this started as a joke and then i realized i’d already overthought it.
so here’s how i imagine them handling alcohol in a more “normal” setting
Here’s my personal tolerance ranking:
🥇 Warwick — 100%
During: Drinks slowly. Never overdoes it. Stays exactly the same, maybe just a bit more relaxed. Observes the chaos calmly.
In the chaos: He already has a glass of water in hand before anyone even hits the floor. Maintains total control of the situation. He doesn’t judge; he just handles it.
Hangover: Wakes up early. Fully functional. Maybe just a bit quieter. Looks at the others who are destroyed with a slight “I told you so” look.
High tolerance because he’s balanced, not reckless.
🥈 Carrier — 60–70%
During: Has high stamina. Laughs loudly and starts teasing everyone. Might pick a few arguments. Never admits he’s drunk.
In the chaos: Laughs when Mophead falls. Only interferes if things get actually dangerous. Pretends he’s sober even when he clearly isn’t.
Hangover: Mild headache. Extremely cranky. Ignores any weakness. If you make a noise near him, you’ll regret it.
High physical resistance, but emotionally unstable.
🥉 Monroe — 40%
During: He doesn’t drink to prove anything. He drinks so no one feels alone or awkward. He stays mostly quiet, smiles softer, and gets slower instead of louder. He usually knows when he’s reaching his limit, but hesitates to be the first one to stop.
In the chaos: He’s the first to notice when something is off especially with Mophead. If things turn physically risky, he steps in immediately. But when it comes to emotional matters, he hesitates, second-guessing whether it’s his place to interfere.
Hangover: Real headache. Remembers everything. A little withdrawn the next day, quietly wondering if he should’ve handled things differently. Still makes sure everyone else is okay before dealing with himself.
Responsible, but deeply insecure about overstepping.
💀 Mophead — -0%
During: First sip: “it’s bitter.” Second: turning red. Third: floor. World spinning, blurred vision, sweating. Leans his head on Monroe because the room won’t stop moving.
In the chaos: Tries to drink more to keep up. Needs to be physically stopped. His body goes into a chemical panic. Completely dependent on the others.
Hangover (lasting days): Extreme nausea. Very dramatic. Crying. Swears he’s dying. “I’m never drinking again.”
Sensitive body + overloaded mind = instant disaster.
Extra: Eriche (HC) — 70–80%
During: Handles it well. Becomes more dissociated and less expressive. Doesn’t lose control easily.
Emotional meaning: Not because he’s “strong,” but because he’s already living life numb.
Summary: we orchestrate the wives like a symphony and he’s just background noise with a boner. Part 1 here!
a/n: yall are gonna hate me kekeke. Also, you'll realize literary foreplay (i.e. the slowest slowbuns) are the reason i write, so for that I apologize. i just really had to break this man—and his wives—before i could let him anywhere near us. Tysm for reading!! 🫡 part 3 is in the works.
Ps more of my writing lives here (it was supposed to be my monster fucking account lol but got flagged) - @sylestine-redacted
And my AO3 - here! (Ik a lot of 40k stuff but it's just fuel for my size diff addiction - for those not in the fandom I recommend Something Else, He Who Hunts Heresy, Service Alcove 17B.)
Cw: NSFW, poly dynamics, dom!reader, sub-ish!uzui, extended foreplay, voyeurism/exhibitionism, control, light humiliation (for him), dirty talk, size kink, oral (reader receiving from Suma), the wives happily doing whatever we say
Tengen sits like a weight at the edge of the room.
No commands, no barked orders—just his knees apart, forearms resting on his thighs, eyes fixed on you. His silence is a pressure, a pulse you can feel under your skin.
For a heartbeat the women hover, their hands still on you but not moving. It’s as if his presence and your stillness have pulled the air taut. Suma’s breath comes quicker, Hinatsuru’s fingers hover over your arm, Makio’s lips are parted but she hasn’t dared close the distance again.
You slide your palm a little higher on Makio’s neck. Not rough, not possessive—just enough to guide her head back, enough to make her eyes flutter without taking her fire. She makes a low sound and the grip of her hand on your hip softens.
With your other hand, you trail your fingertips up Suma’s arm until they reach her wrist. You don’t push her away; you just turn her palm, set it flat against your stomach. Her breath catches and she presses, unconsciously following your cue.
Hinatsuru stays very still, watching. You turn your head toward her—not a beckon, just a look. A silent test.
She meets it without hesitation.
And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, she lowers herself to her knees. Not submissive. Not uncertain. Just… aligned. Her movement is slow, spine straight, palms skimming your thigh as she settles into place beside you, eyes still on yours.
Nobody’s spoken.
But the pace has changed.
It’s your pulse they’re matching now.
You lean down toward Makio, your thumb brushing her jaw.
“Breathe slower,” you murmur.
It isn’t a command. It’s an instruction.
She obeys without thinking, chest rising and falling under your hand.
Suma swallows audibly, her fingers sliding along the ridges of your abs. Hinatsuru’s nails just graze the outside of your calf before she catches herself.
And still Tengen sits, watching. His fists flex once on his knees. His eyes have gone darker.
Makio’s throat shifts under your palm again — another tiny gasp when your grip tightens just enough to remind her she’s being held, not handled. You don’t even glance at her. You’re watching Suma instead, the way her fingers twitch where they’ve landed against your hip, like she wants to press deeper but doesn’t quite dare.
So you reach down, slide two fingers under her chin, and lift.
She makes a sound — not even a full breath — and her knees shuffle slightly in response, thighs clenching.
It’s not obedience.
It’s reaction.
Hinatsuru exhales, barely a whisper of breath. Her hand is on your thigh now.
Your voice doesn’t shift. You don’t speak louder.
“This is barely touch,” you murmur. “I haven’t even warmed them up.”
Another breath catches — maybe Makio’s, maybe Suma’s. Doesn’t matter. They’re all listening now.
“I haven’t told them to undress,” you continue, voice still low, level, entirely for yourself. “Haven’t given a single instruction. Haven’t used more than a hand.”
You press your thumb under Suma’s bottom lip and watch her mouth fall open like it was waiting for that exact pressure.
“And already…”
“Look at them.”
You don’t say his name.
You don’t even look at him.
But it lands.
You feel the pulse of his silence tighten in the air like a thread drawn taut.
Makio shifts, breathing harder now, pressing herself into your palm like her neck belongs in your hand. You still haven’t kissed her again. You don’t need to.
“You said ‘go on,’” you murmur. “I’ve barely started.”
The faint creak of movement behind you — not footsteps. Just the adjustment of a body trying to stay still when it shouldn’t be.
You smile — not smug. Not wicked.
Just satisfied.
Predatory.
“You’re really just going to sit there and watch while I make all three of your wives cum with their clothes still on?”
Makio stifles a whimper. Suma trembles. Hinatsuru’s hand curls slightly on your thigh, fingers digging in again.
Still, you don’t turn.
You trail a fingertip down the line of Makio’s throat, pause at the top of her chest, then move your hand away.
She flinches — almost chases it.
But you’ve already shifted to Suma, curling your fingers into the front of her robe just enough to make the fabric pull at her chest, to make her feel what’s coming before it ever arrives.
Tengen exhales behind you — no words, no commands.
Just a breath that says everything.
---
You turn your head just enough to catch Suma’s gaze, your hand sliding up the back of her neck until your thumb rests just below her ear. You don’t raise your voice. You don’t even look at Tengen.
“Hands behind your back,” you whisper to Suma. “Kneel.”
She blinks—startled—but the tone is enough. Slowly, shakily, she draws her hands behind herself and sinks down, her robe slipping off one shoulder as she does.
You bend down and cup Hinatsuru’s chin next, thumb brushing her bottom lip.
“You,” you murmur, “touch her hair.” You tilt your head toward Suma without breaking eye contact. “Wind it around your fingers. Make her feel it.”
Hinatsuru’s pupils blow wide. Her hand lifts, threading into Suma’s hair, slow and deliberate. Suma exhales sharply, shuddering under the new contact.
You drag your thumb down Makio’s throat, your lips brushing the corner of her mouth.
“And you…” your voice a low purr, “stay standing. Let him watch you shake.”
Makio swallows hard. Her knees want to buckle but she forces them straight, muscles quivering under your palm exactly the way you told her to.
The room is silent except for their breathing now — and somewhere behind you, Tengen’s.
You still haven’t turned. You still haven’t addressed him.
You murmur again, quieter still, the words slipping like smoke into the heat of the room:
“Good girls. Don’t look at him. Look at me.”
Three sets of eyes flick to you. Only you.
Hinatsuru’s fingers curl deeper into Suma’s hair. Suma arches under the touch. Makio trembles in your grip but doesn’t move away.
You shift your hand from Makio’s throat to the back of her neck, guiding her head just enough to make her breath hitch.
“Now…” you whisper. “Show him how you sound when you’re still dressed.”
Makio lets out a low, broken noise that isn’t quite a moan, isn’t quite a sigh. Suma gasps at the sound. Hinatsuru closes her eyes for a beat like she’s trying to steady herself.
And behind you—
Tengen moves.
Not a word. Not a command.
Just the sound of a cushion shifting as he leans forward, his breath sharp in his throat.
You still don’t turn.
You lower your mouth to Makio’s ear one more time:
“Don’t stop breathing. Don’t close your eyes. Let him see every second of it.”
Makio whimpers. Suma shudders. Hinatsuru’s lips part on a silent exhale.
And Tengen?
His knuckles are white where they grip his own thighs.
---
Makio shudders again, her breath shallow.
You lean close to her ear, your voice a thread of restraint:
“Touch yourself.”
A sharp inhale. Her thighs twitch. For a heartbeat she doesn’t move, then she slides one palm down the front of her robe, fingers slipping between her legs under the fabric. Her breath catches again.
Suma makes a soft, shocked sound, still on her knees, listening intensely. Her cheeks are flushed a furious pink; she’s watching Makio like it’s the first time she’s seen her.
You lean over again and slide your hand from the back of Suma’s neck down to her collarbone, just a featherlight touch to anchor her.
“Open your mouth,” you whisper.
She does. Instantly. A tremor runs through her body.
You shift your attention to Hinatsuru without breaking your pace.
“Undo her robe,” you murmur, nodding to Suma.
Hinatsuru moves like water—steady, smooth. She slips her fingers into Suma’s sash, draws it loose, and lets the fabric slide down just enough to bare her shoulders. Suma gasps at the cool air and at Hinatsuru’s knuckles brushing her skin.
Makio’s head tips back, a low moan escaping her as her own fingers work under the fabric of her robe. You tighten your grip at the back of her neck just enough to make her jolt.
“Quiet,” you murmur into her ear. “Or he’ll think you’re finished already.”
She shudders, eyes fluttering shut, but she swallows the sound.
Satisfied, you turn your attention back to the women on the floor.
“Now pull her hair back. Make her arch.”
Hinatsuru’s fingers tighten in Suma’s hair, tugging gently but firmly until Suma’s back bows, robe sliding farther down, breasts lifting to the air.
A little noise escapes Suma’s throat, something between a whimper and a gasp. Makio’s fingers quicken beneath her robe. Hinatsuru’s breath is coming faster now too, her composure fraying.
And still you haven’t acknowledged him.
But you can hear him—his breathing heavier, his rings clinking softly as his hands flex on his thighs.
You lean in and drop your head, your voice a low growl only the women can hear:
“Good girls. Stay exactly like this. Don’t look at him. Don’t stop until I say.”
Suma gasps again, arching under Hinatsuru’s pull. Makio bites her lip, trembling against your grip, her own fingers moving desperately. Hinatsuru’s lips part on a quiet moan she can’t hide.
Behind you, a deep, ragged sound breaks out of Tengen’s chest.
He still hasn’t moved.
But he’s no longer sitting back.
He’s forward now, on the edge of the cushion, eyes fixed, jaw clenched.
And you?
You’re still in the middle of them all, voice low and steady, orchestrating.
“Now,” you whisper, “Suma—touch Hinatsuru. Slide your hands up her thighs.”
Suma obeys blindly, reaching forward, fingers brushing up Hinatsuru’s bare legs under her robe. Hinatsuru’s head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut.
Makio lets out a strangled sound, hips rocking under her own hand.
And Tengen finally breathes a word, hoarse:
“Fuck…”
---
You don’t look at him. You never do. You keep your eyes on the small world at your hands: Makio’s throat cradled in your palm, her chest rising fast against yours with every shallow breath; Suma’s hands sliding up Hinatsuru’s thighs in slow, reverent strokes; Hinatsuru bright-eyed but faltering, breath catching as she watches the others fall in rhythm.
Your voice is a near-whisper, the kind only the three of them can hear.
“Tilt your head. Keep your jaw slack. Let me hear you breathe around me.”
Makio obeys without thought. The air shudders out of her, warm against your collarbone, and her shoulders loosen as she sways forward. Her breasts press flush to your chest, and your hold at her neck guides her just enough to keep her trembling — not falling.
Suma’s fingers twitch on Hinatsuru’s thighs — tighter now, emboldened by your voice.
Hinatsuru exhales, and her hand slips over Suma’s wrist, anchoring her. Not stopping. Just holding.
You move like a blade: precise, economical. A thumb brushed along Makio’s collarbone. A fingertip grazing the the top of Suma’s head. A word to Hinatsuru — just one — and she leans forward to braid a strand of Suma’s hair into her fingers, the motion deliberate and intimate.
It’s choreography. They do not need orders twice.
Tengen’s silence thickens the air until you can feel the underlying vibration of it against your skin. His fists are still at his knees; his shoulders rise and fall. You feel him like heat behind you, but you keep the focus where it matters. Your moves are for them — and, by extension, for him.
“Do not look at him,” you murmur to Makio. “Not yet. Watch me.”
Makio’s eyes slide to you, then close; a little sound slips out. Suma makes a tiny, involuntary cry when Hinatsuru’s nails ghost lower along her side. The room narrows into those sounds, small and exquisite.
You step the tempo up, not with force but with intent. A longer pause. A softer touch. A tiny, pointed praise — “Good” — that sits heavy between breaths. You let the silence stretch, then break it with the barest instruction:
“Make a noise that tells him we’re not done.”
Makio obeys. It’s not loud. It’s an admission.
Somewhere behind you the cushion creaks.
The stillness breaks like glass.
Tengen rises — not hurried, but the movement is all hunger now.
...
You feel him behind you.
Not in steps—no, he’s too trained for that. But the air shifts. The temperature changes. His restraint peels back, just enough for the world to feel it.
The moment he rises, the room changes shape.
Makio’s breath catches in your grip. Suma stiffens, thighs pressing together. Hinatsuru stills, eyes flicking upward as if she can feel it too: the god standing.
He doesn’t speak.
He doesn't need to.
You feel his heat roll toward you, step by silent step. The tension spirals higher—coiling into the curve of your spine, tight in your belly, humming against your skin. His presence presses close behind you now, near enough to taste.
Still, you don’t turn.
You don’t even flinch.
Instead, your palm slides up the back of Makio’s neck. You tilt her head just a touch, let your thumb rest in the soft groove below her jaw.
And you speak.
“Stay down.”
The words aren’t barked. They’re dropped—heavy, deliberate, final. Like dropping a weight into water and watching it vanish into dark.
Behind you: silence.
No protest. No challenge.
But you feel the way the air catches—how the room itself holds its breath.
And then, like a slow exhale:
“If you’re going to watch,” you murmur, “do it where I can see you.”
Still not looking.
Still not giving him the power of your eyes.
You lift your chin slightly, gesture—calm, unhurried—toward the open space just in front of you. A patch of smooth tatami kissed with firelight.
“Here.”
One word. One command.
And it lands like a blade to the throat.
Behind you, something sharp exhales from his chest. His control doesn’t crack—it flexes, dangerously close to rupture.
A pause.
Then: a shift of weight. The sound of fabric whispering as knees bend. A slow movement forward.
The god kneels.
You feel it in the floor, in the air, in the stillness of the girls who barely dare to breathe.
You don’t need to see him to know.
You feel it—just like you feel the heat in his throat, the throb in his cock, the tightening restraint in every inch of him.
He takes position exactly where you told him to.
Knees wide.
Forearms braced.
Back straight.
Head slightly bowed.
Waiting.
Watching.
Yours.
---
Your hand tightens at Makio’s nape. She makes a soft, broken sound—pleasure blurred with pressure.
Suma's shoulders rise and fall like a girl mid-confession, thighs trembling under her loosened robe.
Hinatsuru’s gaze flicks between your hands and your mouth, her knuckles white where she grips Suma’s hair.
But in the corner of your vision now—barely visible—you feel him.
He hasn’t looked away once.
Still you don't meet his eyes.
Instead, you shift your legs, just slightly, letting the light fall in a new way across your body—across scars, curves, the line of your hip. You adjust your grip on Makio and stroke your knuckles across her collarbone, deliberate.
You speak again, voice lower this time, pointed:
“Good. Now you can really see what you’ve been staring at.”
There’s a sound from his chest. Low. Close to a growl. Controlled—but not by much.
It curls around your ankles like vapor.
You lift your eyes—but not to him.
You look at Hinatsuru.
“Let her bite.”
Hinatsuru doesn’t hesitate. Her fingers tangle tighter in Suma’s hair. She leans forward and sinks her teeth into the soft flesh just below Suma’s neck. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just enough to make the girl arch and cry out—a sound caught halfway between pain and prayer.
Makio moans.
You slide your hand down her front and palm her breast through the robe. Her knees buckle, but you hold her firm.
You speak, quieter now—but still not to him.
“Good girls don’t scream unless they’re being ruined.”
Then, a pause—just long enough for him to lean forward. You know he's closer now. You can feel the tension in him winding tighter.
So you finally tilt your head. Just slightly.
And look at him.
Directly.
Unflinching.
A slow, deliberate drag of your eyes from the pulse in his throat down to the subtle flex of his thighs. You take your time. Let it sink in.
His pupils are dilated. His jaw is tight. One of his hands clenches the fabric of his own robe to keep it from slipping—because if it does, you’ll see just how hard he is.
He’s already trembling.
Already fighting not to move.
And you haven’t even touched him.
You smile.
Small. Wicked. Absolute.
“You’re doing so well, Tengen.”
The sound he makes then?
Isn’t even a word.
It’s a shiver wrapped in breath, a rumble that dies halfway through his throat—because if he speaks now, he knows he’ll break.
You reach forward and take Suma’s wrist. Slowly guide her hand up the front of your thigh.
“Show him how soft I feel.”
Suma whimpers. Her fingers quiver. But she obeys.
And Tengen—
He shifts, finally.
One knee slides forward. Just an inch.
He’s slipping.
You let him.
Just a little.
Because when he finally cracks—
You want it to be spectacular.
---
Suma’s fingers slide higher up your thigh, trembling as they go, the warmth of her palm like a pulse against your skin. Her eyes stay on you, wide and glassy, cheeks flushed.
Makio whimpers under your hand, her back arched slightly, her robe slipping off one shoulder. Hinatsuru’s lips are parted, breath shallow, nails biting into her own thighs.
And Tengen—
He’s moved closer.
Just one knee, but it’s enough to send a ripple through the room.
Your head tilts. You let him feel the weight of your gaze again.
“Careful,” you murmur. “You’re going to break before I even touch you.”
He drags a breath through his teeth. His hands clench harder on his knees.
“Do you want to be useful?” you ask quietly.
No answer. Just a twitch in his jaw. A flash of hunger in his eyes.
“Good,” you breathe. “Then hold her for me.”
You guide Makio a half step toward him. Your palm presses to the small of her back, sliding under the loose fabric of her robe. Her breath catches, her hips tilting instinctively toward your touch.
“On your knees,” you whisper against her ear.
She obeys, shivering, sinking down between you and Tengen until she’s kneeling right in front of him, the robe gaping open at her chest. Her hands go to her thighs, palms up, waiting.
You flick your eyes to him, voice low but clear:
“Hold her hips. Not a grip. Not a claim. Just hold her still.”
His throat works. He hesitates—a god being told to touch without taking. Then, slowly, he lifts his hands. They’re big, calloused, still trembling. He sets them on Makio’s hips as if she’s made of glass.
Makio gasps at the warmth of him, her eyes flicking up at you.
“Good,” you murmur. “Now keep her exactly where I put her.”
You crouch, slow and deliberate, until you’re eye level with Makio, your fingers sliding along her collarbone, down the line of her stomach. She shudders under your touch, caught between your hands and his, trembling in both directions at once.
You lean in, your mouth a breath from her ear:
“Show him how you sound when I touch you.”
Your fingers dip lower. Makio moans, the sound raw and unguarded, spilling into the heat of the room. Suma whimpers at the sound; Hinatsuru’s nails now threatening to break through the skin on her thighs.
And Tengen—
His hands convulse on Makio’s hips.
A shudder runs through his entire body.
His eyes flutter shut.
“Don’t move,” you warn him softly.
He freezes. A low sound escapes his chest—a groan turned inward, strangled at the root. His hands stay on Makio exactly where you placed them, but his body vibrates with the effort.
You look up at him, just enough to catch his eye.
“Good boy.”
His jaw snaps tight. His eyes blacken. His breath stutters once, twice. The sound he makes then isn’t a growl, isn’t a word. It’s something caught between pain and prayer.
Makio’s gasps come louder now, high and broken, her body jerking under your touch while his big hands hold her steady, exactly as you told him.
“That’s it,” you murmur, eyes on him now. “Stay right there. Feel her shake. Don’t you dare move.”
He swallows hard. Sweat beads at his temple. His knuckles are white where they grip Makio’s hips.
You slide your free hand higher up Makio’s stomach, let your thumb brush the underside of her breast. She gasps, tipping her head back against his bicep. His fingers twitch on her hips again.
“Tengen…” you whisper, slow and villainous. “You’re trembling more than she is.”
His eyes fly open. He stares at you—no mask, no bravado—just raw hunger.
And still he doesn’t move.
Makio gasps, spine bowed under your hand, the open fall of her robe baring her to the low lamplight. Her thighs tremble where they straddle your knees, and every sound she makes is caught between you and the man still gripping her hips.
“Keep her steady,” you murmur without looking at him again. “That’s all you get to do.”
Tengen nods once — sharp, silent, desperate. His grip stays tight where you left it, fingers flexing reflexively against Makio’s hips as you slide your hand deeper, easing between her thighs. She jerks, breath stuttering, yielding herself completely.
You don’t pause.
You don’t even glance up.
Your focus is only on her.
“She’s burning,” you whisper. “You feel it, don’t you?”
Tengen says nothing. His jaw just clenches harder.
Makio lets out a choked moan as your fingers stroke her—slow, deliberate, wet with heat.
“Good girl,” you murmur into her hair. “Just like that.”
You keep her there, bent into your touch, your breath grazing her throat as you press two fingers deeper, just enough to make her whimper. Her hips jerk—but Tengen’s hands keep her steady.
He holds her still for you — not for her. Not for himself.
“Tengen,” you say, voice low, unashamedly amused. “Feel her shake.”
He growls softly. His fingers twitch again, and you finally let your gaze flick back to him—just for a beat.
“But don’t touch,” you add, sharp as a blade. “Not unless I say.”
He swallows hard. He nods.
And you turn away from him. Just like that.
Back to the women.
“Suma,” you say without looking. “Kiss her.”
Suma gasps, startled. “M–Makio?”
“Now.”
Suma scrambles forward on her knees, her face flushed, her body shaking with the weight of obedience. She leans in — slow at first — and then her lips catch Makio’s, soft and trembling. Makio sighs against her, your fingers still working between her thighs, her whole body caught between your touch and Suma’s kiss, held still by his hands.
Tengen’s jaw tightens.
You see it — just a flicker in your periphery.
“Don’t you dare move,” you whisper. “You want to kiss her?
Earn it.”
His eyes burn. His knuckles are white where he holds her.
Makio’s moans deepen as Suma’s lips open against hers, their mouths moving together in raw, breathless rhythm. You guide the pace from below, fingers slow and precise, curling just right. Makio chokes on a cry, her body jerking in your grip.
And still you don’t touch him.
Still you don’t really look at him.
You reach for Hinatsuru next, curling two fingers under her chin, tilting her face up.
“You’ve been so patient.”
Her breath hitches. “I… I wanted to see.”
You smile. Lean in.
“And now I want you to touch her.”
Hinatsuru blinks. “Suma?”
“No. Makio.” You glance down at where Suma is still kissing her, breathless and flushed. “Slide your fingers down. Match mine.”
She exhales. Moves.
One hand reaches under Makio’s robe, fingers slipping alongside your own. Makio screams into Suma’s mouth, whole body locking tight in pleasure.
Tengen jerks.
Just a twitch — hips shifting like he might lurch forward — but your head snaps toward him.
“Ah.”
The sound stops him cold.
You arch a brow.
“Are you that needy already?”
He pants. A single drop of sweat trickles down his temple.
You look at him fully now — gaze slow, indulgent, mocking.
“You’re kneeling behind your own wife while another woman makes her cum into someone else’s hand.”
“You feel her hips bucking against you?”
“That’s not for you.”
“That’s me.”
Makio breaks then — a sobbing cry, mouth pulled from Suma’s lips, her whole body spasming. She moans your name — once, twice — ragged and high, her head falling against your chest.
You cradle her gently.
Stroke her spine.
Kiss her temple.
And still you don’t look at him.
Until—
“Tengen,” you say, voice soft as silk.
“Taste her.”
His breath stops.
His hands are still on her hips.
He can feel how soaked she is.
“Use your mouth,” you whisper. “Not your hands. Just like I did.”
He stares at you. Shaking.
“Now,” you murmur. “Or I’ll make Suma do it instead.”
And the sound he makes—
That groan, low and wrecked—
Isn’t even human anymore.
---
Makio is kneeling directly in front of you. Her legs are spread wide — not from shame, but from how you’ve held her there, your palm cradling the back of her neck again like a leash made from trust and tension. Her robes are half-off, barely clinging to her shoulders, her chest heaving with every breath. Her spine is bowed forward, and she’s leaning heavily into your hold.
Behind her — dwarfing her — is Tengen.
He’s crouched low, practically folded in half to meet her body at that angle, kneeling with his chest pressed to her back. One knee is planted beside hers, the other slightly behind, spreading his massive frame around her like a brace. The difference in size is absurd — his shoulders broad enough to swallow her upper body, his thighs bracketing hers like armor, like a cage.
And still — still — he bows lower.
To reach her core, his face has to tuck beneath her hips, craning forward until his jaw rests between her thighs, his mouth working her with slavish focus. His hands are where you told him to keep them: gripping her hips tight from behind, not pulling, not pushing, just anchoring her while you guide the rhythm.
She's leaning back against him now, hips canted upwards to meet his mouth
He’s not thrusting. He’s not even dominant here. He’s the instrument. You are the composer.
From your position, you can see the tension in his forearms, the clench in his jaw as he keeps bending forward, his spine curved unnaturally low to please her. His long hair brushes Makio’s thighs, strands sticking to sweat-slicked skin. His head is nearly in your lap — but not quite. Not allowed.
Makio arches back further, her face flushed, your thumb tracing gentle circles on the innerside of her knee.
Tengen's face is buried between her thighs, breath ragged, shoulders locked tight as he licks her open like it’s salvation — like your command has become his religion. Every noise Makio makes sends another tremor through his arms. He’s crumbling. Slowly. Visibly.
And still, he hasn’t earned your attention.
But someone else has.
You feel Suma shift beside you — small, warm, trembling. She’s been on her knees this whole time, close enough to breathe you in, close enough to watch every movement of your hands, the flex of your thigh muscles, the twitch of your fingers as you cradle Makio like something sacred.
She’s shaking with it. With need.
You let your fingers trail back up through Makio’s hair, slow and reverent… then glance at Suma from the corner of your eye.
She’s already looking at you.
Mouth parted. Chest heaving.
She doesn’t speak.
She would never assume.
But her hands twitch in her lap — as if she might reach for you on instinct, then stops herself.
You smile. Just a little.
“Suma.”
Her breath catches. She looks up, as if her name alone was pleasure.
“Yes—yes?”
“You’ve watched so well. Waited even better.”
She flushes from her throat to her cheeks, shoulders hunching like she’s trying not to fall forward into your lap.
“Do you want to touch me?”
Her mouth opens. Closes. Then—
“Please—yes, I want to—please let me—”
“Good girl.”
The praise breaks something in her.
She shifts forward on her knees instantly, moving between your legs, her hands fluttering uselessly for a second — where to touch? how to begin?
“Start slow,” you murmur. “Use your hands. Explore.”
You don’t move. You don’t help her.
You just spread your knees a little wider and watch what she does.
Suma’s fingers tremble as she rests them on your thighs — just above the knees. Her breath stutters as she slides them upward, gliding over muscle, then higher still — not quite between, not yet — and then to your waist, the curve of your hips, the bare skin of your ribs.
She makes a small, overwhelmed sound.
Like it’s too much to finally be this close.
She presses her cheek to your arm — not teasing, just nuzzling, like a kitten desperate to be held. Her lips graze your skin, breath hot and damp, and she whispers against you:
“You smell so good. I—I just wanted—”
Her hands move more confidently now, roaming up your sides, across your stomach, the pads of her fingers trailing over your ribs now, under your breasts. She’s careful, reverent, like touching you is both a gift and a test.
She leans in, pressing her lips just above your navel.
Then another.
A third, higher now.
Kisses, not licks. Worship, not filth.
But you see it happen:
Tengen lifts his head.
His mouth is still slick with Makio’s release, his eyes blown wide, panting hard — and when he sees Suma between your legs, touching you like that—
He growls.
Low. Possessive.
But you cut your eyes toward him.
“Keep your mouth busy,” you say flatly. “Or I’ll let her use hers.”
Tengen groans. Loud this time.
But he obeys. Dips his head again. His hands clutch harder at Makio’s hips like the only thing keeping him tethered to this moment is your control.
Makio moans weakly, arching into him.
And Suma—
She kisses her way higher.
“Can I…?” she whispers, hands just beneath your breasts now, lips hovering. “Please—let me feel—?”
You nod once.
She cups your breasts in her hands and whimpers — like this is a prayer answered.
She leans forward, lays a soft kiss just above your nipple, then another, mouth dragging across skin, her tongue darting out just once to taste the sweat at your sternum.
You still haven’t touched her.
You don’t need to.
“Is that how you always touch what you want?” you murmur. “Or is this just for me?”
Her voice is breathless.
“Just for you—only you—I’ve never—”
You tilt her face up with a hand to her chin, fingers slick with Makio’s slick and your own sweat.
“Good.”
Then you lean in — slow, controlled — and kiss her.
Soft at first. Not dominant. Just real.
She gasps, mouth parting under yours instantly, and when you deepen it—finally tasting her, finally taking—she melts.
Makio moans again, slumping in Tengen's arms.
Hinatsuru watches, pupils wide, one hand pressed to her own heat now.
Tengen doesn’t dare lift his head.
And Suma?
She’s panting against your lips, eyes wet, voice breaking as she whimpers:
“I want to please you—please let me—I can be good—”
“You already are.”
You guide her gently back down.
Her cheek rests against your thigh now.
You brush her hair from her face and glance toward Tengen.
Then down at Suma.
And finally, back to Makio — still trembling caged in between his arms, hips rocking towards your lap.
You smile.
“Now,” you murmur. “Let’s give him something to beg for.”
---
Makio whimpers, wholly boneless now, her body slack with aftershocks.
She’s wrecked. And you haven’t even begun.
Tengen’s mouth is still buried between her thighs, tongue slow and reverent now. Not hungry. Not desperate.
Worshipping.
Because you told him to.
You glance down—not at him, not directly—but at the top of his head where it rests near your lap, tangled in strands of sweat-damp hair and the scent of pleasure.
He’s so close.
So fucking close to where he wants to be.
But not there.
You lift your hand gently from Makio’s knee and place it in Suma’s hair.
She tenses. Eyes wide, lips still parted from the kiss you left her with.
You don’t speak.
Just guide her mouth.
Lower.
She stares at your bare skin, trembling, and then—shudders—when she realizes what you’re asking.
"I—I’ve never..."
She trails off. Blush rising high.
You brush your thumb across her cheek. Gentle.
“Then let me teach you.”
You slide back slightly, letting your thighs fall further apart on the thick cushions. Suma’s breath stutters as she shifts forward between your knees.
Her mouth lowers.
And lower still.
Tengen lifts his head.
Not fully.
Just enough to see her.
His eyes catch the movement—the trembling bob of her head as she draws closer to where your heat throbs under the thin cloth between your thighs.
He groans. Sharp. Guttural.
His fingers twitch at Makio’s hips.
You grab a fistful of his hair.
Not hard—just enough.
“No.”
He freezes.
You smile.
“You stay where I put you.”
His whole body convulses.
Hinatsuru is the one who moans. Quietly. Like the sound he made traveled through her instead.
She’s still kneeling beside you, lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded. Her hands flex and fidget against her own robes like she’s aching for direction.
You turn to her. Tilt your head.
“Is this what you wanted to see?”
Hinatsuru nods once. Then again—deeper this time, like she’s falling under with you.
“I wanted to see you bring him to his knees.”
“You’ll see more than that.”
Your voice is velvet-wrapped steel.
Suma’s mouth is at your inner thigh now, lips brushing skin, her tongue darting out timidly. You feel her shiver when she hears the sound you make—not a moan, but something low and approving.
You guide her with one hand, soft pressure, nothing forced.
She wants this.
And behind Makio, under her, Tengen is trembling like a dam about to give.
“Let her taste me,” you murmur, stroking Suma’s cheek. “Let her learn what devotion tastes like.”
Suma lets out the softest whine—a grateful one—and finally presses her mouth between your thighs.
And Tengen—Tengen gasps.
Like you punched the air from his lungs.
Makio moans again, barely conscious, still twitching in his massive lap.
“She’s a natural,” you murmur to no one. But you know he hears it.
Hinatsuru leans closer, her breath on your neck now.
“Can I...?”
“Not yet,” you whisper.
Tengen moves again.
One hand slips.
Just an inch.
From Makio’s hip to your thigh—hovering.
Almost.
You snap your head toward him.
“That’s not yours.”
He flinches.
Then freezes.
Suma whimpers—mouth still on you, tongue tracing slow shapes now, unsure but hungry—and you stroke her hair again, gently.
“That’s for her.”
You glance down at Suma, her eyes glassy with arousal, her hands fisting the cushion beneath you as her lips press tighter, wetter.
“And for me.”
You still don’t look at Tengen when you say it.
But the sound he makes—a desperate groan, low and unhinged—tells you everything.
“Don’t cum,” you say flatly.
And he gasps.
Because you know.
Because you felt it.
He’s close.
Too close.
From the feel of Makio. From the smell of you. From the sound of Suma’s mouth working against your skin.
His whole body locks like he’s being electrocuted.
And you smile.
“You’ll wait.”
Then to Hinatsuru:
“Touch yourself. But keep your eyes on him.”
She obeys instantly.
Hand sliding between her legs, back straight, chest rising, eyes burning into Tengen’s bowed head.
You watch him shake.
You feel it in the tension of his spine, the hitch in his breath, the way he shudders when Makio mewls again under the slow grind of his tongue.
“Not yet,” you murmur again.
“Not until you’re begging.”
---
Suma’s lips are softer than you expected.
Not clumsy — just earnest. Her mouth trembles where it moves against your skin, as if she’s trying to taste everything at once — your sweat, your heat, your breath above her. She makes a soft noise each time your fingers brush her cheek, not a whimper, not a moan, just a sound of wanting — and you let her.
You sit back into the cushions slightly, spreading your legs wider to allow her better access. You feel her breathe faster at the motion — her nose brushing the inside of your thigh, tongue flickering nervously — and she sighs like you just fed her ambrosia.
Tengen groans behind Makio, body tensing so hard it seems to rattle his breath.
“Don’t stop,” you murmur to Suma.
“You’re doing beautifully.”
Her whole body shudders. That one line — and she sinks deeper into you, mouth parting further, lips slick with devotion. She whines softly when you roll your hips just a fraction — not into her, but around her. Letting her feel your control. Letting her know she isn’t leading this — you are.
Makio moans at the sound Suma makes.
Hinatsuru gasps as if she felt it in her own core.
And Tengen?
He bucks.
Not wildly. Just a twitch. His hips roll once against Makio’s back — a stifled, instinctive rutting motion — and then he stops himself. Muscles clenching, breath cut short.
You don’t even look.
You just hum — low and pleased — as if you expected it.
“You’re close already,” you say, like it’s a fact.
“All that strength. That legend. That ego.”
“And you’re shaking because I let her put her mouth on me.”
Tengen moans. Into Makio’s slick. Into your silence. Into the floor.
You press your palm firmly on top of Makio’s knee grounding her, steadying her as her body twitches in response to his mouth. She’s slurring now — not words, just sounds. Soft, high, needy. She’s dripping. Drenched. Because of you.
Not him.
You glance to Hinatsuru.
Her robe’s open now. Her hand glistens where it’s buried between her thighs. She’s panting, still watching him — just like you told her.
“What do you see?” you ask her softly.
Hinatsuru swallows. Her breath catches.
“A man trying not to break.”
“No,” you correct her gently.
“A god who already has.”
She moans. Quiet. Shaking.
Her fingers press deeper.
Tengen’s body tightens at the sound — as if every woman in the room moaning for you is another lash across his back.
But you don’t let up.
You tilt Suma’s chin with your fingers. Her mouth is red, slick, glowing with heat and arousal.
She looks dazed — drunk on you. Eyes glassy, lips parted.
“You’ve never tasted anyone before,” you say softly.
“But you’ve wanted to, haven’t you?”
She nods, frantic.
“Say it.”
“I wanted you,” she whispers. “I… I wanted to taste you.”
You smile — indulgent, dangerous.
“And now you have.”
She exhales shakily — like it’s blessing.
Makio whimpers again and grinds forward into Tengen’s mouth, her back flexing like she can’t decide if she wants more or needs to crawl away. You stroke her leg, murmuring something low she can’t quite hear — and that alone makes her shudder.
Tengen’s hips twitch again.
He moans against her.
You finally glance down at him — just briefly — and it’s like you slap him in the face with your eyes alone.
“Do not cum,” you say again.
“If you do — you don’t touch me for the rest of the night.”
His hands grip the floor.
Shoulders shaking.
Mouth soaked.
Eyes wild.
He nods. Once. Painfully.
And you go back to ignoring him.
You press Suma’s head gently back between your thighs.
You pull Makio upright again, sliding your fingers between her folds, stroking her exactly where Tengen’s mouth just was.
She screams.
And you hum like you’re tasting the sound.
“Good girls,” you murmur to all three of them.
“Making such beautiful music.”
Then, softly — to no one:
“He’s going to beg soon.”
---
Makio is still pliant in your hands, your fingers stroking her through the aftershocks while Tengen kneels behind her, mouth wet, hair falling loose, body trembling like a bowstring drawn too far.
Suma is still between your thighs, worshipping you with her mouth, her hands tentative on your hips. Each time she makes a small sound, Tengen flinches. Each time you let her deepen, his shoulders shake harder.
And Hinatsuru—
She’s kneeling beside you, her robe fallen open to the waist. Her breathing’s gone shallow, cheeks flushed, one hand between her thighs rubbing in frantic little circles while she watches her husband.
You shift slightly, free hand sliding up her spine until it curls into the back of her neck. You guide her forward, slow, deliberate.
“Come here.”
She obeys instantly, moving into your lap. She straddles your right thigh, knees bracketing your leg, her slick heat pressing against the bare muscle just above your knee. Her robe slips farther, baring one breast completely.
You slide your hand down her back, palm flattening at the small of her spine. She shudders at the contact.
“Stay here,” you murmur against her temple. “Use me.”
Her breath stutters. “Y–use…?”
“Ride my thigh. Take what you want. Keep your eyes on him.”
Her pupils blow wide. But she obeys. She shifts her hips, pressing down, and drags herself along the muscle of your thigh in a slow, helpless grind. Her breath breaks on a soft, high sound.
You catch her breast in your hand as she moves — thumb circling the nipple once, slow and possessive. She gasps, arching into your palm, her slick leaving a glistening trail against your skin.
“Good girl,” you murmur. “Show him.”
She moans louder now, hips moving in small, desperate rolls, her breast swelling under your fingers. You lean down and take her nipple into your mouth, sucking once, hard. She cries out — a sound between a sob and a moan — her hips jerking against your thigh.
Suma whimpers at the sound and presses her mouth harder against you, tongue trembling as she licks. You stroke her hair gently, encouraging her.
Makio twitches weakly infront of you, still sensitive from the double onslaught of your fingers and Tengen’s mouth.
And Tengen?
He’s frozen.
Kneeling behind Makio, mouth slick, his whole body trembling as he watches you:
His wife riding your thigh.
Another wife licking between your legs.
His third wife twitching, her arms weakly reaching towards you.
And he can’t touch any of you.
He can only watch.
He makes a sound — low, hoarse, wrecked.
You smile against Hinatsuru’s breast.
“He likes this,” you whisper. “Look at him when you cum.”
Hinatsuru moans again, louder, eyes snapping to her husband as her hips pick up speed. You roll her nipple between your fingers, tugging just enough to make her cry out. She grinds down harder, slicking your skin.
“That’s it,” you murmur. “Let him see.”
Her breath shudders. Her hips stutter. And then she breaks, a strangled moan spilling from her lips as she trembles against your thigh, nails digging into your shoulders, her eyes still locked on Tengen as she rides out her climax.
You hold her through it, mouth still at her breast, thumb stroking her other nipple. She slumps against you, gasping, trembling, leaving a wet smear of heat across your skin.
Suma makes a small, broken noise at your thigh. You glance down. Her eyes are glassy, her lips wet, her hands gripping your hips.
“Please…” she whispers. “Please—can I…?”
You tilt her chin up with two fingers, still stroking Hinatsuru lazily.
“Can you what?”
Her breath hitches. “C–can I finish you? Please—while he watches—please let me—”
Tengen groans again. Loud. Ragged. His hands tremor on Makio’s hips like he’s about to crack.
You smile.
Small. Devious. Absolute.
“Look at him while you ask me again.”
Suma’s eyes flick to Tengen — seeing him kneeling, ruined, wild-eyed.
Her voice is barely a breath.
“Please… let me taste you. Please let me make you cum while he watches.”
And the sound Tengen makes then isn’t even a word.
---
Hinatsuru trembles against your chest, her body soft and molten from the orgasm you wrung from her. Her legs are still draped over your thigh, inner thighs slick, chest heaving. You cradle her gently, still thumbing her breast, idly, like she’s yours to soothe.
Suma is on her knees again, eyes wide, lips wet, staring up at you like a sinner awaiting absolution. One hand is gripping your hip, the other shaking where it’s half-lifted—waiting for permission she’s too well-trained to take.
And across from you—
Still kneeling—
Still obeying—
Is Tengen.
His mouth is wet from where it pressed between Makio’s thighs. His jaw is clenched tight, sweat shining on his throat. His hands are braced on his knees now, knuckles damn near skeletal, because he can’t grab you—won’t grab you—unless you allow it.
You glance at him.
Finally.
And the look you give him is slow.
Measured.
Unimpressed.
“You’re quiet, Tengen.”
His breath stutters. One hand twitches.
You tilt your head. Hinatsuru stirs in your lap, sighing softly as your fingers graze her again.
“Is watching hard for you?”
He doesn’t answer.
You let your voice fall a note lower—sharp and silk-wrapped.
“You used to command whole rooms with that mouth. Now you can’t even use it to beg?”
Makio stifles a moan against his stomach.
Suma whimpers beside you.
Tengen looks wrecked. His jaw flexes—he’s fighting the instinct to snap, to leap forward and throw himself into you. But he doesn’t.
You smile.
It’s sharp. Cruel. Lovely.
“Tell me what you want, Lord Tengen.”
His shoulders quake.
His voice, when it comes, is hoarse:
“I want… to watch.”
You click your tongue.
“You already are.”
He exhales shakily, but you’re not done.
You shift your hips just enough that Suma’s hand brushes your inner thigh. She gasps—knees widening instinctively—and your hand drifts to the back of her neck, thumb stroking just beneath her ear.
Tengen’s eyes lock there.
You don’t look at him.
“Suma.”
She whimpers. “Y-yes?”
“Do you want to finish me?”
She nods violently, like she’ll cry if you say no.
You smile. Not at her.
At him.
“Beg me, then. Use his name.”
Her lips part.
Her voice shakes.
“Please, let me taste you, while Tengen watches—please, I want him to see me make you cum—please—”
Tengen groans—full-bodied, broken.
You finally meet his eyes.
And that’s when you drop the blade.
“Then tell me, Tengen. Say it. Out loud. Tell me you want to watch your wife’s mouth on me.”
He doesn’t blink.
Doesn’t breathe.
For three seconds, he’s silent.
Then—
“I want to watch her worship you.”
“More.”
His voice breaks.
“I want to see her lick your thighs open. I want to see her mouth on your cunt. I want to see you use her while I kneel and do nothing.”
That sound?
That soft gasp?
That’s Suma.
That moan beside you?
Hinatsuru, grinding ever so slightly in your lap.
Even Makio stirs, breath catching in her throat.
You smile.
And say nothing.
Just guide Suma’s mouth where you want it.
Her breath fans hot against you.
Tengen shudders.
Still, you say nothing to him.
You’ve already made him say enough.
---
The room holds its breath.
Makio is still gasping softly in his arms, her chest sticky with sweat and pleasure. Hinatsuru has melted halfway into your lap, lips parted, her breath warm against your neck. Suma remains close, fingers twitching, eyes wide with awe and arousal.
And Tengen?
Tengen is quaking.
Still kneeling. Still devout.
Your legs shift slightly. The heat between your thighs is a pulse, thick and aching and undeniable. His eyes flick there—once, fast—then away again, like looking is dangerous.
Good.
You smile. Then—without a word—you reach down.
Suma makes a small sound. A whimper, maybe. Or worship.
Your fingers slide through the slick heat between your legs, slow, unhurried, and obscene in their confidence. You don’t moan. You don’t shake. You do it like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.
Like it’s yours.
You drag your hand back up, fingers shining under the low lantern light. Tengen’s eyes are locked there now. He can’t look away.
“You’ve been very good,” you murmur.
Your voice is low. Velvet-wrapped steel. You don’t raise it—don’t need to. Every syllable lands like a struck match.
You hold your hand out.
Just infront him.
Not touching. Not close enough.
“Come get it.”
He jerks—a full-body twitch like you dragged him by the spine with your voice. His hands slap to the floor, weight shifting forward—
“Ah.”
One sound.
He freezes.
You arch a brow. Slowly lower your hand by an inch.
Closer, but not close enough.
“Crawl, Tengen.”
He shudders—guttural, like something just broke loose inside him.
“You want this?” you purr. “You want to lick it from my hand like the good little toy you’ve been?”
His mouth parts. You don’t let him speak.
“No words. Just show me.”
He obeys.
Hands flat. Knees scraping. He doesn’t even blink. Just moves.
He lifts Makio gently from his chest — her body limp, dazed — and lays her down onto the cushions with a care that borders on reverence.
Then, slowly, he crawls.
Like a beast.
Like a worshiper.
The women watch in stunned silence—aroused, breathless. You feel Hinatsuru moan into your shoulder. Suma whimpers, her thighs pressed tight around yours.
Tengen reaches you. His hands don’t grab. His mouth doesn’t lunge.
He waits.
“Open.”
He does.
You press two fingers into his mouth—deep, slow, pushing your taste onto his tongue.
He groans like he’s dying.
“That’s right,” you whisper. “Taste what you’ll never take unless I give it to you.”
He closes his lips around you like he’s starving. His tongue moves—devours—and you watch his throat flex when he swallows.
Makio moans. Hinatsuru gasps.
Even Suma sinks lower, clutching your leg like she’s about to fall apart just watching.
“Such a pretty mouth,” you murmur. “Shame it’s wasted on silence.”
Your fingers slip free, wet and shining with his spit and your slick.
He’s panting now—wrecked, wild, desperate. And he still hasn’t touched you.
“You want more?” you murmur, voice slow as a smile with teeth behind it.
He nods—violently—like it hurts not to scream it.
You smile.
And lean in just far enough to let your lips brush his jaw.
That evening the men were practicing archery on the green. Bill Door had carefully ensured a local reputation as the worst bowman in the entire history of toxophily; it had never occurred to anyone that putting arrows through the hats of bystanders behind him must logically take a lot more skill than merely sending them through a quite large target a mere fifty yards away.
It was amazing how many friends you could make by being bad at things, provided you were bad enough to be funny.
