Torou took jobs where she could find them; for all her bluster about talent and skill, when rich men wanted things lifted, wanted things done -- well, they hired other men. Big guys, small guys, guys who looked like they’d cut off their own mother’s nose for some dill -- didn’t matter, as long as they had the right thing hanging between their legs. A girl only got jobs when seduction was the name of the game, when the way to what they wanted meant a man -- or a woman -- on their back.

She’s good at that too -- Torou’s not one to brag, but no mark’s ever turned her away when she’s knocked at their door -- but it’s not the way she likes to make her money. If she liked that sort of thing, she could make a much better living in the flower districts, being fed seedless grapes from the vine and sleeping on silk. But oh no, she doesn’t want that life. She likes a challenge, likes picking the impossible lock, running the impenetrable con, showing all those old relics just how smart a girl raised by the streets can be.

So when she’d been offered the grift, who was she to say no? As far as Torou had known, Obi was back down in Wistal, sunning himself on palace roofs, rubbing elbows with the rich and privileged. No one was more surprised than her to find the man shooing her off Wilant’s crenelations was her own dear, friend.

Though he hadn’t appreciated that distinction, not at all, frogmarching her to the nearest shadow and grilling her for what seemed like hours about her reason for traipsing so far upcountry. After all, it’s not like a little southern bird like her flew up here by accident.

She’d nearly told him the truth, too. It was a sweet grift, just the sort of thing they would have done in the old days. It was only when she caught the shine of his brooch, the fancy little swoop of the city guard glinting upon it, that she realized he hadn’t stolen that goofy square hat off some copper -- he was one.

A disappointment. He’d been one of the best.

She gave him her normal run-around, and that’s when all the best bits came out: him calling her a stalker, her asking where his Master was, and that delicious moment where his gaze has slipped, and she saw the red hair bobbing across the courtyard. The second prince’s little paramour.

Or at least that’d been her impression years ago.

“Fucked her yet?” she asks, because the man she knew would have. He’d have given that girl his most sly smile, whispered a few words, and the next time they saw him it’d be over her for one last go before dawn, telling them five more minutes before he came out, still buttoning up his pants. Gods, they’d fled more towns that way than she could care to remember, dodging guards and outraged fathers alike.

She’s never seen the anger more bare on his face. “Don’t talk about her.”

“Oh, that’s how it is then,” she drawls, making sure that he sees the way her gaze lingered. “You should go take a roll then. Do what I do, get out all that frustration. Looks like you’re walking around with a stick up your--”

“I’ll pass on the advice,” he tells her, fixing her with a look that gives her shivers, and not the nice kind. “Stay away from her.”

“I will, I will.” She holds up her hands, placating, as she slinks away. “I’m just saying...looks like it’s been a long time.”

For all her bluster, it’s not like she’s been rolling in it either.

She’d known it as she rode south, as she caught that glimpse of blue at the inn, but she hadn’t really felt the shape of it, not until right now, when she presses her lips to the big man’s and that place between her legs aches from the touch.

Gods, it’s been far, far too long. Everyone’s tongues are still politely in their own mouths, and even still she’s ready to rub up against him like a bitch in heat, begging to be taken.

This is what she gets for having standards.

At least, she normally does; ones she’s honed over a lifetime of disappointments and situations bad enough that she made windows where there weren’t any doors. The sort of fool-me-twice bullshit that would make old ladies and Obi cluck over her poor choices.

Not like he has any room to talk; she’d watched him try to walk off a chest wound, and that’s down toward the bottom of the list when it came to stupid shit he’s pulled.

Still, she’s no fool. She doesn’t sleep with cons -- after all, she lies enough for two people, and if anyone is walking away from an encounter with an extra wallet, it’ll be her; she doesn’t fuck above her pay grade -- nobles keep what they like, and Torou is not about to be a part of some man’s collection, thank you very much; and most important of all: she doesn’t waster her time on the uninitiated. She’s a busy woman, and the last thing she needs is to fumble around with a man who can’t find her cunt with a map, not when all she needs is a good fuck.

But here she is leaning into Tall, Blue, and Handsome, breath catching as he groans into her mouth, and she’s throwing all that out the window. He’s as good as admitted he’s never touched a woman, probably never even gotten as far as this, and if she were smart, that’d be all she needs to nip all this hot and heavy right in the but, but --

But one of those huge hands wraps around the back of her head, his whole palm cradling her as if she were no larger than a child, and oh, it’s so easy to open her mouth under his, letting his tongue flick shyly over her teeth, giving him a hint of what she tastes like. Big Man’s just the sort of home-grown, morally upright shepherd boy that screams he’s never been so much as kissed, but when his other hand slides down the curve of her back, stopping just above her ass before pulling her sharply to him, well -- she couldn’t tell for the life of her.

His cock presses eagerly into her thigh, so hard it bruises. She can only laugh, wriggling close, swallowing his groan, and oh -- she may have standards, but he’s exceeding all her expectations. His honor has him locked up tighter than Wistal’s vaults, and her hands itch to pick it. Impossible is where she does her best work, and if the noises he’s making are any indication, Big Man agrees.

Still, for all his eagerness, this giant would be content to kiss the whole night, not even lifting the hem of her dress or making a bid to ruin its collar. His hands are hot on her back, her neck, but the don’t stray anywhere she hasn’t offered, and -- well, she appreciates the change of pace, but that’s not what’s in the cards tonight, not if she’s dealing. And definitely not if he’s going to choke off those moans every time she brushes his cock.

She has one arm wrapped around his neck for balance -- he’s careful with her, but inexperience plus enthusiasm makes for a heady drink -- the other crushed to his chest, molded to the promising curve of muscle beneath the thick wool of his coat, and she snakes it down, brushing over the ridges of his stomach in a way that makes him hiss deliciously into her mouth.

He lets out a grunt, questioning, but she doesn’t stop, just keeps dragging fingers down until they hook on his laces, deftly unknotting his stays. Beneath her, he’s still, tense; his kissing taking on an uncertain rhythm. Still, he doesn’t stop her, and in no time at all she’s reaching into his trousers, grasping his shaft, and --

Huh.

She pulls away from him, meeting that question in his heavy-lidded gaze -- gods, how she’d like to lean back in, to feel his groan against her lips and under her hands -- and looks down.

Oh.

Her other hand drifts down, peeling the twill of his trouser away from his skin, really getting an eyeful, and --

“Is something wrong?” He’s so tense beneath her, like he’s tempted to make a break for it, full lap be damned. Torou lets out a huff of a laugh -- it’s cute, the shyness -- and she feels the way his thighs jump, nervous. She has to get a grip, otherwise this boy is going to have a complex for the rest of his life.

“You’re a big boy,” she manages, finally, not bothering to keep her admiration from her voice. “I thought you might be, but--” she lets out a low whistle-- “I didn’t expect proportional.”

His cheeks flush, a splotchy, vibrant red that makes him look like a girl slapped him on both sides. It’d be cute -- it’s been a long time since Torou hung around any man who could still blush -- if it didn’t look like his second thoughts were starting to have third and fourth ones. That’s exactly what she doesn’t need, Mister Moral Fiber starting to think about this.

Her hand slides over his chest, hooking around his neck and drawing him back to her. He yields to hers as they meet, letting loose a pained moan as her lips brush over his. She might not like inexperienced lovers, but she has to admit, there’s something nice about being able to make a man breathless with just a kiss.

Or, well, it might also be the way she’s still touching his cock, giving it a long, slow pump where it’s crushed between them.

“Don’t worry, Big Boy,” she purrs against his lips, “I don’t get intimidated easy.”

“Intimid--haah!” he yelps, hips lifting as she works him, breath hissing out between his teeth. She’d knew he’s be easy -- boys always were, and this is the first time he’s any hands but his own on his cock -- but she’s surprised at how that sends a rush of heat between her legs, how her cunt’s wet enough to make the urge to be filled into a need.

“Relax,” she soothes, so close she feels his throat bob against her lips. “I was gonna fuck you here, but this--” she squeezes, dragging a whine from him-- “is going to take a change of venue.”

“Aah?” he moans, brow rucked in confusion, and -- well, if that isn’t just how she likes her men: sex-stupid and horny.

She leaps to her feet, fingers tugging on his laces, urging him after her. He stands with somewhat less grace, so stiff and awkward she half suspects he’s never had to negotiate with a cock harder than half-mast. Her lips pull back into a grin. That’s fine enough; she’ll show him one way to deal with it, at least.

He hesitates when he’s on his feet, following her a single step before he stalls, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that there’s no blood left in him for his brain.

“C’mon,” she urges, tugging at him. “Don’t make me wait.”

He falters, taking another half-step before stuttering short, and she turns to him with a hard tug. “What--?”

Oh, there’s the problem. He’s trying to tuck that monster of his away.

“Uh-uh,” she clucks, taking his shaft in her hand and giving it a sensuous stroke. She’s pretty sure she sees his knees wobble, with that one. “That one stays out. He’s got a job to do. He’s got plans.”

“Plans?” Big Man squeaks, reaching for his trousers again. He frowns as she slaps his hands away. “I can’t -- I can’t just walk around with it out--”

“Why not?” She gives him her most innocent look, all wide eyes and batting lashes, but his mouth only thins, wary. Damn, Obi must have worn that one too many times. “It’s a waste to put him away.”

“Anyone could see--”

“Everyone’s asleep.” she tells him logically, hooking her fingers back through his laces. “Besides, it’s not like you have anything to hide, Handsome.”

He blushes, flustered, but she can tell he’s pleased beneath all that moral claptrap. The only thing a man likes more than being praised is having his cock getting the compliment. “That’s beside the point.”

“Come on, Big Boy.” She tugs at him, drawing him down the hall. “Which one is yours?”

“Um.” He stumbles behind her, his nerves making the air between them taut, tense. Like she could pluck one like a lute and have it snap. “The--the third door down. On the left.”

“Hmm. Hope you’re not sharing,” she hums, sending him a sly look over her shoulder. He takes it like an arrow to the chest. “Not that I’d mind. I know how to keep quiet, after all.” She dips in near him, running a finger down his breast. “Or the pretty boy could join in, if that’s what you like.”

“What? No! I’m -- I’m alone.” The last words come out stark, ponderous, as if he’s just realized their meaning. He stops dead at the door, and when she turns to face him, there’s something -- sad about his face. Lost, maybe. Melancholy, if she was given to poetry more than that. “This is -- this is a mistake. I really -- we really--”

She sashays up to him, all hips, and drags his mouth down to hers. Tall, Blue, and Handsome may talk a big game, but there’s no hesitation here, no matter what pretty little platitudes come out of his mouth.

“Oh, Big Boy,” she murmurs against his lips, hand searching for the knob. “You don’t even know my name--”

“It’s Torou.”

Her hand misses the door. That little shit.

“Obi told us, after Tanbarun. He also said not to--”

“Never mind that,” she snaps, palm finally clasping metal. She doesn’t need to know what warnings Obi might think his friends would need when it came to her.

“You don’t know me,” she continues, wrist twisting as the door opens behind her. Handsome’s dark eyes meeting hers with a sort of heat that makes her breath come short. “But I’ll be the best mistake you’ve ever made.”

The problem with Sir Studly is that he’s just so earnest.

“My name is Mitsuhide,” he tells her as she pulls him close, pulls him down so neither of them lose any ground.

She wants to say, I don’t really care, but he’s just the sort of boy that might pick up his toys and go home at that sort of talk. His cock presses hard into her belly, and oh, she really, really wants him to share.

“How about I call you sir?” she purrs, teasing at the clasps of his coat. They fall away like plucked petals, revealing the soft cotton beneath. His shirt’s half-damp with sweat, and that should repulse her, but instead she leans closer, wishing they could cut through all this excuse for banter and get to the good stuff already. Namely, what she’s stroking with her other hand.

He stares, blank. “Why would you do that?”

Torou’s jaw goes slack. Gods, the things Obi must have had to put up with, dealing with -- all this. No wonder Blondie never got anywhere.

“Never mind,” she mutters, shoving his coat to the ground before she leaps up, dragging his mouth back to her.

There, that’s better. She knows what to do with this, with the heat that coils in her belly as his tongue slides against hers, as his hands stroke down her spine and --

Stop. They stop. Or rather -- they don’t go any farther, kneading soothing circles into her back, smoothing away the tension she hadn’t even known she’d been carrying.

This doesn’t make any sense. He’s new at this, and he’s got to be eager, got to be dying at the thought of sinking that cock somewhere deeper than his own fist. Even so, he’s -- he’s gentle, kisses heated yet tender, hands not even wandering to the ties on her dress. He’s practically polite.

What a waste.

“Oh, fuck it,” she hisses, yanking her dress off over her head. It’s not sultry, not seductive, not her speed at all, but Sir Chastity over here apparently needs a gold-embossed invitation to lift her skirts, and she’s not patient enough to wait for the gussied-up pigeons to deliver that formal reply.

When she can see him again, finally, his jaw has dropped -- and, she’s pleased to note, his eyes have too. If she rolls her shoulders back, just the littlest bit, so that the girls are shown at their best angle -- well, a lady’s allowed a little vanity, now and again.

“Oh,” he murmurs, and --

And he licks his lips. Gods, she needs him in her already.

There’s something too soft in his gaze now, something too earnest, and before he can get out much more that a you -- she growls, “Don’t you dare say I’m beautiful.”

He blinks, but she’s already advancing, greedy hands rucking his shit up over his stomach, peeling it roughly over his head.

“Oh,” she breathes, fingers reaching out to touch. “Well then.”

She’d heard of men being chiseled, but honestly -- in all her experience, she’d never seen a one deserving of the name. At least, not until now, until this overgrown, up-jumped shepherd boy stands stupidly in his own rented room, every line of him limned in candlelight like he’s carved from marble itself. A body like this belongs on a temple statue, not a real, living, breathing person.

Not that you’ll catch her complaining.

Torou lays her hand flat against the ridges of his stomach, stroking over the fine hairs there. Oh, she is going to drink this tall glass of water down to its dregs.

Under her fingers, his skin quivers. “Are you sure--?”

“Shut up,” she sighs, seizing his hands, “and just touch me already.”

His hands are huge -- she really should have picked up on the theme earlier here, when it came to his...appendages -- and when she drags them to her, just one of his palms covers the whole of her breast. His pulse jumps against her fingers, and she’d be annoyed at his shyness if she just wasn’t floored at the realization. Sure, her cup’s never runneth over at that particular font, but the girls aren’t anything to sneeze at either. A good handful, at least.

“Huh,” she manages, finally, and the sound makes him jump, makes his hands squeeze, and, oh--

Well, that’s not bad at all.

Big Boy apparently agrees; he tries it again, purposeful this time, and -- hmm, if he hadn’t told her he’d never have lain with a woman, she wouldn’t have known from the way he palms her breast, the way he twists his wrist to cup it and rub a thumb over the nub of it.

She hisses, arching into him, and that’s all the encouragement he needs. His other hand drops, and she has hardly more than a moment to protest before it wraps around her waist, jerking her against him with more confidence than a man with his experience should have.

It’s embarrassing how wet it makes her. But she’s long beyond caring about what her body does and just rolls with it, shimmying her hips against his, grinning as he groans, as he flicks her nipple just on the other side of gentle. “Well now, Handsome, seems like--haah.”

She can’t think, not when his mouth hooks right behind her ear, tongue flicking right across the sensitive hollow between bones. Her knees jelly, just for a moment, but Big Man’s doesn’t have his knightly reputation for nothing. That hand on her back slides down, gripping her ass and lifting, like she’s nothing more than a child.

Oh my. He might not know what he’s doing, but Big Boy has some good instincts.

“That’s nice,” she gasps, sliding her palms up his chest, up his neck until his undercut tickles her skin. He likes it, from the encouraging noise he makes. “But there’s a better place for that mouth.”

His gaze flickers up to her as she nudges him, and the heat she sees in them makes her glad she’s not doing anything more complicated with her legs than clinging to his hips. What Blondie thought she was doing, letting this man walk away from her, Torou will never know.

He hitches her up, hand leaving her to wrap around her back, and his mouth lowers to replace it, licking a broad stripe over her nipple before he opens wide and --

Haah. She squirms against his mouth, whining. Big Boy has some moves.

He twitches; on any smaller of a man, it would be obvious against her thigh, but he’s got her so far up him that she only remembers cock when it swats her on the ass, as eager as a hound on a leash.

“Oh!” he gasps, jerking away, leaving the air tantalizingly cold against her breast. “I didn’t -- I’m sorry--”

“Don’t apologize.” She bends him back down to her, tongue teasing his lips. “I want it.”

She hadn’t though there was enough blood in a body to let him blush, not with a cock like his, but here he is, looking like he just ran the road between Wilant and Wistal in a night. “Ahh.”

“I want it in me,” she clarifies, dropping her voice to that sultry place that gets results. “All of it.”

His hand squeezes hard against her ass, and oh-- there’s the little Big Man, saying hello again. “Oh.”

“Get on the bed,” she tells him, and he’s so obedient he doesn’t even put her down, just lifts a knee and gets on, legs still wrapped around him and all.

“No.” She tries so hard, but a laugh slips out from her anyway. “I mean -- I need you to sit. Right up against the headboard there.”

His head swivels, brow drawn in confusion as he stares at it, uncomprehending. “The headboard?”

“Yes, and also--” she leans in, stealing another lingering kiss -- “those pants can’t stay.”

That, at least, seems to make sense to him. He doesn’t drop her, though, just unravels her legs from around him, setting her gently onto the mattress, like she’s a peach that might bruise if he lets gravity have its way. It’d annoy her, if she didn’t find it so sweet.

Big Man scrambles off the bed after that, kicking off his boots and letting fingers slide belt from buckle --

Until he sees her laying there, staring. Somehow, his cheeks redden, and he turns around, sending her a looks she’s tempted to call huffy as he makes quick work of his laces. Not that he had much left to do, with all the...help she’d given him.

Torou’s not one for shy partners, but there’s something about a man so big being so prudish that’s almost endearing. Instead of her usual prods and taunts, she just shakes her head, and sets herself to removing her own leggings, wondering if she should bother with trying to teach him how to use fingers to get her ready, or whether they’d just lose ground with that kind of fumbling --

Until his slips those woolen trousers down and reveals -- all that. Miles and miles of toned legs, meeting in an ass that it takes conscious effort not to touch. Later, later. She’ll get her hands on all of it soon enough.

He turns then, and oh -- oh, there is no time for any of that foreplay business, not when just seeing the sight of his cock is getting her wet. Hells, if they had more time than before he thinks better of it, she’d want to get that in her mouth too.

She shakes herself. Priorities, priorities. Between her mouth and her cunt, she knows which aches needs to be filled.

“Torou.” The sound of her name on his lips jars her, and it’s only them that she realizes he’s sitting up against the headboard, just like she asked, starting to look unsure of himself. “Do you need...help?”

She blinks, confused, until his gaze drops southwards and -- hells, she hadn’t even managed to get her leggings off.

“Hah, sorry,” she huffs out hooking her thumbs back around the band. “Got a little lost enjoying the view.”

That usually makes a man puff up in pride -- they all like to think they’re irresistible, and Torou sees no reason to pull the scales from their eyes when she only needs their cock -- but when she looks back at him, fully divested of her clothes, he’s --

Well, he’s all rounded in at the shoulders, looking -- thoughtful. Leave it to the knight of noble virtue here to think that taking a compliment makes him a sinner.

He opens his mouth -- doubtlessly to say something staunch and morally right -- but Torou leaps up next to him with a grin and swings a leg over him.

“Now here’s a good look for you, Handsome,” she purrs, knees squeezing his hips.

“O-oh?”

She likes that, likes the sound of him breathless. “Mm. Beneath me.”

His cheeks flush again, but his cock twitches again, right against her leg, right beneath her cunt, and oh, Torou’s had her fill of waiting. She lowers herself, just slightly, letting the head nestle her lips, and, ah, it’s been far, far too long since she’s done this. She bites her lip, nearly drawing blood trying not to hurry, to take him all at once and feel filled, feel complete --

Oh! He hands fly out, gripping the wood right next to where Big Boy’s thrown his head back, breathing steady, measured, and harsh. That first inch is a sharp reminder that evening fumbling foreplay is better than the little they did.

She should know better. This isn’t her first stallion, after all. Though Handsome is certainly in a class all his own, damn.

Knuckles white, she spreads her legs, letting gravity have its way with her. Inch by inch she slides down his cock, his chest still against hers, both their breaths shallow for two entirely different reasons.

His hands grip her hips, hard enough that she’ll be counting fingertips in the morning, but she hardly minds, not when each inch comes easier and easier because -- because she’s never seen a man writhe beneath her like this, never heard one cry out as if she’s killing him with every breath.

When she hits his thighs, she gives him a moment -- herself too; he’s more horse than human when it comes to what’s below the belt -- and then lifts herself again. The pace she picks is slow, torturous; taking him the first time was an experience, but every stroke after stokes the fire burning in her belly, and she’s determined to joy the feel of every inch. Big Man’s cock is a once-in-a-lifetime catch, and she’s not one to pass up opportunity.

It helps that she’s wetter than a pier post; she hardly gets this way for men -- given her druthers, she likes the feel of a cock in her, but they’re a silent bunch as a rule, only giving out a grunt or two as she lets them take her. Women are always much more satisfying on that front -- to be honest, on every front -- but with Tall, Loud, and Handsome --

Well, the feedback he’s giving her is definitely...welcome. And with each roll of her hips, she encourages more and more, until --

Until she realizes how close she is herself, her breath coming in shallow pants, her cunt tight as that taut sensation sits heavy between her legs, so close yet so far, fluttering out of reach before she can let it take her under.

Her brows draw tight, confused. This is -- this is taking far too long. Handsome might exceed expectations but -- he’s a man who has never had his cock held by anything but his own fist.

She looks up and -- and his eyes are clenched shut, teeth gritted in concentration. He’s fighting it, fighting her. He thinks he can wait her out with will alone.

It’d be sweet, if she wasn’t so desperate.

“What are you doing there, Big Boy?” she purrs, pressing herself closer, until her breasts are crushed against the hard planes of his chest, until each stroke makes her rub deliciously against him. “What’s got you thinking so hard?”

He shakes his head, but it’s no use -- this is just the sort of lock she likes to pick.

“Thinking about Blondie, huh?” she drawls, dragging her fingers along the wrinkles of his brow. “Thinking about how much time you wasted, not giving this to her?”

His breath catches, lips pulling tight around his teeth. Caught red-handed, just like she thought, not even denying it.

She can’t blame him; the thought of Blondie being in this bed is getting her excited too. The face of one of those porcelain dolls on top of a body tight with muscle, and breasts like those to boot? That pretty miss might have just as much experience as Handsome here, but noble girls always kept a few tricks up their sleeve. No worrying if Lady Disdain would fumble the fingering, that’s for sure.

“Just keep your eyes closed, Handsome,” she murmurs against his ear, earning a moan with a roll of her hips. “She might be tied up tighter than you, but those noble girls -- they wail.” His breath pants harshly against her neck, fingers digging into the flesh of her hips. Yeah, that’s not a bad thought for her either. “Don’t worry, I’ll make enough noise for you to think it’s --”

His hands grip hard, stilling her on his cock, and his eyes fly open, pinning her in place. “I’m not thinking about anyone who isn’t in this bed, Torou.”

There’s no clever quip waiting for that one, and what breath she has he steals, bucking into her so hard she sees stars. It’s not hard to keep her promise now, not when all she can do is hold on as he surges under her again and again, taking control even as he’s losing it, his head hitting her just so on every thrust to send her whole body tingling, bringing her closer to her precipice than a virgin like him has any right to.

When he comes, he drags her close, every part of her touching him, and it’s -- it’s too much, too intimate. Her nails dig sharply into his shoulders, holding him together as he breaks apart, and oh, how she had wish she had gone with him, could feel him like this while she lost herself too --

She bites down on his shoulder, hard enough to mark him. She can’t just -- she has to be reasonable, here. Can’t lose her head, otherwise she’ll end up like Obi, leashed up on a dog run between here and Wistal, torn between two masters.

Or at least a Master and a Mistress.

He pulls back, eyeing her with concern. “Did you--?”

“Oh no, Big Boy,” she laughs, lifting herself off him, both of them hissing at the slide of his against her. She’s still burning, still right on the edge, the sort of urgency that just won’t keep. “But don’t worry. I’m a big girl, I know how to take care of myself.”

Handsome’s brow furrows, mouth opened to ask, but Torou’s not good with words, she’s good with actions. She throws herself against the footboard, bracing herself with legs wide open so he gets the best view of her hand creeping down between them, of her barely brushing the bud there before she falls moaning into her own climax.

When she comes back to herself, he’s staring, jaw slack. “O-oh. I see. Take -- take care of yourself.” He licks his lips, and hells, he shouldn’t do that if he wants her to keep her hands to herself. “Sorry, I--”

“Don’t worry about it, Big Boy,” she laughs, tossing her head back. “The first ride‘s free. But next time you’ll have to earn your keep.”

“Next time?” He jolts upright, eyes wide. “I don’t -- this isn’t -- this was a mistake.”

It’s a surprise, how much that stings. “Didn’t I tell you, Handsome?” She winks. “I’ll be the best mistake you ever made.”

“No, I didn’t--” he shakes his head, like there’s too many thoughts in it at once-- “It’s not about you, it’s about me. I shouldn’t have...ah...taken advantage--”

“Let’s get one thing straight, Big Man,” she snaps, smile pulling tight. “No one takes advantage of me. I knew what I was getting into, taking that shine off a paragon of virtue.”

He opens his mouth, about to protest, but she doesn’t need to hear excuses.

“Besides.” This time her mouth obeys her, curling into a sultry smile. “You sounded like you were having a good enough time to me.”

His gaze flicks to hes, and there’s heat in it, more than some angel like him should have, and hells, if his dick isn’t already twitching, isn’t already straining to come back to attention--

“You aren’t human with a cock like that,” she breathes, eyeing it with a hunger she knows he can see, since it’s reflected right back at her. “Come over here, Handsome. Let’s get you a head start on earning that second ride.”

Good boys like him shouldn’t look as tempted as he is. “You don’t mean--?”

“Oh, I can’t take a cock like that twice in a night.” she laughs, palming it as he crawls over her, his weight delicious against her belly. “But trust me, Big Man, I know more than enough to get us there and back again.”

For the first time since she came to this godsforsaken place, Torou wakes up warm.

She’s sore too -- so much for not riding that cock twice; she’d climbed on it herself last night, somewhere in the wee hours of the morning, and rode him so hard they’ll both be walking with limps -- but there’s a steady source of heat at her back, soothing away the ache enough that she’s half tempted to try another go --

Until something bands tight around her waist, pulling her back into miles of muscle. Her eyes flicker down, and there it is, a faded olive arm over the copper of her skin. Oh no, no.

Torou doesn’t do things like this. Torou doesn’t stay.

She wriggles out from underneath his arm, ignoring the ache in her chest when he grunts at her absence. Oh hells, hells, she doesn’t need this, doesn’t need -- whatever he’s making her into.

Frantic, she gathers up her clothes, throwing them on her body with abandon, hardly caring if they’re the right way as long as they are on her, as long as she isn’t leaving anything behind.

This isn’t her, this isn’t her. She doesn’t want to be -- be this person.

She thinks.

Her breath pants out of her chest, panicked, and that’s when her eyes find the window, frosted over with morning’s rime. She can’t be here when he gets up, when he looks at her with those hound eyes, and the innocence in them turns to her and she --

She can’t be here. With a steeling breath, she throws open the window, and scrambles out, slamming it behind her. She hears him grunt, just before she shuts it, and for a moment she hesitates, wiping away the frost so she can peer back inside. He’s tangled up in the sheets, still asleep, his hand blindly flopping into the warm spot she’s left, and --

And she drops, letting the sting in her legs wake her up, letting it bring her back to reason. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s had to sneak out like this, not even close.

Ah, but it’s never been as dangerous as this. She grits her teeth, trudging out to the stable. She’s getting too soft, getting too much like Obi. She can’t be here when that man wakes up, can’t chance that he’ll try to stop her, because --

Wedged in the corner of what was likely the seediest bar he has ever been in, Mitsuhide’s hand tightens almost imperceptibly around his tankard as cheers for the new royal couple ring throughout the bar once more. He thought that two days of hard riding from Wilant would have been far enough to outpace wedding gossip, but he supposes he should have known better than to think an inch of Clarines would not be focused on the marriage of the Prince to the veritable (and now literal) Princess of the North. Every post, every inn he had stopped in to change horses had copies of the commemorative wedding issue available in storefronts or posted in windows.

And who could blame them, he muses as the cheers fade and the women continue to chatter about the details of Kiki’s dress and Zen’s coordinating suit. Their story, for all it was a political move to join the most powerful lines of a still-distinct North and South, seemed a fairytale. A comforting tale of friends turned lovers after years spent together in the crucible of life. A secret courtship, fulfilling the fondest wishes of the bride’s long-departed mother and stirring the hopes of a thousand couples waiting for their own happy ending.

His mind drifts as he recalls the wedding. It had been a truly beautiful ceremony. Illuminated by the golden light of the setting sun, the bride, iced in ivory silk and draped in pearls, seemed to float down the aisle; a perfect match to the regal Prince who awaited her at the dais. Gleaming rings – one plain, the other set with a sparkling Wisteria blue sapphire – exchanged as a sign of devotion. Vows solemnly made, and sealed with a kiss at the very moment the sun slipped behind the clouds…

His stomach twists painfully at the thought, and he brings his drink to his lips to assuage the ache. I should probably eat something, he thinks, taking another drink from his cup. He wasn't exactly feeling hungry – he hadn't felt much of anything since leaving the castle – but he also couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten.

Blinking to clear his bleary eyes, Mitsuhide scans the room for the waitress who had last filled his cup. Although he can’t recall the details of her face, he has a vague recollection of blonde hair swept in a messy bun. His first scan is unsuccessful, so he straightens from his slouch with a wince, craning to get a better view of the crowded room.

Must have been a shift change… he acknowledges after a more diligent search fails to locate a single blonde waitress. He also notes the lanterns scattered through the in the room have been lit to offset the rapidly dwindling sunlight. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed – he had stumbled into this inn sometime before noon, and it couldn’t be more than a quarter hour or so to sunset now – but he can’t bring himself to feel more than momentary concern at the swift, yet crushingly slow passage of time.

He took some solace in knowing he was not the only person to drink the day away. A large party of travelling merchants had claimed several tables in the center of the dining room shortly after Mitsuhide had arrived. They had proudly announced to all and sundry that their firm supplied the wines served during the wedding reception, an honor that had led to a flood of orders from nobles all around Clarines. This blessing had apparently inspired quite a spirit of generosity within them, as they had purchased several rounds of drinks throughout the day, each one accompanied by enthusiastic toasts to the royal couple’s health.

Most of the waitstaff that Mitsuhide could see were flitting in and around the merchants’ table, topping off drinks and ferrying steaming platters of food. Considering the men were now as drunk on ale as they were their successes, it was no wonder the staff were being so attentive. The bolder of the waitresses were taking full advantage of the merchants ever-increasing “generosity”, tittering sweetly in their ears and pressing close as they refill glasses.

As he watches, one of the drunken men raises his mug, sloshing ale over his hand as he calls for yet another toast to the royal couple’s health. He grimaces, stomach twisting once more as the cheers echo through the room, but when another voice rises to call for blessings of fertility to find their way to the royals, he just can’t take it anymore. He lifts his drink, hoping to drown this feeling, to wash away the image of mouths on necks, but nothing remains in his tankard. He stares into the vessel – empty again, like everything else in his life – and tries with some desperation to recall how many times today this exact view had greeted him.

Disgusted by his inaction, Mistuhide sets his tankard down with more force than is strictly necessary. Planting his elbows on the table, he rubs his hands harshly over his face in an attempt to gather himself. If only he could scrub his mind of these useless thoughts as easily as he had cleansed his body of the accumulated dust of his flight away from the capital…

“Needing a refill there, sir?”

Lowering his hands from his face, Mitsuhide looks up to see a tawny-haired waitress approaching with a mug of freshly drawn ale. He feels a bit of heat creep up his neck as he realizes the petulant thunk of his empty tankard striking the table must have attracted her attention.

“Please,” he requests, ducking his head to obscure the blush he hopes is not visible in the mostly lantern-lit room.

She bends close to set his new drink on the table, and catches a glimpse of his face, “You’re a handsome one, aren’t you?” Mitsuhide feels the heat creep up his cheeks as her eyes sweep the length of his body. “Tall too,” she hums appreciatively, shifting her weight to lean across the table.

“Say, are you free tonight?” she purrs, a hand rising to press against his chest, “After all, it’s not every day we get a man like you in these parts…”

He shrinks backwards against the back of his chair, hands raising in supplication as he stutters excuses; but she follows him back, her gaze returning to get a better look at his face. Once she does, she blinks and straightens.

“Hey wait,” her tone shifts, halting the words spilling from his lips, “aren’t you that handsome man that was traveling with Obi?”

“Traveling with Obi…?” he parrots back, arms lowering as he stares at the waitress. He fails to place her at first – clad in the same black dress as the rest of the staff, she looks like every other waitress he had seen today. Memories begin to stir as she preens under his gaze, however, and a sensual smile curves her lips. She flutters her lashes, and he recalls the same brown eyes sparkling with mischief, framed by the long chestnut hair that is now swept in a high tail. She tilts her head, and her earrings jangle, drawing his attention. The heavy gold discs, each set with a sparkling red stone, are unmistakable, and he recalls the press of her body warm against his on that long-ago night, the surprise of finding her with Obi in that abandoned manor, and the press of her lips against his cheek the next morning.

“I thought so,” she laughs, delighted by her unexpected discovery, and he realizes she must have read the recognition in his eyes, or perhaps from the blush that burned once more across his cheeks. “I could never forget a blush like that.” She leans closer once more, resting her cheek against her shoulder, “So what brings you all the way out here, good sir?”

Her question reminds him of the realities of his life, or more accurately the aching uncertainty of what his life would become moving forward. The blush fades from his cheeks as he considers how he wound up drinking away the day in the seediest inn middle-of-nowhere Clarines could offer.

After stumbling out of the antechamber outside of Zen and Kiki’s chambers, Mitsuhide had attempted to return to his own rooms, but was waylaid by Izana along the way. The King had taken one look at him with those all-seeing eyes and beckoned him to come to his office for a chat.

“You won’t be needed for the next three weeks,” the King informed him, his words blunt but not unkind, “The honor guard for the wedding tour will be made up of local soldiers selected by the council at each of the stops.” He steepled his fingers, gauging Mitsuhide before deciding to deliver the blow cleanly, “When you return from your break, we will discuss your…new duties.”

He couldn’t recall how he had responded to Izana after that, only that the King had stared at him for a few minutes once more before waving him away. Mitsuhide had followed Zen for years, had made protecting him and the interests of the Wisteria family his top priority – his only priority – for so long he couldn’t imagine what a life without that would mean. He had made his way to his room, thrown together a basic pack of supplies and coin, and ridden until he couldn’t stand riding any more.

“You alright?” a voice breaks into his thoughts, and he realizes the waitress – he can’t recall if he knows her name – is still waiting for an answer. She looks at him with a mix of concern and amusement, one brow quirked up in question.

“I’ve been…given leave from my duties for a while,” he settles for a version of the truth, “I- I couldn’t stay, so I picked a direction and rode away.” He reaches out for the tankard of ale, and just resists the urge to drown the entire draught, “This place just happens to be where I stopped.”

“I see,” she hums thoughtfully, not missing the way his hand tightens around his drink, “That explains the clothes.” Mitsuhide glances down at his shirt, a slightly ill-fitting, homespun replacement purchased on his last change of horses since his usual clothes had not survived the days of hard riding unscathed. The material wasn’t dissimilar to what he had worn while in-training at Sereg, but after years of wearing fine linens and silks the slight irregularities of the simple weave felt harsh against his skin.

“But it doesn’t necessarily explain the lack of companions,” she continues, hands flattening on the table in front of him as she leans close once more, “Tell me, where is your lady, good sir?”

“Gone,” he says shortly, remembering the sparkle of Zen’s sapphire against Kiki’s skin a scant few mornings ago. Those dark feelings rise within him again, and although he tries to drown them with another gulp of ale, words twisted with bitterness slip out, “She was never my lady to begin with.”

“Ahh…” she breathes, her smile taking on a sympathetic tint, “Not with Obi, then, right?” He shakes his head, and must pull a face, since she leans back to laugh. “I didn’t think so – as much as she would be his type, she was way out of his league. Plus he seemed to have a thing for that red-headed healer.”

“You could say that,” he admits, thinking of Obi and Shirayuki. He hadn’t seen them in months – since the rumor mill had yet to die down, they had not been able to return for the wedding – but they had sent their well-wishes along with a package overflowing with teas and spices from whatever exotic country Izana had sent them to “negotiate” with. They seemed well, but he still felt a twinge of guilt whenever he thought of his role in the mess that had sent them out of the country to begin with.

“So, with that that elegant man, then?” she asks, breaking his train of thought.

He doesn’t say anything in response, just stiffens and takes another deep draught of his ale, but his silence is apparently answer enough for her. She slides from the table and approaches his chair from behind.

“You never answered my question, you know,” she comments, sliding her arms around his neck, “Are you free tonight, Mister?”

He intends to say no. He’s already said too much, and the last thing he wants to do is to drag someone down with him. But as she presses close, he feels her warmth seeping through his rough cloth of his shirt. He feels the soft puff of her breath against his ear. He feels the press of her chest against his back, sparking a curl of desire, even as color stains his cheeks once more. He feels something with her, after days of feeling nothing but emptiness and pain.

“And if I am?” he rasps, mouth gone dry as he realizes what he’s agreeing to, “What do you have in mind?”

“Oh, Sir,” she purrs, somehow pressing even closer, “That would be telling.”

--

Kirika - Mitsukiki daughter, all the energy, all the bear hugs.

Teru - Kihazen son, only child of Kihal and Zen. Certified good boy.

Michiru - Mitsutorou love-child, conceived when Mitsuhide was on a rebound after Kiki’s marriage to Hisame. Torou raises him most of the year, but he spends summer at the Seirans’.

Hakuya - Hakizana eldest son and heir to the throne. Strawberry bishounen.

Hakuya - Hakizana eldest son and heir to the throne. Strawberry bishounen.

Touma - Hakizana second son, is mute and speaks ASL. Unpredictable, and surprisingly commanding.

Umi - Hakizana only daughter, and elder twin. The responsible twin of the two.

Zenji - Hakizana youngest son, named after his uncle. The court baby and favourite, and the younger twin.

Chize - Suzuri daughter, oldest twin. Evil #1.

Miza - Suzuri second daughter, younger twin. Evil #2, with an extra dose of sadism.

Akemi - Obiyuki daughter, Obi’s little girl, acts like you crossed a cat with a magpie.

Shigure - Obiyuki son, cute little boy.

Kakeru - Kazuru son, from Izuru and Kazaha’s “first” surprise pregnancy. Smart lad.

Izumi - Kazuru daughter, from the “second” surprise pregnancy. Izuru’s little mini-me.

Tooki - Kageya’s son with Touka Bergatt, officially known as Eisetsu’s bastard son to hide his identity. Is vision-impaired.

Kasumi - Kageya’s daughter with Eisetsu. Shy little girl.

Yuji - Ryona son, older twin of Rona and Ryuu. Named after his uncle. Heir to his mother the Duchess’ title.

Riku - Ryona so, younger twin. The introvert to his extrovert brother.

Akemi: Obi and Shirayuki’s oldest daughter, third oldest fan-kid in the lineup. Born in Lyrias, but raised in Wistal. With her dark hair, sharp eyes and natural owo face she’s clearly her daddy’s kid. Sneaky, unpredictable, a “jackdaw” with a tendency to take off with the shinies, and otherwise causing mischief during most of her waking hours, this is a most chaotic creature. Most. Chaotic.

Shigure: Obi and Shirayuki’s oldest son, 7th oldest fan-kid, and born in Wistal (born by c-section, Garack was midwife -- it was a bloody affair, Shirayuki doesn’t remember much, and Obi would prefer to keep it that way) Russet-haired, heavily freckled and eyes like his mother, Shigure is a precious little bab who defy his own weakly constitution by loving the outdoors and asking unending questions about nature and plants and animals. 

Michiru: Mitsuhide’s only son by Torou, second oldest kid in the line-up, Micchi was the accidental result of a desperate, short-lived affair between his parents (Kiki was due to wed and Mitsuhide, amid his self-deprecation, indulged in Torou’s no-strings-attached intimacy) Born in a hospital “somewhere in the far south”, Mitsuhide remained unaware of his natural son for years, as Torou had too much integrity to burst into the halls of Seiran like some vindicated mistress. Michiru is street-smart, and well-traveled despite his youth due to his mother’s vocation, even a tad bratty - it’s his developing brattiness that leads Torou to finally concede and introduce him to the rest of his family, hoping it’ll help him put down roots, belong somewhere, and become better for it.

Nakuru: Kiki’s daughter by her first husband, Hisame, fourth oldest fan-kid. Born, as was proper, at home on the Seiran estate - but she was barely a couple months old before her father went and pulled his Evil Snake Act, was branded a traitor, and got himself executed. Nakuru only knows Mitsuhide to be her dad, having come into her life so early as he did, marrying her mother the moment decorum would let them do so, and when the whispers behind her backs about her “black blood” gets the better of her, Nakuru wishes he really was her dad. Shy and introverted she prefers to stay at home, reading, and sewing, and spending time with her family. 

Kirika: Mitsuhide and Kiki’s daughter, 6th oldest fan-kid, happened to be born in a barn because she came early -- or so they insist, afterall her parents had only been married seven months... The math never added up. Ever-cheerful, always energetic and smiling a beaming smile winning her the majority vote wherever she goes, Kirika is a piece of walking sunshine. However, those who annoy her, or hurt her loved ones, face the wrath of a natural born momma bear. How a tiny speck of a girl can trash people twice her size is anyone’s guess. Kiki just wishes she’d wait till after teatime. 

Hakuya: Izana and Haki’s first-born son, and oldest fan-kid. Heir to the Wisteria crown, with beautiful features, and a sharp intellect, this is a perfectionist in the making, already stiff with protocol and expectation. Also hilariously tactless at times, born from bashful naiveté, and is very much his momma’s little boy - when nobody’s watching. 

Touma: Izana and Haki’s second son, the “royal spare”, or not, because Touma, despite his being a child, has already realized nobody would accept a mute for a king. Even the unofficial court made up of courtier’s children can be a struggle when you lack for speech. He’s determined to make up for it, practicing sign language and working on gestures - oftentimes mirroring duke Haruka’s demeanour since it’s so. effective. A boy does what a boy must. 5th oldest fan-kid.

Umi: Izana and Haki’s oldest daughter, and the older of their twins. Supremely adorable, yet silently judging you. Deceptively covered in cute, she plays tea party like a strategist preparing for war, affects sweetness as a mask to shield how little she thinks of you, and while too much a child to realize to what extent, already the world has lost its rosy hue to her eyes. That Izana’s sweetest child should be the one to inherit most of his cynicism was a surprise even to the monarch. Her and her brother are the 10th youngest fan-kids.

Zenji: Izana and Haki’s youngest son, and the younger twin. Obviously named for his uncle, because of the uncanny likeness, as Zenji also sports the trademark silvery hair that runs in the Wisteria line. A dreamy, spaced-out kid for the most part, Zenji is happy to be dragged along with his sister’s antics, playing, spying on his older brothers, nagging his parents, and so on, and so forth. Happy to stay blissfully unaware of the real world, for the time being. 

Chize & Miza: Suzu and Yuzuri’s hellspawn, otherwise known as their identical twin girls. Coincidentally conceived, and delivered, on the same table, or so Yuzuri insists (Shirayuki still can’t put her teacup down on the table in their parlour without choking slightly on this knowledge) The twins are devious and cunning wrapped in two nearly identical packages, their unnerving, heterochromatic eyes the only feature with which you can tell them apart. As such they are feared as much as they are doted on by the college of Lyrias, where they have practically been raised their entire lives, due to their antics. Chize is the sweeter girl, and Miza the mature one, according to Suzu. The 8th youngest fan-kids.