Chapter Text
In the bustling heart of Belobog University, where towering dorms loomed like ancient relics against the neon glow of campus nightlife, twins Stelle and Caelus ruled their chaotic corner of the world. Stelle, with her sharp wit and unyielding confidence, was the firecracker of their friend group—a whirlwind of late-night study sessions turned parties, where laughter echoed louder than lectures. Caelus, her mirror image in mischief but softer around the edges, was the one who always pushed the envelope just a little too far, especially when tequila was involved.
It started innocently enough, or as innocent as a Friday night kegger in their off-campus apartment could be. The group was all there: Castorice with her infectious energy, Mydei cracking jokes that had everyone in stitches, Phainon nursing a beer while debating philosophy, March 7th snapping selfies with her signature pink flair, Dan Heng brooding quietly in the corner with a book, Jing Yuan lounging like he owned the place, Blade smirking through his tattoos and piercings, Sunday offering sage advice between sips, Argenti reciting poetry to anyone who'd listen, Boothill spinning wild stories from his travels, and Gallagher mixing drinks like a pro bartender. The air was thick with the scent of cheap pizza and cheaper booze, and as the hours blurred, so did inhibitions.
Caelus, three shots deep and riding a wave of drunken bravado, leaned over to Stelle with a grin that screamed trouble. "You know what'd be hilarious, sis? If you tried to hook up with the whole crew. Like, all of 'em. Castorice, Mydei, Phainon, March, Dan Heng, Jing Yuan, Blade, Sunday, Argenti, Boothill, Gallagher—the full roster. Bet you couldn't pull it off."
The room erupted in laughter, but Stelle's eyes narrowed, a spark igniting behind her tipsy haze. She wasn't one to back down from a challenge, especially not from her twin. "Oh yeah? And what's in it for me if I do?"
Caelus blinked, caught off guard, but the alcohol fueled his idiocy. "Pfft, name your price. How about... 600 million dollars? Yeah, that sounds epic. Deal?" Stelle's lips curved into a sly smile. "You're on, bro. 600 mil it is."
The group howled, dismissing it as just another wild night. But as the party wound down and everyone stumbled home or crashed on couches, Stelle's mind raced. This wasn't a joke to her—not anymore.
The next morning, sunlight pierced through the blinds like a judgmental glare, and Caelus groaned as he shuffled into the kitchen, nursing a pounding headache. There, stuck to the fridge with a magnet shaped like a star rail train, was a note in Stelle's unmistakable scrawl:
'Hey loser, challenge accepted. Give me a week, and that 600 mil is mine. Don't wait up. - Stelle'
Caelus stared, his coffee mug slipping from his fingers. What the hell had he just unleashed?
-----
Stelle adjusted the strap of her backpack as she strode across the quad, the late afternoon sun painting everything in warm gold. Classes had just let out, and the campus buzzed with that post-lecture energy—people laughing, earbuds in, rushing to the next thing. She spotted them immediately: Phainon and Mydei, the golden couple everyone whispered about.
Phainon leaned against a low stone wall near the fountain, all easy smiles and bright blue hoodie, hair catching the light like he was made for it. Mydei stood beside him, arms crossed over his broad chest, red jacket half-unzipped to show off the sharp lines of muscle beneath, expression guarded but softening whenever Phainon said something stupid and funny. They looked like they belonged together—opposites that clicked perfectly, the kind of pair that made single people feel personally attacked.
'First target,' Stelle thought, a thrill curling low in her stomach. Not because she hadn't noticed them before—she had, plenty—but because this dare had flipped a switch. Six hundred million dollars. A week. No half-measures.
She walked straight up to them, casual as anything, and dropped her bag at their feet with a dramatic thud. "Hey, golden boys," she greeted, tilting her head with a grin that was equal parts playful and predatory. "You two look like you're plotting world domination. Or at least plotting where to get decent coffee."
Phainon laughed first, bright and unguarded, pushing off the wall. "Stelle! We were actually debating pizza toppings. Mydei's being boring and insisting pineapple is a crime." Mydei shot him a sidelong look, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. "It's an abomination. Fight me."
"I'd lose," Phainon admitted cheerfully, then turned back to Stelle. "What's up? You look... determined." She stepped closer, close enough that the faint scent of Mydei's cologne—something warm and smoky—mixed with Phainon's lighter, citrusy one. "I am. Got a proposition for you both."
Mydei's brow arched, interest flickering behind the usual stoic mask. "This should be good."
Stelle let her gaze slide deliberately between them, slow and appreciative. "I've decided life's too short for hypotheticals. And you two? You're the kind of trouble I want to get into. Tonight. My place. No strings, no awkward morning-after unless we want it. Just... fun."
Phainon blinked, then burst out laughing again—but it was a little breathless this time, cheeks flushing. "You're serious."
"Dead serious." She reached out, fingers brushing Phainon's wrist lightly, then trailing up to rest against Mydei's crossed arms, feeling the tension there give just a fraction. "Unless you're scared of little old me."
Mydei studied her for a long beat, then glanced at Phainon. Something unspoken passed between them—years of trust, of knowing exactly what the other was thinking without words. Mydei's voice came out low, rough around the edges. "You're playing with fire, Stelle."
"Good," she murmured, stepping even closer until she was bracketed between them, the heat of their bodies pressing in. "I like getting burned."
Phainon swallowed, eyes darkening. "Our place is closer. And quieter." Stelle's smile turned wicked. "Lead the way."
The walk to their off-campus apartment was charged, full of teasing glances and brushed touches—her hand grazing Mydei's lower back, Phainon bumping shoulders with her on purpose, the three of them laughing at nothing and everything. By the time the door clicked shut behind them, the air felt electric.
Clothes came off in a haphazard trail from the living room to the bedroom. Phainon kissed like he laughed—eager, playful, hands everywhere, tugging Stelle's shirt over her head while murmuring compliments against her skin. Mydei was quieter, more intense; he crowded her against the wall first, mouth hot on her neck, fingers digging into her hips as Phainon pressed up behind her, sandwiching her between them.
They moved to the bed in a tangle of limbs. Stelle ended up on her back, Phainon between her thighs, licking slow stripes that made her arch and curse, while Mydei knelt above her, letting her take him into her mouth with a low groan that vibrated through her. They traded places seamlessly—Mydei sliding into her with careful, deliberate thrusts while Phainon kissed her senseless, hands roaming, whispering filthy praise in her ear.
It built fast, messy and perfect. Stelle came first with Mydei's fingers circling her clit and Phainon's mouth on her chest, the dual sensation shattering her. They followed soon after—Phainon spilling across her stomach with a choked laugh, Mydei pulling out at the last second to finish on her thigh, both of them breathing hard and looking wrecked in the best way.
After, they collapsed in a sweaty heap, limbs overlapping. Phainon pressed lazy kisses to her shoulder. Mydei traced idle patterns on her hip, surprisingly gentle. "So," Stelle said eventually, voice hoarse and satisfied, "that's one down... nine to go."
Phainon propped himself up on an elbow, eyes wide. "Wait. This is part of the dare?" She grinned, unrepentant. "Six hundred million dollars says yes." Mydei huffed a laugh, pulling her closer. "You're insane."
"And you're both coming back for round two," she shot back, already plotting the next move.
Stelle barely had time to catch her breath before Phainon’s mouth found hers again—slow this time, exploratory, like he was memorizing the shape of her lips all over. His tongue slid against hers in lazy strokes while his hand drifted down her stomach, fingers splaying wide over the sticky warmth still drying on her skin from earlier. Mydei watched from his side of the bed, propped on one elbow, eyes dark and hooded, already half-hard again just from the sight of them.
“You’re not done yet, are you?” Phainon murmured against her mouth, voice rough with leftover pleasure and new hunger. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast, then circled the nipple until it peaked under the touch. Stelle arched into it with a soft hiss.
“Not even close,” she answered, reaching out to hook a finger in the waistband of Mydei’s boxers—he’d only bothered pulling them halfway back up—and tugging him closer. “You two started something. Now finish it properly.”
Mydei let out a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest. He moved like liquid, rolling over her in one smooth motion until he was braced above her on his forearms, caging her without crushing. His mouth descended to her throat first—open-mouthed kisses that turned into slow, deliberate bites, just hard enough to leave faint red marks that would fade by morning. Stelle tipped her head back, giving him room, and felt Phainon shift lower.
Phainon settled between her thighs again, but this time he didn’t tease. He spread her open with gentle thumbs, exposing the slick, swollen folds still sensitive from the first round. His exhale ghosted over her clit and she jolted. Then his tongue was there—flat and broad at first, lapping up the mix of their earlier release and her own arousal in long, indulgent strokes. He moaned into her like she was dessert, the vibration making her thighs tremble around his ears.
Mydei claimed her mouth at the same moment, swallowing the sharp little cry she couldn’t hold back. His kiss was deeper, hungrier than Phainon’s—less playful, more possessive. One big hand cupped the back of her neck, thumb stroking along her jaw, while the other slid down to palm her breast, rolling the nipple between calloused fingers until she was squirming.
Phainon sucked her clit between his lips then, gentle suction followed by quick flicks of his tongue, and Stelle’s hips bucked hard. Mydei broke the kiss to watch her face, drinking in every twitch and gasp. “Look at her,” Mydei said quietly, voice gravel-rough. “Already shaking again.”
Phainon hummed agreement against her, the sound sending another shockwave through her core. He slipped two fingers inside her—slow, careful stretch—and curled them upward, searching for that spot that made her see white. When he found it, he pressed, rubbed, kept the rhythm steady while his tongue worked relentless circles over her clit.
Stelle’s hands flew—one fisting the sheets, the other reaching for Mydei’s cock, still slick from her mouth earlier. She wrapped her fingers around him, stroking in time with Phainon’s fingers, and Mydei’s breath hitched. He leaned down, forehead resting against hers for a second, eyes locked on hers.
“You want both of us again?” he asked, low and serious despite the way his hips rocked shallowly into her grip. “Yes,” she breathed. “Want to feel you both. At the same time if you can manage it.”
Phainon pulled back just long enough to grin up at them, lips shiny. “Challenge accepted.”
They rearranged with practiced ease—years of being together had clearly taught them how to move as a unit. Mydei lay back against the headboard, thighs spread, and guided Stelle to straddle him reverse. She sank down onto his cock inch by careful inch, both of them groaning at the stretch. He was thick, heavy inside her, filling her completely, and she had to brace her hands on his knees to keep from collapsing forward when he bottomed out.
Phainon knelt in front of her, between Mydei’s spread legs. He kissed her first—deep, filthy—then reached down to guide himself to where she and Mydei were already joined. He pressed the head of his cock against her entrance, right alongside Mydei’s, and pushed.
The stretch was intense—almost too much. Stelle’s breath caught, eyes fluttering shut as her body fought and then slowly yielded. Phainon went slow, so slow, letting her adjust with every centimeter. Mydei’s hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, holding her steady while he murmured praise against the back of her neck. “That’s it… good girl… take us both…”
When Phainon finally bottomed out beside Mydei, the three of them stilled for a heartbeat, breathing ragged, just feeling it—two cocks buried deep, stretching her to the absolute limit, every tiny shift sending sparks up her spine.
Then they moved. It started uncoordinated—Phainon pulling back while Mydei thrust forward, then switching—and quickly found a brutal, perfect rhythm. One in, one out, over and over, dragging against every sensitive spot inside her at once. Stelle couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, could only moan brokenly and rock between them, chasing more.
Mydei’s hand slid around to her clit, rubbing tight circles while Phainon leaned in to suck marks into the side of her throat. The dual stimulation—full, stretched, rubbed, bitten—snapped something inside her.
She came so hard her vision whited out for a second, inner walls clamping down so tightly that both men groaned in unison. Mydei followed almost immediately, hips snapping up hard as he spilled deep inside her with a guttural curse. Phainon lasted only a few more erratic thrusts before he pulled out, fisting himself twice and painting thick stripes across her lower stomach and Mydei’s abs beneath her.
They collapsed in a sweaty, trembling pile—Stelle sandwiched between them, Mydei still half-hard and softening inside her, Phainon draped over her back, pressing lazy kisses to her shoulder blades.
After long minutes of heavy breathing and gentle touches, Phainon chuckled weakly against her skin. “So… that’s two down?” Stelle managed a hoarse laugh. “Nine to go. And I’m nowhere near finished.”
Mydei’s arm tightened around her waist. “You’re going to kill us before the week’s out.”
“Worth it,” she whispered, already mentally flipping through the rest of the list. “Six hundred million dollars’ worth.” The golden couple exchanged a look over her head—half-exasperated, half-aroused all over again. They were definitely going to need therapy after this and Stelle will need a wheelchair.
-----
Caelus slouched in the back row of Lecture Hall 204, Philosophy 301: Ancient Ethics and Modern Doubt, staring blankly at his open notebook where he'd doodled exactly zero notes and one very panicked stick figure labeled "me, 600 mil poorer." The hangover from last night had downgraded to a dull throb behind his eyes, but the real pain was existential. What the actual hell had he done? A dare. A drunk dare. To his twin sister. Involving their entire friend group. For six hundred million imaginary dollars that he definitely did not have.
He kept replaying Stelle's note in his head like a horror movie loop. 'In a week, she'll succeed.' Succeed at what? Sleeping with eleven people—including March, who was basically their platonic little sister, and Blade, who looked like he ate nails for breakfast? Caelus rubbed his temples. He was going to have to sell a kidney. Multiple kidneys. Or maybe just drop out and live under a bridge.
Professor Aglaea's voice cut through the haze at the front of the room, sharp and melodic like always. She stood at the podium in her signature cream blazer and gold-threaded scarf, gesturing elegantly at the projected slide of some ancient Amphoreus myth about fate and romance. "—and so the Coreflame of Romance binds not just lovers, but destinies. To deny it is to invite chaos."
Beside her—too close, in Caelus's opinion—Professor Anaxagoras, full name, because the man insisted on it like it was a religious mandate, leaned against the whiteboard with his arms crossed, light green ponytail draped over one shoulder, pale aqua eyes narrowed in that perpetual "you're all idiots" expression. He taught the same course but from the opposite angle: skepticism, blasphemy, tearing down sacred trees of wisdom or whatever dramatic crap he spouted.
They were arguing again. Loudly. In the middle of class. "You reduce everything to cold logic, Anaxagoras," Aglaea said, voice rising just enough to carry. "Romance isn't a variable to be disproven—it's the thread that weaves meaning into existence." Anaxagoras scoffed, pushing off the board. "Meaning? Please. It's a chemical imbalance dressed up in poetry. Your precious prophecy is nothing but—"
"Enough with the nihilism!" Aglaea snapped, stepping toward him. "You challenge the very foundation because you're afraid to feel it." The class was dead silent, phones half-raised like they were witnessing a live drama. Caelus felt his stomach twist. This was bad. They were professors. Reputable ones. Mostly. He should step in, say something dumb like "Uh, can we get back to Plato?" before someone recorded this and it went viral on campus TikTok.
He started to stand—half-rising from his seat, mouth opening—when his eyes dropped involuntarily.
Anaxagoras's tailored slacks. Dark gray, fitted just right. And there, unmistakable even from the back row under the harsh fluorescent lights, was the clear, straining outline of an erection pressing against the fabric. Prominent. Unapologetic. Like the argument had somehow turned him on.
Caelus's brain short-circuited. Professor Anaxagoras—arrogant, insufferable, "call me by my full name" Anaxagoras—was rock-hard while yelling at Professor Aglaea about destiny and doubt. In front of thirty undergrads. While Caelus was already spiraling about his sister's sexpocalypse.
The room tilted. His vision tunneled. The stick figure in his notebook seemed to mock him with its wide-eyed panic. Nope. Nope nope nope. Caelus's knees buckled. He hit the floor with a muffled thud, chair scraping loudly as his body went limp, head lolling back against the desk leg. Blackout.
Somewhere above him, Aglaea's voice shifted from heated to alarmed. "—Caelus? Someone check on him!" Anaxagoras muttered something about "dramatic youth these days," but even he sounded faintly concerned. Caelus didn't hear the rest. He was out cold, dreaming fitfully of dollar signs raining down while Stelle laughed and the entire friend group formed a very enthusiastic conga line. The week was going great. Just great.
Caelus came to slowly, the world swimming back into focus under harsh fluorescent lights and the faint antiseptic smell of the campus medical office. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and for one blessed second he thought maybe the whole thing—the dare, the note, the professors arguing with visible boners—had been a fever dream. Then he blinked and saw Stelle.
She was perched on the edge of the narrow exam bed he was lying on, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone like this was just another Tuesday. Her silver hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, and she looked annoyingly put-together for someone who was supposedly embarking on a week-long sex marathon. Next to her—way too close—stood Phainon and Mydei.
Phainon was bright red from his neck to the tips of his ears, fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie like he wanted to disappear into it. Mydei, usually the picture of stoic calm, had his arms crossed so tightly his biceps strained the sleeves of his jacket, jaw clenched, cheeks flushed a deep, unmistakable crimson. Neither of them would meet Caelus’s eyes.
The pieces clicked together with brutal clarity. They’d been here. With her. Already.
Caelus sat up too fast. The room tilted; he gripped the paper-covered mattress to keep from falling sideways. “Easy,” Stelle said without looking up from her screen. “You passed out in the middle of lecture. Dramatic, even for you.”
Caelus’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. No sound came out at first. He just stared—at her calm face, at the way Phainon kept stealing glances at her like she was the sun and he was terrified of getting burned, at Mydei’s rigid posture that screamed *we just did something we can’t take back*.
A single tear slipped down Caelus’s cheek. He didn’t even feel it coming. It just fell, hot and silent, tracing a line over his skin before dripping onto the thin blanket.
Stelle finally looked up. Her expression softened—just a fraction, the way it only ever did for him. “Hey,” she said quietly. “You okay?” He shook his head. No. He was very much not okay. Phainon cleared his throat, voice cracking on the first try. “We, uh… we should probably—”
“Go,” Stelle finished for him, gentle but firm. She reached out and squeezed Phainon’s wrist once, then let her hand drop. “I’ve got him. Thanks for staying.” Mydei gave a short nod, already turning toward the door. “Text us if you need anything.” Phainon hesitated a second longer, eyes flicking between the twins. “We’re… sorry? I mean—not sorry, but—” He winced. “We’ll see you later.”
And then they were gone. The door clicked shut behind them with soft finality, leaving only the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of Caelus’s uneven breathing.
Stelle slid off the bed and sat beside him properly this time, shoulder brushing his. She didn’t say anything for a long minute—just let him sit there with the tear tracks drying on his face. Finally, she spoke, voice low. “You want to yell at me? Call me insane? Tell me to stop before I ruin everything?” Caelus swallowed hard. His throat felt raw. “I just… I didn’t think you’d actually—”
“I know.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “But I said I would. And you said 600 million. That’s not pocket change, even for a joke.” He let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a sob. “I was drunk. I was stupid. I didn’t mean—”
“I know that too.” She reached over and wiped the tear streak off his cheek with her thumb, casual as if she were brushing away lint. “But a deal’s a deal. And honestly? I’m kind of having fun.” Caelus turned to look at her—really look. There was no regret in her eyes. Just that same stubborn spark that had gotten them both into, and out of, every mess since they were kids. “You’re going to give me a heart attack before the week’s out,” he muttered.
“Probably.” She smirked, bumping his shoulder. “But think of it this way: if I pull this off, we split the imaginary fortune. Fifty-fifty. You can buy me a new apartment to make up for the emotional damage.” He stared at her for another beat, then let his head drop forward until his forehead rested against hers. “You’re the worst sister ever.”
“And you love me anyway.” He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Outside the door, muffled footsteps faded down the hallway—Phainon and Mydei leaving together, probably still flushed and awkward and trying to pretend the last twenty-four hours hadn’t just rewritten their entire dynamic.
Caelus closed his eyes. Six days left. He was already exhausted.
--------
Stelle slipped into the lecture hall for Advanced Ethics in AI and Society just as the professor was dimming the lights for the projector.
The tiered room was already half-full, rows of students hunched over laptops or pretending to take notes while scrolling. Her eyes scanned the familiar faces quickly, efficiently.
Boothill, slouched in the back row, cowboy hat tipped low over his eyes, mechanical fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on his desk like he was counting down to a duel. Argenti, a few rows up, posture perfect, red hair catching the low light like polished copper, notebook open to an elaborate sketch of some idealized beauty rather than lecture points.
And Sunday, front and center, as always. Prim white shirt buttoned to the collar, wings of silver hair framing a face carved from marble, pen poised over color-coded notes. The picture of control.
'Three birds, one stone,' she thought, a slow smile curving her lips. But no. Not all at once. Not yet. She needed to play this smart—build the tension, let the mystery do the work. She decided on a game: blinded mystery. No names, no faces at first. Just sensation. A coin flip to choose her opening move. Heads for chaos, tails for precision.
She fished a quarter from her pocket as she walked down the aisle toward Sunday's row. The metal warmed in her palm. She flipped it high—casual, like she was just fidgeting—and watched it arc.
It clattered to the floor right in front of Sunday's desk, rolling a lazy half-circle before stopping near his polished shoe. "Oops," she murmured, loud enough for only him to hear.
She bent at the waist—slow, deliberate, knees straight so the hem of her short plaid skirt rode up just enough to tease the lace edge of her thigh-highs. Her back arched, ass presented like an offering, silver hair spilling forward to curtain her face. She lingered there longer than necessary, fingers brushing the cool tile as she retrieved the coin, giving him—and anyone paying attention—an unobstructed view.
When she straightened, she turned just enough to catch his eye. Sunday hadn't moved. His pen was frozen mid-word. His throat worked in a hard swallow, Adam's apple bobbing visibly. Beneath the desk—where only she had the angle to see—the fabric of his slacks strained unmistakably, the thick outline of his arousal pressing against the seam like it was trying to escape. His face remained stoic, almost painfully so: lips pressed into a thin line, golden eyes fixed on his notebook as if it held the secrets of the universe. But the flush creeping up his neck betrayed him, creeping toward his ears in a slow tide of crimson.
Stelle pocketed the coin with a soft click, leaned in close enough that her breath ghosted his ear. "Careful," she whispered. "Wouldn't want anyone to notice how... invested you are in today's lecture." He inhaled sharply through his nose—controlled, restrained—but his fingers tightened around the pen until the knuckles whitened.
She didn't wait for a reply. Just flashed him a wicked little smile and slid into the empty seat one row behind him, close enough that if she stretched her leg she could brush his calf.
The class dragged. She spent it watching the back of his neck, the way the flush refused to fade, the occasional subtle shift in his seat as he tried and failed to find a comfortable position. Boothill caught her eye once from the back and raised a pierced brow—questioning. Argenti turned halfway through, offering a courtly nod that lingered a beat too long, like he sensed the game afoot.
When the bell finally rang, the room erupted into the usual shuffle of bags and chairs. Stelle was already moving. She stepped into the aisle just as Sunday stood—stiffly, one hand casually, too casually, adjusting the front of his jacket to hide the evidence. Before he could escape into the crowd, she caught his wrist—firm, no room for refusal—and tugged him toward the side exit. "Come with me," she said, voice low velvet. "I have a question about... ethics."
He didn't resist. Of course he didn't. She led him down a quieter corridor—one of the older wings of the building, half-forgotten, lined with locked seminar rooms and faded posters about academic integrity.
The hallway was empty save for the hum of distant vending machines. She didn't stop until they reached a shadowed alcove between two doors, far enough from the main flow that voices echoed only faintly.
She released his hand only to press him back against the wall—gentle but insistent—her body crowding into his space until their chests brushed.
Sunday's breathing was shallow, controlled, but his pupils were blown wide. "You dropped something earlier," she teased, trailing a fingertip down the center of his chest, over buttons, down to the waistband of his slacks where the fabric still tented obscenely. "Or maybe... stood up."
"Stelle," he said—half warning, half plea. His voice cracked on her name. "This is—"
"Reckless?" She tilted her head, lips hovering near his jaw. "Inappropriate? Against every rule you've ever memorized?" Her hand slid lower, palm pressing flat against the hard length of him through his pants. He jerked, hips twitching forward involuntarily into her touch.
She felt him throb under her fingers. "Yet here you are," she murmured, nipping lightly at his earlobe. "Letting me touch you in a hallway where anyone could walk by. Does that make you a hypocrite, Sunday? Or just... honest?"
His head tipped back against the wall with a soft thud. Eyes fluttered shut. A tremor ran through him. "I should stop you," he whispered.
"But you won't." She squeezed—slow, deliberate—and swallowed the choked sound that escaped his throat. "Guess we'll find out how far your principles bend," she said, voice dripping honey and sin. "Or break." His hands finally moved—gripping her hips like he needed an anchor. The corridor stretched quiet around them. And Stelle smiled. One down. Two more waiting in that classroom. The game was just getting started.
Unfornately for him, Stelle didn’t give him time to second-guess.
She surged up on her toes, fingers curling into the crisp collar of his white shirt, and sealed her mouth over his in one smooth, claiming motion. Sunday froze for half a heartbeat—every muscle locked in that perfect, practiced restraint he wore like armor—then shattered.
His lips parted on a sharp inhale and he kissed her back like he’d been starving for it. Not tentative. Not polite. Hungry. His tongue slid against hers immediately, hot and demanding, tasting faintly of mint and the coffee he always drank black during morning seminars. One hand shot to the small of her back, fingers splaying wide to press her flush against him; the other cupped the nape of her neck, thumb stroking along the sensitive skin just below her ear in slow, deliberate circles.
Stelle hummed approval into his mouth, nipping at his lower lip hard enough to draw a low, muffled groan from him. She could feel him—thick and straining—pressing insistently against her lower stomach through the layers of fabric. Every tiny shift of her hips ground them together just enough to make his breath hitch.
The corridor wasn’t truly private. Footsteps echoed faintly from the main hall—students changing classes, professors heading to offices, the occasional burst of laughter or slammed locker door. The alcove they stood in offered only partial cover: a shallow recess between two locked doors, shadowed but not hidden. Anyone walking past with purpose could glance sideways and see them. See Sunday—golden boy, model student, future ethicist—pinned to the wall by Stelle, silver hair tangled in his fingers, skirt rucked up where his thigh had slipped between hers.
That knowledge lit something feral in him. He broke the kiss just long enough to drag his mouth along her jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “We shouldn’t—” he rasped, voice wrecked, contradictory as his hips rolled forward in a slow, helpless grind. “Anyone could—”
“Exactly,” she whispered, voice husky. She reached down, palmed him through his slacks again—firmer this time, stroking the full length of him in one long drag that made his knees buckle slightly. “Anyone could see you like this. All flushed and hard and desperate. Does that scare you, Sunday?” His answer was a choked sound against her throat, followed by the scrape of teeth as he bit down—not hard enough to mark, but enough to sting. “It should,” he muttered. Then, quieter, almost to himself: “It doesn’t.”
Stelle laughed softly, the sound swallowed when he kissed her again—deeper, messier, tongues sliding in a rhythm that matched the slow rock of their hips. His hand slid lower, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her ass, pulling her tighter against his thigh so she could grind down on the firm muscle there. She did—shamelessly—rolling her hips in tight circles that dragged her clit against the seam of his pants through her underwear. Wetness soaked through already; she knew he could feel it.
A door banged open somewhere down the hall. Voices—two girls laughing about weekend plans—drifted closer, then receded. Sunday shuddered violently against her. “Fuck,” he breathed into her mouth, the curse so rare from him it sent a fresh spike of heat through her core. His hips jerked forward, chasing friction, rutting against her palm like he couldn’t stop himself. “They’re—they’re right there.”
“And you’re still kissing me,” she teased, sucking his bottom lip between her teeth before releasing it with a wet pop. “Still grinding into my hand like you want them to hear how wrecked you sound.” He groaned—low, broken—and buried his face against the side of her neck, breathing hard. His tongue traced a slow, wet line up the column of her throat, tasting salt and skin and the faint trace of her perfume. Then he bit again, harder this time, sucking a bruise into the soft skin just above her collarbone where her shirt would barely cover it.
Stelle tipped her head back against the wall, letting him mark her, letting the thrill of exposure coil tighter in her gut. Her free hand fisted in his silver hair, tugging just enough to make him hiss. “You’re leaking,” she murmured, thumb circling the damp spot spreading at the head of his cock through the fabric. “Right through your nice pressed slacks. What would they say if they knew their perfect Sunday was this close to coming in his pants in a hallway?”
“Don’t—” His voice cracked. “Don’t talk like that.”
“Why not?” She squeezed him again, slow and firm. “You love it. I can feel how much harder you get every time footsteps get close.” As if on cue, another set of footsteps—heavier, probably a professor—approached, slowed, then passed without turning.
Sunday’s entire body jerked like he’d been shocked. His mouth crashed back to hers, desperate now, kissing her like he needed to drown out the sound of his own ragged breathing. His hips snapped forward in short, aborted thrusts against her hand; she matched him, stroking faster, letting him fuck into her fist through the cloth. He was trembling—full-body shivers, control fraying at the edges. “Stelle—” Her name came out strangled, almost a plea.
“Come on,” she whispered against his lips. “Let go. Let them hear you fall apart.”
He came with a choked, muffled cry swallowed by her mouth—hips stuttering hard as he spilled into his slacks, hot pulses soaking through the fabric and against her palm. His knees nearly gave; she braced him with her body, holding him upright while he shook through the aftershocks, face buried in her neck, panting like he’d run a marathon.
When he finally stilled, forehead pressed to hers, eyes glazed and pupils blown wide, he looked ruined in the most beautiful way: lips swollen, hair mussed, a dark flush staining his cheekbones, the front of his slacks visibly damp.
Stelle kissed him once more—slow, almost tender this time—then pulled back just enough to meet his dazed gaze. “One down,” she murmured, thumb brushing over the wet spot one last time, making him twitch. “Two more in that classroom. Think you can walk straight, or should I carry you?” Sunday let out a shaky, incredulous laugh—the sound raw and disbelieving.
“You’re going to destroy me,” he whispered. Stelle grinned, wicked and bright. “Promise?”
The corridor was still humming with the faint echo of distant footsteps when a lighter, quicker set approached—almost musical, like someone who walked on tiptoe even in sneakers.
Robin rounded the corner at a half-run, silver hair bouncing in loose waves identical to her brother's, pale blue cardigan slipping off one shoulder. She was clutching some books her chest like a shield, cheeks already pink from the sprint across campus. “Sunday—thank goodness, I’ve been looking everywhere—” Her voice cut off mid-sentence as her eyes landed on the scene in the alcove.
Sunday—still pinned lightly against the wall by Stelle’s body, hair mussed, lips kiss-bruised and swollen, the front of his slacks dark and clinging in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. His shirt was untucked on one side, collar askew, and a fresh hickey bloomed just above it like a brand. He looked like he’d been thoroughly debauched in the span of one ethics lecture break.
Robin froze. Then her hand flew to her mouth. For one long, mortifying second, no one spoke. Sunday’s face went from flushed post-orgasm pink to nuclear scarlet in record time. He tried to straighten—failed spectacularly when his knees wobbled—and ended up gripping Stelle’s waist for balance instead of pushing her away.
Robin’s shoulders started to shake. She didn’t laugh out loud—not at first. She pressed her lips together so hard they disappeared, eyes watering with the effort, but tiny helpless snorts escaped anyway. Her free hand came up to cover her face, fingers splayed so she could still peek through them.
Stelle, completely unruffled, turned her head just enough to meet Robin’s gaze over her shoulder. She raised one brow, slow and deliberate, then winked—sharp, conspiratorial, utterly shameless. Robin lost it.
A bright, musical peal of laughter burst out of her—high and delighted, the kind that made people turn their heads in the hallway. She doubled over slightly, clutching her stomach with the hand not holding the empty backpack strap. “Oh my god,” she wheezed between giggles. “Oh my god, Sunday, your face—”
“Robin,” Sunday managed, voice strangled and several octaves higher than usual. “This is—not—what it—”
“Looks like?” Robin finished for him, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. “Because it looks like you just got absolutely ruined in a public corridor by Stelle. And judging by—” she gestured vaguely toward his lap with one fluttering hand, “—the evidence, I’m going to say it was recent.” Sunday made a sound somewhere between a groan and a dying animal.
Stelle finally stepped back—just enough to give him breathing room, not enough to let him escape. She smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt like she was helping him look presentable, though it did very little for the overall wrecked aesthetic.
Robin straightened, still grinning ear to ear. “Anyway. Sparkle stole my backpack again. She said something about ‘borrowing inspiration for her next performance’ and then vanished. I need backup. Preferably someone tall, responsible, and currently not… occupied.” She flicked her eyes meaningfully between them.
Sunday exhaled through his nose like a bull about to charge. “Fine,” he said tightly. “Let’s go find her.” He pushed off the wall—wobbly but determined—and adjusted his jacket again in a futile attempt to hide the mess. Robin watched the whole performance with undisguised glee.
As they started to move past Stelle, she caught Robin’s elbow lightly, leaning in so only the two of them could hear. “You know,” Stelle murmured, voice dripping with amusement, “you and your brother are both freaky in the best way. One’s a repressed control freak who comes apart in hallways… and the other’s laughing her ass off at the evidence. Birds of a feather.”
Robin’s cheeks went pink, but the grin didn’t fade. If anything, it turned slyer. “Maybe we’re just honest about what we want,” she whispered back. Then, louder, to Sunday: “Come on, big brother. Let’s go rescue my stuff before Sparkle turns it into part of her next glitter bomb routine.”
Sunday shot Stelle one last look—half-exasperated, half-hungry, entirely undone—before turning to follow his sister down the hall. Stelle watched them go, the pair of silver-haired siblings walking side by side: one trying and failing to look dignified, the other practically skipping with mischief.
She licked her lips, tasting Sunday still on them. Two down. The list was getting shorter. And the week was only just beginning.
After that, Stelle slipped into the nearest women's bathroom on the lower floor of the ethics building, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft pneumatic hiss. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a clinical glow over the white tiles and mirrored sinks. She exhaled slowly, the lingering taste of Sunday still on her tongue—mint, coffee, and something faintly metallic like restrained desire.
She leaned over the sink, turning on the faucet and splashing cool water across her face, then her neck where the fresh hickey throbbed warmly beneath her collar. Her reflection stared back: silver hair slightly tousled, lips kiss-swollen and redder than usual, a faint sheen of sweat still clinging to her collarbones. She tugged her shirt straight, smoothed down her skirt where it had ridden up during the hallway grind, and ran fingers through her hair to tame the worst of the bedhead-from-wall action.
'Three down,' she thought, wiping a stray smudge of lip gloss from the corner of her mouth. 'Plenty of time left in the week.'
The door opened behind her with a quiet click. Stelle glanced up in the mirror—and paused.
Castorice stepped in, the faint scent of frost-kissed lilies and something deeper, like old incense, trailing after her. She looked every inch the ethereal daughter of death she'd always been: pale skin that seemed almost luminous under the harsh lights, bright lilac eyes framed by long lashes, pointed ears peeking through lavender hair that fell in thigh-length waves, styled dramatically into the shape of a ribcage before splitting into two long ponytails tied with white bows. Dark purple butterfly clips adorned the strands like midnight jewels, a black crown embedded with lavender gems and delicate flowers sat atop her head, and a purple ribbon fluttered on the left side.
Her outfit was a departure from her usual bone-and-bandage elegance—toned down for campus life but still unmistakably her. Tonight, though, she had clearly dressed for something more: a sleeveless white-and-purple dress that hugged her slender frame, the upper bodice styled with subtle bone-like markings and a light purple ribbon tied at the center of her chest like an invitation. Asymmetrical purple gloves climbed her arms, one short and one long, and butterfly-patterned thigh-high white stockings clung to her legs, secured by a garter belt that peeked teasingly with every step. She looked hot—intentionally, dangerously so—like she'd prepared for an occasion that involved low lights, close proximity, and zero regrets.
Castorice caught Stelle's gaze in the mirror and offered a small, distant smile—the kind that never quite reached her eyes but still carried a quiet warmth. "Stelle," she greeted softly, voice like falling snow. "You look... occupied."
Stelle turned, leaning back against the sink with a grin. "You have no idea. But you—" She let her eyes trail deliberately down Castorice's form, appreciative and unapologetic. "You look like you're heading to a funeral. Or a very exclusive afterparty. Which is it?"
Castorice tilted her head, lavender ponytails swaying. "A study group. Or so I told myself when I chose the outfit." She stepped closer to the adjacent sink, setting a small black clutch down. "But perhaps it's both."
They fell into easy silence for a moment—water dripping, the faint hum of the vent overhead—until Stelle pushed off the sink and moved to stand beside her. "Hey," she said casually, voice dropping. "Random question. You know March 7th has a massive crush on you, right?"
Castorice froze mid-motion, fingers pausing on the edge of her clutch. Her lilac eyes widened fractionally—the closest thing to shock she ever showed. "March...?" she echoed, almost whispering. "She... has never said—"
"Yeah, she's not exactly subtle about hiding it," Stelle continued, smirking. "The way she stares when you talk about soul-lament stuff, the extra selfies she takes when you're around, the way she 'accidentally' bumps into you in the quad. Girl's got it bad. Pink-haired puppy eyes and everything."
Castorice's pale cheeks gained the faintest hint of color—barely there, like frost on glass. She looked down at her hands, gloved fingers flexing once. "I... did not realize. I thought her warmth was simply her nature."
Stelle stepped closer, voice lowering conspiratorially. "It is. But it's aimed at you. So here's the deal: be at my place tonight. Around eight. I might just... engineer a little situation. Get you two in the same room, lower the lights, let nature take its course. March deserves a shot, and honestly? You'd look good together."
Castorice lifted her gaze slowly, searching Stelle's face. "You would... play matchmaker?"
"Among other things." Stelle's grin turned wicked. "Wear something sexy. Sexier than this, if possible. Because while I'm getting those two sorted... I want to get down too. With you. With her. Maybe both, if the vibe's right. No pressure—just an open invitation to the chaos."
For a long beat, Castorice said nothing. Then her lips curved—just a touch, subtle and enigmatic. "I see," she murmured. "A night of... possibilities." Stelle reached out, brushing a stray butterfly clip back into place in Castorice's hair. "Exactly. See you at eight, death's daughter. Don't keep us waiting."
Castorice's eyes flickered with something unreadable—curiosity, perhaps, or the quiet thrill of stepping closer to something forbidden. She nodded once, small and deliberate. Then she turned and left the bathroom, ponytails swaying like pendulums counting down to whatever came next. Stelle watched the door close, then turned back to the mirror. She licked her lips.
'Four down? Or maybe... just getting started.' The night was young, and her apartment was about to get a lot more crowded.
Then Stelle pushed through the bathroom door, the cool air of the hallway hitting her flushed skin like a welcome slap. She was still riding the high from Sunday’s unraveling and the promise she’d just extracted from Castorice—her body buzzing, mind already flipping through the list like pages in a dirty novel. Eight to go. Plenty of daylight left.
She rounded the corner too fast and nearly collided with a solid wall of black leather and quiet menace. Dan Heng.
He stood there like he’d been waiting—arms crossed, jade spear of a gaze fixed on her. Dark hair falling into his eyes, teal jacket zipped halfway, expression flat but suspicious. The kind of look that said he’d already clocked every disheveled detail: the hickey blooming above her collar, the slight muss to her silver hair, the way her lips were still too red and too wet. “Stelle,” he said, voice low and measured. “You look like you’ve been busy.”
She grinned, stepping closer instead of backing off. “You have no idea.” Before he could reply, a shadow moved behind him—silent, deliberate. A gloved hand landed hard between Dan Heng’s shoulder blades. Not a shove. Just enough pressure to make him stiffen. Blade.
Tall, broad, red-tipped black hair falling wild around a face carved from violence and boredom. Crimson eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement. The scar across his throat shifted as he tilted his head. “Leaving without saying hello?” Blade’s voice was gravel dragged over silk. “Thought we were past that, little dragon.”
Dan Heng didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn. His hand twitched toward the small of his back where Stelle knew he kept a concealed knife—old habits from whatever life he refused to talk about. The hallway suddenly felt smaller. Tighter. Like the air itself was holding its breath.
Stelle moved before either of them could escalate. She stepped between them in one fluid motion, shoulder-checking Blade just hard enough to force him back a single step. Her hand shot out, palm flat against Dan Heng’s chest—not to push him away, but to anchor him. To claim the space. “Back off, Blade,” she said, voice bright but edged with steel. “He’s not in the mood for your foreplay today.”
Blade’s lips curled—half-snarl, half-smile. Crimson eyes flicked from her to Dan Heng, then back again, lingering on the fresh mark on her neck like he could smell Sunday on her skin. “Protective,” he drawled. “Cute.”
He raised both hands in mock surrender, stepping back slowly. The amusement didn’t leave his face; if anything, it deepened. “Fine. I’ll play nice.” He gave Dan Heng one last long, unreadable look. “For now.”
Then he turned—long coat flaring like spilled blood—and disappeared around the corner without another word. The tension bled out of the hallway in slow degrees.
Dan Heng exhaled through his nose, shoulders dropping a fraction. He looked down at Stelle’s hand still pressed to his chest, then up at her face. “…Thanks,” he said quietly. The suspicion hadn’t entirely left his eyes, but something softer edged in around it. “You didn’t have to do that.”
She shrugged, letting her hand slide down his sternum before dropping away. “Someone’s gotta keep the murder boyfriends from actually murdering each other in the hallway. Bad for campus morale.”
He huffed—almost a laugh, rare enough to feel like a gift. “Come on,” he said, jerking his head toward the exit. “Let me buy you coffee. You look like you could use it.”
Stelle tilted her head, studying him—the faint flush already creeping up his neck, the way his gaze kept dipping to her mouth before snapping back up like he’d been caught.
She stepped closer. Close enough that he had to tilt his head down to meet her eyes. “I don’t want coffee, Dan Heng.” He blinked. Once. Slowly.
“I want to sleep with you.”
The words landed like a thrown knife—clean, direct, no room for misinterpretation. Dan Heng went still. Completely still. Like someone had hit pause on his entire existence. Then color flooded his face in a violent rush—from the tips of his ears down to the open collar of his jacket. His pupils dilated so fast it was almost comical. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Nothing came out. Stelle waited, patient, wicked smile growing by the second. Finally, he managed a strangled, “You—what?”
“You heard me.” She reached up, fingers brushing the sharp line of his jaw—just a tease of contact. “I want you. Naked. In my bed. Or yours. Or against this wall if we’re feeling impatient. Your call.”
Dan Heng’s throat worked in a hard swallow. His hands flexed at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Stelle,” he said hoarsely. “This isn’t—you’re—”
“Serious?” she finished for him. “Yeah. I am.” She leaned in until her lips were a breath from his ear. “Think about it,” she whispered. “Me. You. No interruptions. No Blade crashing the party. Just us. And I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”
She pulled back just enough to watch his face—redder than she’d ever seen it, eyes wide and glassy, breathing shallow. Then she stepped away completely, giving him space. Giving him the illusion of escape.
“Ball’s in your court, dragon boy,” she said lightly. “Text me when you decide. Or show up at my place tonight. Door’s open.” She turned on her heel and walked away—hips swaying just enough to be deliberate—leaving Dan Heng rooted to the spot, stunned, scarlet, and visibly fighting every instinct screaming at him to follow.
Behind her, she heard the soft, incredulous exhale he let out. She didn’t look back. But she smiled. Six down. The list was shrinking fast. And the night was calling.