet. Who knew hating me got you this worked up?”

You frown slightly, brows knitting together in a mix of annoyance and desperation, but god, you’re losing this battle terribly. Your body’s on fire, every nerve ending alive and begging for more, the anger now just fuel for the flames. You bite your lip, trying to summon some retort, but all that comes out is a needy whisper.

“Please, just fuck me already.” It’s humiliating how much you mean it, how the words tumble out unfiltered, your hands fisting in his hair again as if to pull him back down.

Gilbert chuckles, low and triumphant, his eyes gleaming with that cocky satisfaction as he shakes his head. “Ah-ah,” he says, his tone teasing but firm, one hand coming up to cup your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Our first time fucking has to be mind-blowing. I can’t just have it be some quickie. Where’s the fun in that? I’m gonna make you remember this. Make you beg for it properly.”

His words hang in the air, a promise and a threat, and before you can argue back, he acts.

His fingers dip fully into your underwear now, pushing the fabric aside with no preamble, his touch finally skin-on-skin. He watches you intently, those red eyes locked on your face as his fingers find your clit, slick and swollen, and start massaging it in slow, deliberate circles. The pressure is perfect. Firm and insistent, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. You gasp, your knees buckling slightly as you squirm harder, instinctively closing your thighs together around his hand in a futile attempt to control the intensity. But he doesn’t let you; his free hand pries your legs apart just enough to keep going, his body pressing closer to trap you in place.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your ear, his breath hot and ragged, nipping at your lobe as his fingers speed up, dipping lower to tease your entrance before returning to your clit.

The room fills with the soft, wet sounds of his touch, your moans growing louder, more desperate, as the ecstasy builds, coiling tight in your core. You’re trembling now, anger forgotten in the haze of need.

The pleasure builds to a fever pitch, your body trembling against the wall as Gilbert’s fingers work your clit with relentless precision, dipping and circling in ways that make your vision blur at the edges. Every stroke sends sparks shooting up your spine. But just as the coil in your core tightens unbearably, he stops and pulls his hand away entirely, leaving you clenching around nothing, your hips bucking futilely into the empty air. You whine in protest, your thighs still quivering from the denial, but he just smirks up at you, his eyes gleaming.

Slowly, deliberately, he brings his glistening fingers up to your eye level, forcing you to watch as the dim lamplight catches the slick evidence of your cum coating them. Your breath hitches, chest heaving, and you can’t tear your gaze away. He holds your stare, before parting his lips and sliding those fingers into his mouth. He sucks them clean with exaggerated slowness, his tongue swirling around each digit as he savors the taste. He hums appreciatively, pulling them out with a pop, his voice low and gravelly as he murmurs,

“You taste so sweet like honey. Here, have a taste.”

Before you can process, his free hand grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks just enough to part your lips. Instinct takes over and your mouth opens automatically, tongue darting out in anticipation, and he leans in close, gathering the mix of your essence and his saliva before spitting it directly into your waiting mouth. The flavor hits your tongue, a filthy blend that’s equal parts degrading and intoxicating, sending a fresh wave of heat pooling between your legs. You swallow reflexively, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the taste lingers, but he doesn’t let go, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze.

“Good girl,” he praises, his thumb brushing your lower lip in a mock-gentle caress. “Swallowing like that… I’ll give you more soon. Promise.”

The words hang in the air, thick with promise, but he’s not done teasing. With a sudden, rough yank, he grips the waistband of your panties and tears them off in one swift motion. The fabric ripping with a sharp sound that makes you gasp. The cool air hitting your exposed pussy like a shock. The ruined lace falls to the floor in tatters, forgotten as he drops to his knees before you, his broad shoulders forcing your thighs apart. There’s no hesitation. His mouth dives straight for your core, lips latching onto your swollen folds. For all his cocky bravado, the way he worships you is almost reverent. His tongue flat and broad as he licks a long stipe, sucking greedily like he’s starved for you. The delicious, wet sounds of his mouth fill the room. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he buries his face deeper, nose brushing your clit while his tongue delves inside you.

Your hands instinctively tangle in his silver locks. You grab tight, pulling him closer, your fingers weaving through the soft strands as you grind against his face.

“Don’t stop,” you beg, voice breaking on a sob, the words tumbling out in a desperate chant. “Please, Gilbert, don’t—fuck, don’t stop.” He responds with a deep hum of pleasure, the vibration rumbling straight through your pussy, making your knees buckle and stars burst behind your eyelids.

It’s maddening, that hum like he’s enjoying this as much as you are, feasting on you with an enthusiasm that strips away any pretense of control. Your hips buck wildly, chasing the building pressure, the coil tightening again, faster this time, your breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

Before you know it, you’re teetering on the edge.

“I’m so close,” you whimper, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming intensity, your body strung tight as a bowstring. “Gilbert, please—I’m gonna cum.”

But just as the first tremors start, he pulls back. His mouth leaving you with a final, teasing lick that has you whimpering in frustration. The denial hits like a punch, tears spilling over now, hot and unbidden, as you clutch at his hair, trying to drag him back. Your pussy clenches emptily, aching for release, the edge so cruelly snatched away that it borders on pain.

He rises slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his chin glistening with your arousal, that smug grin back in place as he towers over you again.

“Don’t worry,” he says, voice husky and soothing, his thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek with surprising tenderness. “You’ll cum. But not till I’m in you. Deep, where you can feel every inch. I want to feel you shatter around me.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, the promise hanging heavy, turning your frustration into a burning anticipation as he presses close, his hardness evident against your thigh, ready to make good on it.

The denial lingers like a cruel echo, your body still humming with frustrated need, tears drying on your cheeks as Gilbert stands over you, his promise hanging in the air like a taunt. But you’re not about to let him keep all the control. Not after the way he’s toyed with you, building you up only to pull back. The anger and desire mix into something bold, reckless, and you decide it’s time for payback. Your hands move first, pressing against his bare chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart under your palms. As you push him back a step, just enough to create space. His eyes widen slightly in surprise, that cocky grin faltering for a split second, but he doesn’t resist.

You sink to your knees slowly. Your gaze locks on his as your fingers hook into the waistband of his jeans, already unbuckled from earlier. With a deliberate tug, you pull them down along with his boxers in one smooth motion, the fabric sliding over his hips and thighs until it pools at his ankles. His cock springs free, hard and thick, the tip already glistening with precum, veins pulsing along the length in a way that makes your mouth water despite yourself. It’s bigger than you’d imagined, heavy and curving slightly upward. You bite your lip, suppressing a smirk as you take in how ready he is, how his body betrays the same desperation he’s inflicted on you.

Your hand wraps around him tentatively at first, fingers barely encircling his girth as you start stroking slowly, as payback for every tease, every denial. You glide your palm from base to tip with feather-light pressure, thumb circling the head lazily, spreading the slickness there without giving him the friction he craves. Gilbert’s reaction is immediate. A deep grunt rumbles from his chest, his abs tensing visibly as he braces one hand against the wall behind you, the other clenching at his side. His head tips back slightly, silver hair falling into his eyes, and he mutters curses under his breath. Harsh, guttural words in German that you don’t fully understand but recognize from the times he’s lost at video games.

“Verdammt… Scheiße,” he growls, the accent thickening with frustration, his hips twitching forward involuntarily as if begging for more.

He’s trying to play it cool, but the way his breath hitches, the subtle flex of his thighs, tells you he’s unraveling just as badly as you were moments ago.

You keep the pace torturously slow, your strokes measured and teasing, watching his face contort with a mix of pleasure and agony. His free hand finally reaching down to cover yours, fingers intertwining as he guides you to stroke harder, faster. His grip is firm, almost desperate, showing you exactly how he wants it.

“Faster!” he rasps, voice strained, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment before locking back on you, dark and pleading.

He’s so desperate now, hips thrusting shallowly into your hand, the muscles in his neck cording with effort as he fights to hold back.

A wicked satisfaction blooms in your chest, mirroring the control he had over you earlier, and you can’t resist teasing him right back. You slow your strokes just a fraction, despite his guiding hand, leaning in close enough that your breath ghosts over his cock.

“Aww, you’re too excited?” you murmur, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You gonna cum just from my hand, Gilbert? All that big talk, and you’re already falling apart?”

Your words hit their mark. He groans deeply, a string of German expletives spilling out as his cock twitches in your grip, but he doesn’t deny it, just tightens his hold on your hand, urging you on with a desperation that makes the power shift feel intoxicating. The room is filled with the slick sounds of your strokes, his ragged breaths, and the distant thrum of the party outside, but right now, it’s just this. You keep your strokes deliberate and torturously slow, reveling in the way Gilbert’s composure cracks further with each pass of your hand. His cock throbs in your grip, hot and heavy, the veins pulsing under your fingers as you twist your wrist just enough to make him hiss. Abruptly, you stop. Releasing him entirely, your hand pulling away with a final, teasing brush of your fingertips along his length. The sudden loss of contact hits him like a gut punch. He groans deep and guttural, the sound ripping from his throat as if he’s in actual pain, his hips jerking forward into empty air. Curses spill out in harsh, angry German words laced with English expletives.

“Verdammte Scheiße! Fuck, you’re killing me!” His voice rough and strained, face twisted in a mix of frustration and raw need.

His abs clench as he glares down at you, eyes blazing.

He’s done playing. Gilbert takes control again, his hands shooting out to grab your arms, hauling you up roughly from your knees. The motion is forceful, your body jolting as he spins you around and bends you over the edge of the bed. You brace yourself on your elbows, heart pounding, but he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. One hand snakes around to grab your face, fingers splaying across your jaw as he yanks you back upright, your back arching until your bare chest presses flush against his, the heat of his skin searing into yours. His other arm wraps around your waist, holding you pinned against him, his hard cock nestling teasingly against your ass.

His mouth hovers right next to your ear, breath hot and ragged as he growls, low and dangerous, “You wanna play games, huh? Teasing me like that? Come here.”

The words send a shiver racing down your spine, but before you can retort, he shifts behind you, one hand guiding his cock to your entrance. He slides just the tip in, the thick head stretching you open with a delicious burn. Then he pulls back out completely, leaving you aching and empty. He does it again, and again, slow and deliberate, only letting that infuriating inch sink in before retreating, the slick sounds of your arousal filling the room with each shallow thrust. It’s maddening, the tease building on the denial he’s already put you through, your pussy clenching desperately around nothing as you whimper, hips pushing back in a futile attempt to take more.

“Gilbert, please,” you beg, voice breaking, tears of frustration pricking at your eyes again. “All the way—fuck, just do it.”

He chuckles darkly against your ear, the vibration rumbling through his chest into yours, his grip on your jaw tightening just enough to tilt your head back further.

“Hm, I could be convinced,” he murmurs, his tone mocking and smug, nipping at your ear before soothing it with his tongue. “Admit how bad you’ve wanted me to fuck you. Since the beginning. All those times I flirted, paraded around shirtless… you were dying for it, weren’t you? Say it.”

Your pride flares, the lingering

anger from your endless roommate battles surging up despite the haze of lust.

“No,” you snap, trying to sound defiant even as your body betrays you, trembling in his hold.

You twist slightly, as if to pull away, but it’s half-hearted. You don’t really want to stop, not now, but you’re not about to give in that easily.

The slap comes swift and sharp. His free hand cracking against your ass with a resounding smack that echoes in the room, the sting blooming hot and immediate across your skin, making you yelp and clench involuntarily. He pulls his cock out entirely, the tip just brushing your folds without entering.

“We could end it here, sweetheart,” he says, voice laced with feigned nonchalance, though you can feel the tension in his body, the way his cock twitches against you. “I’ll go back out there to those blondes—I’m sure they’ll want—”

“Fuck!” you interrupt before he can finish, the words bursting out in a desperate rush, your resolve shattering at the thought of him leaving you like this. “Gilbert, fuck me! I’ve wanted you to fuck me from the moment we met—I didn’t even think your cock would be this big! Please, just—”

He cuts you off with a low, satisfied chuckle, the sound vibrating through you as his hand slides from your jaw to your throat, holding you gently but possessively.

“That’s a good girl,” he praises, the words dripping with triumph, and without another second’s hesitation, he thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke.

The sudden fullness knocks the air from your lungs, a sharp gasp escaping as you’re stretched around him, his cock thick and unyielding, hitting depths that make your vision white out for a moment. The force of it knocks you off balance, your hands scrambling to grip the edge of the bed for support. Sheets bunch under your fingers, your eyes rolling back in your head, lids fluttering shut. Your jaw hangs open, a silent gasp frozen on your lips as Gilbert’s cock fills you completely, every thick inch stretching you to your limits in a way that’s both overwhelming and euphoric. You’re bent over the mattress, ass up and back arched from the way he pulled you against him, but now his hands grip your hips like anchors, holding you steady as he begins to move—slow at first, savoring the drag and push, but building into a rhythm that’s deliberate and deep. Pleasure crashes through you in waves, short-circuiting your brain until all you can manage are broken moans, raw and uninhibited, spilling from your throat with each thrust. Words are gone, lost in the haze of being utterly cock drunk—your mind a foggy blur of sensation, focused solely on the way he splits you open, the friction igniting every nerve ending until you’re trembling, reduced to a whimpering mess.

Gilbert, on the other hand, is in absolute heaven, his breaths coming in heavy pants against your ear as he leans over you. He’s not silent. The man who loves to hear himself talk can’t resist now, his voice a low, gravelly stream of filthy praise and confessions that pour out like he’s been holding them back for months. One hand slides up your spine, tangling in your hair to tug your head back gently, forcing you to arch further as he snaps his hips forward, burying himself deeper.

“Fuck,” he groans, the words vibrating through you as he grinds against your ass, feeling your walls clench around him like a vice. “You’re so goddamn tight—squeezing me like you never want me to leave. Shit, it’s perfect, like you were made for this cock. I’ve dreamed about this, you know? Feeling you wrapped around me, hot and wet and gripping me so hard I can barely think.”

He pulls back almost to the tip, then slams in again, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the room, mingling with your desperate moans that grow louder, more frantic. His pace quickens, each thrust hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids, your eyes rolling back as ecstasy builds unchecked. But he keeps talking, his accent thickening with lust, words tumbling out between grunts and the occasional curse in German that slips through.

“I’ve wanted you from the moment we met. From that first day you walked into the apartment. I knew then, watching you glare at me, that I had to have you like this. Bent over, taking every inch, moaning for me. God, I jerked off thinking about shutting that pretty mouth up with my cock, about making you admit you wanted it too.”

Your body responds despite your silence, hips pushing back to meet his thrusts, chasing the fullness that leaves you dizzy and addicted. You’re cock drunk in the best way. Jaw slack, drool threatening to escape the corner of your mouth, unable to form a single coherent word, just a symphony of “ah-ah-ah” moans that rise in pitch with every deep stroke. He laughs breathlessly at the sound, one hand sliding around to your front, fingers finding your clit to rub in tight circles that make your legs shake.

“I’ve never had pussy that feels this good, this fucking addictive. You’re ruining me, clenching like that, milking my cock. No one’s ever taken it like you do—look at you, all spread out and greedy for it. You love it, don’t you? My good girl, taking me so well, even when you’re too fucked out to talk.”

The praise hits like a drug, amplifying the pleasure until you’re teetering on the edge again, your moans turning into high-pitched whines, body coiling tight around him. He can feel it and it only spurs him on, his voice dropping to a husky whisper right against your ear, hot breath fanning your skin.

“I can tell how cock drunk you are—eyes rolling back, jaw open like you can’t get enough. Fuck, I love it—love seeing you like this, all mine, reduced to moans because my dick’s got you that gone. You’re such a good girl for me, letting me fuck you senseless in some stranger’s room. Keep moaning like that, and I’ll give you everything—fill you up until you can’t remember why you hated me.”

His words weave through the haze, dirty and possessive, matching the relentless rhythm of his hips as he pounds into you, the bed creaking under the force. You’re lost in it, completely surrendered, your moans the only response as he drives you higher, both of you chasing that peak in a tangle of sweat-slicked skin and unspoken admissions.

Gilbert keeps up his relentless pace, his cock driving into you with deep, powerful thrusts that shake the bed frame beneath you, the creaking wood adding to the symphony of skin slapping against skin and your breathless moans. His hand snakes between your thighs, fingers finding your clit with accuracy. He massages it in tight, frantic circles, the pressure building in perfect sync with his hips, each roll of his fingertips sending electric jolts straight to your core. You’re a mess, your body slick with sweat, walls fluttering wildly around him as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter, a spring wound to its breaking point. Your moans escalate into desperate cries, your jaw still slack as you finally find your voice amid the haze, the words tumbling out in a broken plea.

“Gilbert, please—I’m so fucking close,” you gasp, your fingers digging into the sheets until your knuckles turn white.

Tears prick at your eyes again, not from frustration this time but from the sheer overload of sensation.

He groans in response, the sound primal and satisfied, his breath hot and ragged against the nape of your neck as he nips at your skin, leaving another mark to match the ones on your throat.

“That’s right,” he rasps, his voice thick with lust and possession, fingers speeding up on your clit while his cock slams into you harder, deeper, the angle hitting that perfect spot that makes your vision blur. “Scream for me. Let them all hear—let the whole fucking party know who’s fucking you this hard, who’s making you come undone. Let that asshole Alex know you’re mine from now on. No more grinding on random guys; this pussy’s all for me.”

His words hit you like a spark to dry tinder, igniting the fire that’s been building since he first dragged you in here. The jealousy in his tone, the claim he stakes on you, pushes you right over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you with brutal force, a white-hot explosion that rips a scream from your throat,

“Gilbert!” The name echoes off the walls, raw and unrestrained, your body convulsing as waves of ecstasy pulse through you, your walls clamping down around his cock in rhythmic spasms that milk him relentlessly. You slump forward onto the bed, face pressing into the rumpled sheets, your limbs going limp as you twitch and shudder, riding out the aftershocks. Your breath comes in heaving sobs, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain. Your clit throbs under his still-circling fingers, prolonging the high until you’re a boneless, quivering mess, utterly spent and floating in a haze of bliss.

Gilbert doesn’t stop. Feeling you cum around him, screaming his name, only spurs him on, his thrusts turning erratic and frantic as he chases his own release.

“Fuck, yes— that’s my girl,” he mutters through gritted teeth, his hand leaving your clit to grip your hip hard, fingers digging in deep enough to leave bruises as he pounds into you with abandon.

The bed protests louder now, headboard thumping against the wall in time with his rhythm, but he doesn’t care; his focus is solely on the tight, wet heat of you, the way your body still clenches around him even in your post-orgasm daze. His breaths turn to growls, sweat dripping from his silver hair onto your back as he speeds up, hips snapping with a ferocity that jolts you forward with each impact. You can feel him swelling inside you, the tension building in his body as he nears the brink.

Just as he hits his peak, he pulls out with a guttural curse—“Scheiße, coming—”—his cock slipping free in a slick rush. He strokes himself roughly once, twice, and then he’s spilling hot and thick across your back, ropes of cum painting your skin in warm spurts that drip down your spine and over your ass. He groans long and low, the sound vibrating through his chest as he milks every last drop, his free hand smearing it slightly across your flushed skin in a possessive gesture. Finally, he slumps against you, both of you collapsing onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he catches his breath, the room falling into a heavy silence broken only by your shared pants and the faint thrum of the party beyond the door.

The afterglow wraps around you like a warm blanket, your body still humming with the remnants of ecstasy as you lie slumped on the bed, chest heaving in shallow breaths. Gilbert’s weight shifts beside you after a few minutes, his arm draped possessively over your waist finally lifting as he props himself up on one elbow. He looks down at you, that signature smirk softened by the haze of satisfaction in his red eyes, silver hair tousled and sticking to his forehead from sweat.

He leans in, pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to your temple before murmuring, “Stay put, babe. I’ll clean us up.”

He rolls off the bed with a groan, his naked form moving with that effortless grace he always flaunts as he rummages through the cluttered desk drawers. After a moment, he finds a small hand towel and wets it quickly in an adjoining half-bath you hadn’t noticed before, the sound of running water cutting through. He returns, kneeling beside you on the mattress, his touch unexpectedly tender as he wipes the cum from your back with slow, careful strokes, the cool fabric soothing against your heated skin.

“Can’t have you walking out looking like a mess,” he says, voice low and teasing, though there’s a hint of care in it that surprises you.

He cleans between your thighs next, gentle despite the roughness of before, making you shiver as the towel brushes your sensitive folds. Once you’re taken care of, he quickly wipes himself down, tossing the towel into a corner hamper with a casual flick. Satisfied, Gilbert helps you sit up, his hands steady on your arms as the post-orgasm dizziness lingers, making your limbs feel like jelly. He dresses you first, like it’s some chivalrous act in this twisted aftermath. He picks up your discarded top from the floor and slides it over your head, his fingers grazing your breasts as he adjusts the fabric, sending a residual spark through you. You lift your arms weakly, letting him guide you. Then comes your skirt; he kneels again, holding it open for you to step into, pulling it up your legs with deliberate slowness, his palms skimming your thighs in a way that’s half-helpful, half-teasing. No panties, they’re in tatters on the floor, a casualty of the heat earlier. As he zips the skirt into place, smoothing it over your hips, he gives your ass a sharp slap that echoes in the room, the sting blooming hot and making you yelp.

“Don’t move too much when we go back out there,” he warns, his hand lingering to squeeze the spot he just smacked, eyes darkening with possession as he stands. “I don’t want these perverts seeing that you’re not wearing panties. That’s for my eyes only now.”

You roll your eyes, the familiar annoyance creeping back in even as a flush heats your cheeks, your body still too sated to muster real anger. Pushing off the bed to stand on wobbly legs, you smooth your hair and shoot him a glare.

“Oh, they’re perverts? Then what are you?” The words come out breathy, laced with sarcasm.

Gilbert chuckles, low and dangerous, as he yanks on his boxers and jeans, buckling them quickly before tugging his black t-shirt back over his head, the fabric clinging to his still-damp skin.

He steps close, his hand tipping your chin up to meet his gaze. “Keep talking like that, and I’ll drag you home right now for round two,” he threatens, but his voice is husky, eyes flicking to your lips like he’s already imagining it. “Don’t test me, I’m not done with you yet.”

You roll your eyes again, crossing your arms over your chest in mock defiance, though your heart skips at the promise in his words. The alcohol’s buzz has faded into a warm glow, but the high from what just happened lingers, making you bold.

“Whatever,” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it, just that reluctant spark that’s always been there.

He grins, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward him. “That’s it, baby,” he says, his tone shifting to something more commanding, wrapping an arm around your waist. “I thought I’d give you a chance to enjoy the party a little more, but it seems like you really want another lesson. Keep rolling those eyes, and we’ll skip the rest of the night—straight home, where I can bend you over the couch and make you scream again.”

The words send a thrill through you, but you both know the party’s lost its appeal. With a final glance around the room you awkwardly slip out the door together. The hallway is dimly lit, people stumbling past with red solo cups in hand, but thankfully, everyone’s too drunk or distracted to notice the two of you emerging from the guest room, faces flushed and hair disheveled. A couple laughs nearby at some inside joke, oblivious to the way Gilbert’s hand rests possessively on your lower back, guiding you through the crowd. The living room is a blur of bodies and lights, the music still pounding, but you weave through it without stopping, Mia’s earlier spot in the backyard long abandoned. You check your phone and notice she had texted a while back letting you know she left the party with a guy she met.

“You know, I’ve been thinking about you lately. Remember that trip to Paris? The way you lit up the Eiffel Tower better than the lights themselves.”

He brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, his fingers grazing your skin.

“You’re even more stunning now. Single life treating you well? Because if it is, I might have to change that.”

You blinked, realizing the flirtation had crept in shamelessly. He clearly had no idea you were very much not single, let alone double-taken. A flush crept up your neck, as you opened your mouth to gently correct him.

But before the words could form, a chill ran down your spine. Ivan and Alfred had materialized nearby, their presence like a storm cloud rolling in. Ivan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes anymore; it was that cold, possessive curve that promised trouble. Alfred’s grin had sharpened into something territorial, his hand casually slipping into his pocket as if to steady himself. They’d been giving you space, but now? They were closing in, the air between you. The tension in the air thickened like smoke as Ivan and Alfred drew closer. Their eyes locked on you and Troy with a mix of fire and frost. Alfred stepped up first, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over the conversation. He tilted his head, his grin straining at the edges as he eyed Troy up and down.

“What’re you two chattin’ about? Looks pretty… intense.”

You couldn’t resist the thrill of it, their possessiveness simmered just beneath the surface, ready to boil over. Biting your lower lip, you turned to them with a sultry purr, your voice laced with mischief.

“Oh, this is Troy, an old… ‘friend’ of mine. We were thinking about getting dinner soon. Just the two of us. Isn’t that right, Troy, sweetheart?”

Troy lit up, misreading the whole vibe as some kind of open invitation. He slid an arm around your waist, bold move, considering the two giants flanking you.

“Well, when you put it that way, baby, yes. Sounds like a plan I can’t say no to.”

You leaned into it, your dark teal dress shifting just enough to flash a bit more thigh through the slit, your cleavage rising with a deliberate breath. Still in that velvety, teasing tone, you traced a finger along Troy’s lapel, eyes flicking between your boyfriends to gauge their reactions.

“Oh, we’ve got to try that new sushi place. I’ve heard they have this special roll called ‘The Aphrodisiac’—it’s to die for. A little wine and dine to catch up and… whatever else may happen.”

Troy was devouring every word, his hand lingering on your hip as he chuckled low.

“Mmm, count me in. I bet we’d make that roll blush with what we’ve got in mind.”

He had no clue he was dancing on a minefield, thinking Ivan and Alfred were cool with sharing or whatever he imagined.

Ivan’s violet eyes darkened to near-black, his massive frame tensing, fists clenching at his sides. You could see the vein in his neck pulse. A storm brewed behind that stoic facade, heated desire sparked by your blatant teasing. He knew this game. You loved pushing their buttons, watching them unravel just for you.

Alfred wasn’t faring much better. His cheeks flushed, jaw ticking as he forced a laugh that came out more like a growl. “Dinner, huh? Sounds… cozy.” His blue eyes burned into yours, a silent promise of payback later, the kind that left marks and moans.

They were hanging by a thread, turned on more than angry, their possessiveness fueling a fire you could feel radiating off them. Any second now, one of them might snap, and oh, how you hoped they would, right here in the middle of this glittering gala. The electric hum of the gala faded into a distant buzz as Ivan and Alfred closed ranks around you, their bodies a wall of heat and tension that made your skin prickle. Ivan leaned in first, his breath ghosting over your ear. “You think this is funny, da? Teasing us with this little show… but when we’re alone, I’ll make you beg for mercy, solnyshko. Slowly. Thoroughly.” His voice was a low rumble, promising dark delights that sent shivers racing down your spine. Your thighs clench involuntarily under that teasing slit in your dress.

Alfred wasn’t far behind, his hand brushing your lower back possessively as he whispered next, his words hot and edged. “Keep pushing, babe, and I’ll have you over my knee right here. Crowd or no crowd. You know how I love marking what’s mine.” The threats were pure seduction, igniting a fire in your core that had you biting back a moan, your cleavage heaving with each quickened breath.

Troy, still blissfully clueless, grinned wider and stepped even closer. “So, how about I get your number, baby? We can make that sushi date happen sooner than later.”

Ivan’s response came swift and sharp, his towering frame straightening as he fixed Troy with a gaze. “I don’t think that will be necessary. She’s going to be busy for the foreseeable future.” His tone was polite on the surface, but the undercurrent was pure steel.

Alfred turned to you then, his blue eyes smoldering with jealousy and hunger, giving you that look that always made your knees weak. “Oh, she’s gonna be very busy. She knows better than to tease her very jealous boyfriends like this.” He emphasized the words with a subtle squeeze of your hip, his fingers digging in just enough to remind you who you belonged to.

Troy’s confidence faltered, his eyes darting between the three of you as realization dawned like a cold shower. “Oh—, I— Ah— Nice seeing you, Y/n.” He stammered out, backing away with a awkward nod before vanishing into the crowd, leaving you alone with your riled-up guardians.

Alfred wasted no time, leaning in close again, his lips brushing your earlobe as he chuckled darkly. “If you wanted our attention, you should’ve just said so, doll. Now you’ve got it. All of it.”

Ivan flanked your other side, his massive hand sliding up your arm to your neck, tilting your head slightly as he whispered something sinful, his accent thick with desire.

“We should leave this place now, moya lyubov’. Find somewhere private… where I can strip that dress off you and show you what happens when you play with fire. Maybe tie you up with my scarf, make you scream our names until the sun rises.” His words painted vivid pictures, the promise hanging heavy in the air.

The door to your shared bedroom had barely clicked shut behind you before the pent-up energy from the gala exploded. The ride home had been torture. Silent stares, lingering touches, and promises whispered in the dark of the car that left you squirming in your seat. Now, in the dim glow of the bedside lamps, you wasted no time. Your fingers found the pins in your updo, pulling them free one by one until your hair tumbled down in soft waves, framing your face and brushing against your bare shoulders. With a deliberate shimmy, you let the dark teal dress slide off your body, the fabric whispering against your skin as it pooled at your feet. There you stood, completely bare, your curves illuminated in the warm light, nipples hardening under their hungry gazes, a flush of anticipation spreading across your chest.

Ivan and Alfred had shed their blazers and vests somewhere between the front door and here, their bowties long forgotten. Now, they were on you in a blur of motion, buttons flying as they yanked off their shirts, revealing the sculpted torsos you’d claimed as yours. Ivan’s broad, powerful chest dusted with faint scars from old battles. Alfred’s toned abs rippling under golden skin. Shirtless and ravenous, they flanked you like wolves, pressing in from both sides, their heat enveloping you.

Ivan’s large hand cupped your mound first, his fingers dipping between your thighs to massage your pussy with slow, insistent circles, teasing your clit until you gasped. His lips crashed onto yours in a possessive kiss, his tongue invading with that intensity, tasting of vodka.

“You teased us all night, da? Now you pay,” he murmured against your mouth, his thumb pressing harder, slicking through your growing wetness.

On your other side, Alfred’s calloused palm claimed one of your breasts, kneading the soft flesh with just enough roughness to make you arch into him. His mouth found the sensitive curve of your neck, sucking and nipping in a trail that sent sparks straight to your core, his breath hot and ragged.

“God, babe, you’re so damn perfect. Gonna make you scream for mercy,” he growled, pinching your nipple between his fingers, rolling it until it ached deliciously.

Sandwiched between them, their bodies pressing against yours. One cool and commanding, the other warm and bold, you were driven to the edge of madness, your hips bucking into Ivan’s hand while your back arched toward Alfred’s touch. Moans escaped your lips, muffled by Ivan’s kiss, as their jealousy from the gala fueled every stroke, every bite, turning punishment into pure, intoxicating pleasure. The haze of pleasure and pain blurred everything else as Alfred’s teeth sank into the tender skin of your neck, harder this time, a possessive bite that drew a sharp yelp from your lips. The sting shot through you, leaving a mark that would bloom into a bruise by morning, a badge of his claim.

“That’s right, doll,” he murmured, voice rough with lust. “You’re ours tonight. No more games.”

Ivan matched the intensity, his fingers rubbing your pussy with increased fervor, circling your swollen clit until you were dripping, the slick sounds filling the room like an obscene symphony. Then, without warning, he pulled back and delivered a sharp slap to your soaked folds. The wet smack echoing deliciously, sending jolts of ecstasy radiating through your core. You gasped, hips jerking forward involuntarily, craving more. He captured your lower lip between his teeth, biting down just enough to tease the line between pleasure and pain. His violet eyes locked on yours.

“Under our mercy, solnyshko,” he growled between nips and devouring kisses. “We command you now. Every moan, every tremble. It’s for us.”

Their words wove through the assault on your senses. A tandem of dominance that had you melting between them. Alfred’s hands roamed your breasts, pinching and twisting as he kissed the bite mark soothingly, only to nip again.

“Yeah, babe, we’re in charge. Gonna make you regret that little tease at the gala… or maybe thank us for it.” Ivan’s slaps came in rhythm now—rub, slap, rub. Each one wetter, louder, driving you wild.

Finally, Ivan’s patience snapped. With a firm push on your shoulders, he guided you down to your knees on the plush carpet, your bare skin tingling from their touches. You looked up at him through hooded eyes, hands trembling with anticipation as you reached for his belt, unbuckling it swiftly and tugging down his pants and underwear in one fluid motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, veins pulsing, the tip already glistening with precum. Alfred watched with a predatory grin, his hand stroking himself lazily through his pants before he followed suit, shedding the rest of his clothes until he stood bare and erect beside Ivan, both of them towering over you like gods demanding worship.

“Go on, then,” Alfred urged, his voice thick. “Show us how sorry you are.” Your knees pressed into the carpet, the slight burn a delicious reminder of your submission as you knelt between them. Eyes wide and hungry, flicking between their throbbing cocks— Ivan’s thick and veined, curving slightly with intimidating girth, Alfred’s long and straight, the head flushed an angry red. Uncertainty flickered through you for a split second, overwhelmed by the sheer presence of them, but Ivan didn’t give you time to hesitate. His large hand tangled in your cascading hair, fingers twisting just tight enough to sting, yanking you forward with a growl that sent fresh heat flooding your core.

“Open up, solnyshko,” he commanded softly, guiding your lips to his tip. You obeyed, parting your mouth slowly, tongue darting out to taste the salty bead of precum before taking him in, inch by inch, until he filled you completely. The stretch made your jaw ache, your throat tightening as you adjusted, but you pushed deeper, hollowing your cheeks with a needy whine.

Your free hand reached out instinctively, wrapping around Alfred’s shaft, stroking him from base to tip with firm, twisting pulls that matched the rhythm of your mouth on Ivan. Both men groaned in unison, the sounds raw and primal. Ivan’s a deep, rumbling thunder from his chest, Alfred’s a breathless curse under his breath.

“Fuck, yeah,” Alfred hissed, his hips bucking slightly into your grip.

You whined around Ivan’s cock, the vibration drawing another groan from him as you bobbed your head, choking softly when he hit the back of your throat, tears pricking your eyes from the effort. Saliva dripped down your chin, messy and unapologetic, your other hand bracing against Ivan’s thigh for balance as you worked him harder.

Ivan’s voice cut through the haze, deceptively sweet and tender, like a lullaby wrapped in sin, his fingers petting your hair even as he held you in place.

“My poor sweet girl. This is what sluts like you get. You wanted to be a brat. Now this is your punishment.” The words dripped with affection, making the vulgarity hit even harder, your pussy clenching emptily at the contrast.

Alfred watched with dark, hooded eyes, his hand covering yours to guide the strokes faster, his free fingers tracing your tear-streaked cheek.

“God, baby, I cannot wait for that bratty little mouth to be filled with my cock.” His voice was rough, laced with impatience, promising he’d claim his turn soon enough, and make it count. The room spun with the heady mix of sweat and desire as Ivan’s groans grew deeper, his cock twitching in your mouth, so close to the edge you could taste it. But he pulled back abruptly, his hand tightening in your hair to halt your movements, a frustrated rumble escaping his throat.

“Not yet,” he muttered, more to himself than you. With a commanding flick of two fingers upward, he locked eyes with you, his voice a velvet order.

“Up, solnyshko. Now.”

You released him with a wet pop, your lips swollen and glistening, hand reluctantly letting go of Alfred as you rose to your feet on shaky legs. Ivan didn’t wait; his massive hands gripped your shoulders, spinning you around and shoving you face-down onto the bed, the cool sheets a shock against your heated skin.

“Ass up,” he commanded, the words laced with that possessive edge that made your core throb.

Obediently, you arched your back. Lifting your hips high, presenting yourself to him, your cheek pressed into the mattress. He wasted no time, roughly seizing your wrists and pinning them behind your back in one unyielding grip, his strength making escape impossible even if you wanted it.

“You’re not allowed to move these arms,” he warned, his tone dark and final, the threat of further punishment hanging in the air. Then, contrasting his roughness, his free hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding your clit with a tenderness that bordered on torture. Slow, feather-light circles that had you squirming, whining desperately into the sheets, your body betraying you with every involuntary twitch.

Meanwhile, Alfred circled to the foot of the bed, his eyes gleaming with opportunistic hunger as he saw your head dangling off the edge, mouth perfectly positioned.

“Look at you, all set up for me,” he chuckled lowly, fisting his cock and stepping closer. He teased the tip against your lips first, smearing precum across them before pushing in. Feeding you inch by inch until he filled your throat. With a groan, he started thrusting—face-fucking you with steady pumps. His hands cradling your head to control the angle, the wet gags and slurps mingling with your muffled moans as Ivan’s tender torment below drove you wilder. Alfred’s hips snapped forward with relentless rhythm, his cock plunging deeper into your throat, the lewd gags and slurps filling the room as he chased his release.

“That’s it, doll—take every fucking inch like the good little slut you are,” he growled, his voice a gravelly torrent of filth that made your skin flush hotter.

“Gonna wreck this pretty mouth, make you swallow me whole. You love it, don’t you? Being our dirty plaything, choking on my dick while Ivan fingers that greedy pussy.” His words poured out like molten lava, each thrust punctuated by another obscene praise or command, his hands tangled in your hair to hold you steady as he fucked your face harder, beads of sweat trickling down his abs.

Behind you, Ivan’s touch remained a cruel tease. His thumb circling your clit with that agonizing tenderness while he finally slid a thick finger into your dripping heat, curling it just right to stroke your inner walls. The intrusion stretched you deliciously, your body clenching around him as fresh waves of pleasure crashed through you, drawing out a high-pitched whine that vibrated straight through Alfred’s shaft.

Alfred’s groan ripped from his chest, deep and guttural, his pace faltering for a split second as the sensation hit him.

“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum all in your mouth if you keep whining like that. Keep making those pretty sounds, and I’ll flood your throat, make you drink every drop.” His blue eyes locked on yours, wild with impending ecstasy, his body tensing as he teetered on the edge, thrusting erratically now, lost in the chase. Ivan’s fingers worked you mercilessly, that single digit pumping in and out of your slick heat while his thumb teased your clit, building you higher as Alfred’s thrusts grew frantic, his dirty talk a ceaseless barrage.

“Shit, babe, your throat’s so tight—gonna paint it white, make you taste me for days. You’re our perfect little cumslut, aren’t you? Taking it all like a champ.” His voice cracked on the last word, hips stuttering as he drove deeper.

But Ivan wasn’t content to wait. He withdrew his finger abruptly, the loss making you whimper around Alfred’s cock. You heard the wet sound of him spitting, felt the warm glob land on your exposed pussy, slicking you further before—without a shred of warning—his massive cock slammed into you, burying to the hilt in one brutal thrust. The stretch was exquisite agony, his girth splitting you open, filling you so completely that a muffled scream tore from your throat, vibrating wildly around Alfred’s shaft.

That was all it took. Alfred shattered, his body locking up as he unleashed a torrent of hot seed, overfilling your mouth, leaking from the corners of your lips.

“Fuck—oh shit, yes—goddamn, babe, take it all—fuuuuck!” he swore in a string of guttural curses, his cock twitching and pulsing with each thick spurt, hips jerking erratically as he rode out his orgasm. All the while, Ivan fucked you relentlessly, his hips pounding into yours with punishing force, the slap of skin on skin echoing like thunder, driving you deeper into the mattress with every thrust.

You swallowed greedily, the salty essence coating your tongue, gulping it down until nothing remained. Pulling off Alfred’s spent cock with a gasp, you tilted your head back, opening your mouth wide to show him—empty, clean, proof of your obedience. He groaned at the sight, stroking your cheek with a shaky hand, his chest heaving. “Good girl… such a good fucking girl.”

Pure bliss washed over you, your mind hazy and cock-drunk, every nerve alight as Ivan’s relentless pace turned your thoughts to mush. He leaned over you, his breath hot against your ear, voice a low command.

“Say ‘Thank you, Ivan, for fucking me with your fat cock.’”

You blinked through the fog, barely registering the words, a soft, incoherent moan slipping out instead. Ivan’s response was swift—a sharp slap to your ass, the sting blooming into heat that made you clench around him, drawing a hiss from his lips.

“I said, ‘Say thank you, Ivan, for fucking me with your fat cock,’” he repeated, slower, more insistent, his thrusts never faltering.

“T-Thank you, Ivan, f-for fucking me with y-your fat cock,” you stammered, voice wrecked and trembling, the words tumbling out in a rush of submission.

Ivan’s chuckle was dark and approving, his large hand smoothing over the reddened skin where he’d struck, rubbing soothing circles that contrasted the fire he’d ignited.

“Oh, good girl, solnyshko. Such a good girl for us.” Ivan’s grip on your wrists tightened like iron shackles, pinning them firmly at the small of your back as he drove into you with renewed ferocity. Each thrust a brutal, unyielding claim that slammed his hips against your ass with a resounding smack. The force of it jolted your entire body forward, your breasts bouncing against the sheets, the friction of the fabric teasing your hardened nipples into aching peaks. He wasn’t holding back anymore. Gone was any hint of tenderness. This was raw, mean dominance, his massive cock stretching you to your limits, the veined length dragging against your inner walls with every punishing withdrawal and re-entry. The spit-slick glide made obscene, wet sounds that filled the room, mingling with the sharp cracks of his hand coming down on your ass. Stinging slaps that left your skin blooming red, the heat radiating outward like fire, making you clench around him involuntarily.

“Fuck, look at you, solnyshko. Taking my fat cock like the greedy little whore you are,” Ivan snarled, his voice dipping into a filthier register, thick with his accent and laced with cruel amusement.

“Teasing us all night with that slutty dress, flirting with that pathetic boy… now you’re crying for it, da? Begging to be split open. I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk, until every step reminds you who owns this tight pussy.” Another slap landed, sharper this time, on the opposite cheek, the pain blooming into a twisted pleasure that had you arching higher, pushing back against him despite the overload. Your senses were in chaos. The burn of your spanked ass, the relentless stretch and fullness inside you, the musky scent of sweat and sex hanging heavy in the air, the taste of Alfred’s cum still lingering on your tongue. Every nerve screamed, overwhelmed, your mind fracturing into pure sensation as Ivan’s pace turned savage, his free hand digging into your hip for leverage, bruising fingerprints into your skin.

Tears welled up unbidden, spilling hot and salty down your flushed cheeks—not from pain, but from the overwhelming bliss, the way it all crashed over you like a tidal wave, too much and yet not enough. You sobbed into the mattress, muffled whimpers escaping as your body trembled, teetering on the edge of ecstasy.

Alfred, still catching his breath from his release, knelt on the bed in front of you, his blue eyes dark with lingering hunger as he watched Ivan ravage you. He reached out suddenly, his hand rough and ungentle, fingers gripping your chin with enough force to tilt your head up, forcing your tear-streaked face to meet his gaze.

“Hey, eyes on me, babe,” he growled, his thumb brushing away a tear only to smear it across your cheek. Then his mouth was on yours, crashing in a messy, demanding kiss. Tongue thrusting deep, tasting himself on you, swallowing your cries as Ivan’s hips snapped forward again and again. Alfred’s kiss was all teeth and possession, nipping at your swollen lips, his free hand tangling in your hair to hold you steady while he devoured you, the roughness contrasting the tenderness of his earlier afterglow. Between the brutal fucking from behind and this fierce makeout, you were lost, tears flowing freely now, your body a vessel for their combined intensity, every thrust and lick pushing you deeper into euphoria. Ivan’s thrusts grew even more erratic, a savage rhythm that bordered on frenzy, each deep plunge sending shockwaves through your core as he chased his own release with single-minded determination. But he wasn’t done toying with you yet. Far from it. With a guttural growl, he released your wrists, his hands gripping your hips like vises as he flipped you over in one fluid, powerful motion, your back hitting the mattress with a soft thud. The sudden shift left you breathless, your tear-streaked face now exposed to the dim light, hair splayed wildly across the pillows like a dark halo. He didn’t miss a beat, hiking your legs over his broad shoulders to angle himself deeper, his cock slamming back into your slick, fluttering pussy with a wet, obscene squelch that made your toes curl.

“Fuck, you’re so tight. Clenching like you want to milk me dry,” Ivan rasped, his violet eyes locked on yours, dark and feral as sweat glistened on his massive chest. He reached down between your bodies, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing it roughly. Circles that were fast and unrelenting, the calloused pad grinding against the sensitive nub with just enough pressure to make stars burst behind your eyelids. It was mean, deliberate, designed to push you to the brink before he allowed himself to fall. Your body arched off the bed, hips bucking wildly to meet his thrusts, the overstimulation from his earlier teasing now amplified into a roaring inferno that consumed every thought.

Alfred, ever the opportunist, slid onto the bed beside you, his golden body still flushed from his own climax, a wicked grin splitting his face as he took in the sight of you writhing under Ivan.

“Can’t leave you hanging, babe—let me help speed this along,” he murmured, his voice husky and teasing. He leaned down, his mouth latching onto one of your nipples with hungry precision, sucking hard enough to draw a keening whine from your throat. His tongue swirled around the pebbled peak, teeth grazing it lightly before he bit down just shy of pain, sending jolts of electricity straight to your core. He alternated between your breasts, popping off one with a wet smack only to devour the other, his free hand kneading the neglected mound, pinching and rolling the nipple between his fingers until it throbbed in time with Ivan’s thrusts.

Between them, their voices wove a tapestry of filthy encouragement, guiding you through the building storm, their words a mix of command and care that heightened every sensation. Ivan’s thumb pressed harder on your clit, flicking it side to side as he pounded into you, his breath coming in ragged pants.

“Come on, solnyshko—cum for me before I fill you up. I can feel you squeezing me, so close… breathe through it, da? Deep breaths, let it build. You’re gonna shatter so beautifully on my cock.” His accent thickened with lust, each word punctuated by a deep thrust that hit that perfect spot inside you, making your walls flutter desperately.

Alfred pulled off your nipple with a pop, his lips shiny and swollen as he kissed a trail up to your collarbone, then back down, his blue eyes meeting yours with a smoldering intensity.

“Yeah, listen to him, doll—breathe nice and slow, in and out. Feel that pressure building? That’s us, owning every inch of you. You’re doing so good, taking Ivan’s huge dick like a champ… gonna make you scream our names when you explode.” He dove back in, sucking your other nipple into his mouth, humming vibrations against your skin that traveled straight down to where Ivan was buried inside you, his rough fingers on your clit never slowing, the friction turning slick and frantic as your arousal coated his hand.

The buildup was agonizing and exquisite. Moments stretching into eternity as your body coiled tighter and tighter, muscles trembling, breath hitching in shallow gasps despite their reminders. Tears streamed down your cheeks anew, hot and unchecked, born from the sheer overload of pleasure. Ivan’s cock stretching you wide, his thumb abusing your clit with rough, insistent strokes. Alfred’s mouth hot and wet on your breasts, alternating sucks and bites that left your nipples red and hypersensitive; their voices a constant murmur of praise and filth, urging you higher. Your vision blurred at the edges, toes curling, fingers clawing at the sheets as the pressure mounted to an unbearable peak, your pussy clenching rhythmically around Ivan, desperate for release.

Finally, it snapped—like a dam bursting. The orgasm crashed over you in violent waves, ripping a raw, broken cry from your throat.

“Ivan! Alfred! Oh god—fuck!” you screamed, voice hoarse and shattering, tears flowing freely as your body convulsed, pussy spasming wildly around Ivan’s cock, gushing slick heat that soaked him and the sheets beneath. Tremors wracked you from head to toe, every muscle seizing in ecstasy, the world narrowing to the pulse of pleasure radiating from your core.

Ivan groaned deeply, his thrusts faltering as he felt you cum, but he held back, riding out your climax with gritted teeth. “Yes, that’s it—good girl, cumming all over my cock like the perfect slut you are. So wet, so tight… fuck, solnyshko, you’re incredible.”

Alfred released your nipple, sitting up to watch your face contort in bliss, his hand gently wiping away your tears as he grinned. “Holy shit, babe, that was beautiful—look at you, crying from how good we make you feel. Such a good girl for us, cumming so hard. We’re so proud of you, doll.” Their praises washed over you like a balm, softening the intensity as you floated in the afterglow, body limp and quivering between them. Ivan’s control frayed at the edges, his once-measured brutality giving way to pure, animalistic frenzy as he hurtled toward his climax. His thrusts turned wild and erratic, hips slamming into yours with a force that shook the bed frame, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing like gunfire in the heated room. Sweat poured down his broad back, his muscles rippling under pale skin as he groaned low and guttural, the sound vibrating through his chest and into you where you were joined.

“Fuck— I know I should pull out, but you’re so tight and warm… squeezing me like you were made for this. I don’t know if I can hold back, solnyshko,” he rasped, his voice cracking with desperation, violet eyes glazed over with lust as he fought the inevitable, his cock throbbing insistently inside your fluttering walls.

You were a mess beneath him. Body spent and quivering from your own shattering release, every nerve raw and oversensitive, but the words bubbled up from deep within, hoarse and needy.

“D-do it. Fill me u-up,” you managed to gasp, your voice wrecked, barely audible over the pounding of your heart and the slick sounds of him fucking you through the haze.

That was all the invitation he needed. Ivan’s eyes flashed with dark triumph, a primal growl tearing from his throat as he surrendered completely. He drove into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt with a punishing thrust that kissed your womb, his hands gripping your hips so hard you could feel the bruises forming. Deep, fingerprint-shaped marks that would linger for days, a secret reminder of this night. Hot ropes of cum flooded you, pulsing deep inside as his cock twitched and spasmed, overfilling your pussy until it leaked out around him, warm and sticky against your thighs. He rode out his orgasm with relentless rolls of his hips, grinding deeper as if trying to embed himself permanently, each twitch sending aftershocks through your core, milking every last drop from him.

Alfred watched from the side, his breath still ragged, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he stroked your hair gently, contrasting Ivan’s ferocity. You were utterly wrecked. Mascara streaked in black rivers down your tear-soaked cheeks, mixing with the flush of exertion. Lipstick long gone, smeared away from the cock-sucking, the fierce kisses, the saliva that had dripped messily during it all. Your hair was a tangled cascade, body limp and boneless on the sheets, chest heaving as you floated in the blissful exhaustion, completely spent and claimed by them both. Ivan finally stilled, collapsing over you with a heavy sigh, his weight a comforting cage as he pressed a surprisingly tender kiss to your forehead.

“Mine… ours,” he murmured, voice softening in the afterglow. Ivan lingered inside you for a few more heartbeats, his cock softening but still twitching with aftershocks, the warmth of his release seeping between your thighs as he finally pulled out with a reluctant groan. A trickle of cum followed, sticky and warm against your sensitive skin, but he didn’t let you dwell on it. With surprising gentleness for a man who’d just fucked you into oblivion, he scooped you up in his arms, rearranging the three of you on the bed. He settled against the headboard first, pulling you into the center of the massive mattress, your head resting on a pillow as Alfred slid in on your other side. The sheets were a tangled mess beneath you, damp with sweat and fluids, but none of you cared. The air hummed with contentment, the room scented with the musk of your shared ecstasy.

Flanked by their powerful bodies, you were the adored centerpiece, Ivan’s massive frame curling protectively around your left, Alfred’s leaner but no less commanding form pressing in from the right. Their hands roamed with reverent touches, worshipping you like a goddess descended from the heavens. Ivan’s fingers traced lazy patterns along your thigh, up to the curve of your hip where his bruises bloomed like dark petals, his touch feather-light now, soothing the marks he’d left. Alfred’s palm splayed across your stomach, dipping lower to caress the soft mound of your pussy, not to arouse but to cherish, his thumb brushing idly over your clit in a way that made you shiver with residual sparks. They peppered your skin with soft kisses. Ivan nuzzling into your hair, murmuring Russian endearments like prayers, Alfred pressing his lips to your shoulder, whispering how flawless you were, how you’d ruined them for anyone else.

You lay there, chest still heaving as you tried to catch your breath, body boneless and glowing in the afterglow, your wrecked appearance a testament to their devotion: mascara-streaked cheeks, lips bare and kiss-bruised, hair a wild tangle from their gripping hands. A practical thought pierced the haze, and you murmured it weakly, voice raspy from your cries.

“I’ll just take some Plan B in a sec…”

Alfred chuckled, low and mischievous, his hand pausing its caress to tilt your chin toward him, blue eyes sparkling with renewed hunger.

“Oh, sweetheart, you’re taking that pill tomorrow morning. You didn’t think the night was over yet, did you? It’s only fair that I get to cum in your pussy next.” His fingers resumed their gentle exploration, dipping just enough to feel the mix of Ivan’s seed and your arousal, a teasing promise of more.

Ivan’s deep laugh rumbled from your other side, his hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb circling your nipple lazily.

“You wouldn’t want sweet Alfred to feel left out, would you? After all, we share everything… including you, moya lyubov’.”

A thrill of exhaustion and excitement twisted in your belly, your body protesting even as it warmed to the idea. “Oh god, let’s hope I survive tonight,” you breathed, half-laughing, half-moaning as their touches reignited faint embers.