Chapter 16: The Throne of Flesh
The braid was tightening. Cinder’s heat above him, Emerald’s possessive gaze over her shoulder—it was a perfect, paralyzing vise. He was a conduit for their contest, a living trophy they were polishing against each other. The frustration, a slow burn since the treasure chest, ignited into a clean, white flame.
Enough.
His hands on Cinder’s hips weren’t just holding her; they were gauging her balance. He broke the savage kiss, pulling back to see the brief flicker of triumph in her hazy eyes. She thought his withdrawal was surrender.
It was the opposite.
With a grunt of effort, he shoved Cinder backwards. Not off him, but over, using his own body as a fulcrum. Her amber eyes flew wide in genuine shock, a muffled cry escaping her as she toppled onto the mattress behind him, her back hitting the sheets. The movement was swift, ungainly, brutally effective.
In the same motion, he twisted, grabbing Emerald by her upper arms. She was still kneeling, her expression caught between surprise and delight at Cinder’s unseating. He didn’t throw her off. He yanked her forward, manhandling her over Cinder’s now-sprawled form.
“What the fuck—?” Emerald gasped, but she didn’t fight. She let herself be arranged, a fascinated curiosity overriding instinct.
He pinned Emerald on top of Cinder. Their bodies collided, a jumble of limbs and soft curves. Cinder, beneath, let out a sharp exhale, her hands coming up instinctively to grip Emerald’s shoulders. They were face to face, breast to breast, a mirror image of rivalry forced into intimacy.
Jaune loomed over them both, kneeling between their legs, his own arousal a fierce, unignorable ache. The sight before him stole the air from his lungs.
Cinder was on her back, the last shred of black lace straining across her hips. Emerald lay fully on her, their legs tangled. And pressed between their straining bodies, hidden and revealed in turns by their frantic shifts, was the damp, dark junction he had created.
Cinder’s scorching dark lace was a stark, satin barricade over her mound, already soaked a darker black at its center, plastered to her swollen flesh. Just above it, where Emerald’s body met hers, was the glistening, bare slit of Emerald’s pussy. The neat, green curls were slick, her lower lips puffy and parted, leaving a shiny smear on Cinder’s lace-clad stomach as she ground down instinctively.
It was a dripping sandwich of flesh and fabric, heat and wetness. The mingled scent of them—Cinder’s dark, musky arousal and Emerald’s sharper, sweeter tang—rose in a humid cloud. He could see the precise point where Emerald’s bare, wet folds met the soaked lace guarding Cinder’s. A translucent string of connection stretched and broke as Emerald squirmed.
“You little shit,” Cinder breathed, but there was no venom, only a ragged awe. She was looking up at Emerald, whose face was inches from her own.
“He’s full of surprises,” Emerald purred, her hips making a slow, deliberate roll against Cinder. The movement made her clit, a hard little pearl, rub directly against the sodden lace. Cinder’s back arched off the bed, a raw, shuddering gasp forced from her lips.
Jaune watched, his hand wrapping around his own length, giving himself a rough, punishing stroke. The choice was impossible, maddening. He wanted to tear the lace away with his teeth and bury himself in Cinder’s scorching, tight heat. He wanted to feel the silken, bare grip of Emerald’s cunt, to have her milking him as she laughed.
He could have both. The thought was a lightning strike.
He moved forward on his knees, his body casting a shadow over their joined forms. He placed a hand on the small of Emerald’s back, pressing her down harder against Cinder. A dual moan vibrated through the mattress. With his other hand, he reached down, his fingers bypassing the impossible choice.
He traced the soaked lace of Cinder’s thong, feeling the firm knot of her clit beneath. She jerked, a choked sound in her throat. Then he slid his fingers up, through the slick mess Emerald was making on Cinder’s stomach, and found Emerald’s dripping entrance. He pushed two fingers inside her, easily, to the knuckle. She was molten silk, clenching around him instantly.
“Fuck, yes,” Emerald hissed, dropping her forehead to Cinder’s shoulder.
He worked his fingers in and out of Emerald, a slow, deep rhythm, while his thumb rubbed circles over Cinder’s lace-covered clit. He was playing them both, a brutal, beautiful instrument. Cinder’s hands scrabbled, one tangling in Emerald’s hair, the other clawing at the sheets. Her hips bucked, seeking more pressure through the maddening barrier.
“Rip it,” Cinder growled, her voice shattered. “Fucking rip it off.”
He didn’t. He savored it. The barrier was the whole point. The choice he wasn’t making.
He withdrew his soaked fingers from Emerald and brought them to his mouth, tasting their combined salt and musk. Their eyes, locked on him, burned with a mixture of fury and desperate need.
“Who wants it?” he heard himself ask, his voice rough and strange. It wasn’t his D&D voice. It was something lower, owned by the room.
“Me,” Emerald gasped, pushing herself up on her arms, her back arching like a cat’s.
Cinder said nothing. She just hooked her thumbs into the sides of her lace thong and, with a sharp, angry motion, tore it. The sound of rending fabric was obscenely loud. She shoved the ruined black scrap aside, exposing herself fully—swollen, gleaming, utterly open. Her message was clear: no more barriers. Take what’s yours.
The impossible choice collapsed. The path was bare.
He gripped Emerald’s hips, pulling her up roughly until she was on her hands and knees, straddling Cinder’s thighs. Cinder understood. Her hands flew to Emerald’s ass, spreading her, holding her open. The two women were no longer looking at each other. Both sets of eyes were on him, waiting.
He positioned himself at Emerald’s entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against her slick folds. He pushed, not all the way, just an inch, feeling her hot, tight interior clamp down. Emerald cried out, a sharp, beautiful sound.
Then he pulled back. He shifted his hips lower, aiming down. Cinder guided him, her fingers sure and demanding. The head of his cock slid through her wetness, notching at her entrance. He pushed into Cinder, just that first impossible, burning inch. She threw her head back, a silent scream on her lips, her nails digging into Emerald’s flesh.
Back and forth. An inch into Emerald’s gripping heat. An inch into Cinder’s scorching depths. He teased them both, painting them with the other’s arousal, stretching each only enough to make the emptiness ache. He was claiming them not one after the other, but simultaneously, in cruel, shallow strokes.
“You fucking bastard,” Cinder sobbed, her composure ash.
“Please,” Emerald whimpered, a word he’d never heard from her. “Jaune, please.”
The sound of his name, raw and begging, broke the last of his control. He withdrew fully from both. He grabbed Emerald’s hips again, and this time he drove up into her in one long, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
Her cry shattered into a cascade of gasps. She was impossibly tight, convulsing around him instantly. He fucked her in deep, pounding strokes, the bed slamming against the wall. Beneath them, Cinder watched, her own body undulating, her fingers sliding between her own legs, frantically circling her clit as she witnessed him claim her rival.
He was close too soon, the pressure building in a furious tide. He pulled out of Emerald, her wetness dripping down his shaft. Cinder’s legs rose, hooking around his back, pulling him down to her. He plunged into her, and the difference was staggering—deeper, hotter, a velvet vise that pulled a ragged roar from his throat.
Cinder met every thrust with a sharp, upward snap of her hips. “Mine,” she snarled, her eyes blazing into his, even as her gaze flicked to see Emerald, spent and trembling beside them, watching. “You’re fucking mine.”
He was. In that moment, he was. His rhythm fractured, became frantic, piston-like. The world narrowed to the slap of skin, Cinder’s choked screams, the blinding, white-hot coil in his groin.
He came with a force that felt like violence, erupting inside her, his body bowed and rigid as he emptied himself in hot, pulsing waves. Cinder clenched around him, milking him dry, her own climax a silent, shuddering series of tremors that locked her muscles rigid.
He collapsed forward, catching himself on his arms, his forehead dropping to her sweat-slicked shoulder. The smell of sex and torn lace filled his lungs. His heartbeat was a frantic drum in his ears.
Slowly, other sounds returned. The hum of the apartment. The faint murmur of the TV from the living room. His own ragged breath.
He pulled out, rolling onto his back beside them, staring at the ceiling’s water stain shaped like a distant continent. The space between his ribs felt hollowed out, scraped clean.
To his left, Cinder lay still, one arm flung over her eyes. To his right, Emerald shifted, curling onto her side facing him. Her fingers, delicate and surprisingly cool, traced the line of his jaw.
“Well,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “That was a hell of a turn.”
He didn’t answer. The aftermath was a silence thicker than the frenzy. The game outside the door was still happening. His game, the one he was building for Blake, was waiting. And he was here, in a sticky tangle of consequences, feeling more like a looted chest than ever.
Cinder finally moved, sitting up. She didn’t look at either of them. She stood, a queen reclaiming her posture from the wreckage, and walked naked to the bathroom. The lock clicked.
Jaune looked at Emerald. She smiled, a ghost of its former sharpness, and placed a soft kiss on his shoulder. “See you Friday, dungeon master.”
The words were a lifeline thrown back to a simpler world. Friday. His world. His rules. His story.
He clung to it as the shower started to run, the sound a promise of a temporary, imperfect cleanse.
He clung to it as the shower started to run, the sound a promise of a temporary, imperfect cleanse. Emerald’s fingers were still tracing his jaw, a lazy, proprietary touch. Her breath was warm against his shoulder.
“She’s going to use all the hot water,” Emerald murmured, her lips brushing his skin.
Jaune turned his head. Her red eyes were close, the amusement in them softer now, satiated. He moved without overthinking it. He leaned in and kissed her.
It wasn't like the three-way clash of teeth and tongues from before. This was slower, deeper, a conscious exploration. He tasted the remnants of her own flavor mixed with his, a blunt intimacy that made his spent body stir. Her tongue met his with a languid curl, a sigh passing from her mouth into his.
His hand, which had been lying limp on the damp sheet, slid down the dip of her spine. He cupped the perfect, cool curve of her ass, kneading the firm muscle there. A vivid memory flashed: his hand on that same ass while she was pressed against Cinder, the slick heat just inches away. He groaned into the kiss, his grip tightening.
Emerald broke the kiss with a wet, soft sound. “Down, boy,” she whispered, but she was smiling. “You’ve got a queue.” She nodded toward the bathroom door.
The shower was still running. A command. An invitation.
He slid off the bed, his legs unsteady. The cool air hit the drying sweat on his skin. Emerald watched him, curled on her side like a contented panther, one arm tucked under her head. “Tell her I’m not doing her laundry,” she said, her eyes already drifting shut.
Jaune pushed the bathroom door open. Steam billowed out, thick and carrying the sharp, clean scent of Neptune’s generic body wash. Cinder stood under the spray, her back to him, head bowed so the water sluiced down her dark hair and over the tight cords of her shoulders. The glass door was fogged, her form a blurred sculpture of angles and shadow.
She didn’t turn as he slid the door open and stepped in. The water was scalding, just shy of painful, exactly how she liked it. He moved behind her, the spray hitting his chest. His hands settled on her hips, his erection, renewed and insistent, pressing against the cleft of her ass.
Cinder leaned back into him, a single, deliberate motion that aligned their bodies. “Took you long enough,” she said, her voice flat, stripped of its usual calculated edge by the water’s roar.
He said nothing. He turned her, water flying. Her face was flushed from the heat, droplets clinging to her lashes. She looked raw, real in a way she never did with clothes on. He pushed her back against the cool tile, his mouth finding hers. This kiss was different too. It wasn’t a battle. It was a confirmation.
Her hands slid down his back, over his ass, pulling him hard against her. The slick heat of her stomach met his rigid cock. She broke the kiss, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts that fogged the air between them. “Now,” she said, the word not a request but a decree.
He lifted her, his hands under her thighs, and she wrapped her legs around his waist with practiced ease. There was no fumbling, no search. She guided him, her hand a firm, wet clasp around his shaft, and positioned him at her entrance. He pushed up, and she sank down, a seamless, gasping union in the steam.
The water poured over them, diluting nothing. The feel of her was even more intense here—slick skin, tight, clutching inner muscles, the shocking heat of her core eclipsing the shower’s temperature. He braced her against the wall and fucked her in a steady, deep rhythm, the slap of wet skin echoing off the tiles.
Her head fell back against the wall with a soft thud. Her eyes were open, watching him, drinking in every shift of his expression. Her hips rolled, meeting each thrust, taking him deeper. “God, yes,” she hissed, her nails scoring his shoulders. “Right there. Don’t stop.”
He drove into her, the pace intensifying, his control fraying at the edges with every choked sound she made. This wasn’t about dominance or territory anymore. This was something simpler, more devastating: pure, unadorned friction, a desperate attempt to fuse.
“I love your cock,” Cinder gasped, her voice ragged, stripped of all pretense. The words hit him like a physical blow, halting his rhythm for a stunned second. She clenched around him, milking the stillness. “It’s bigger than Neptune’s. It hits me in places I didn’t think possible.”
The comparison was crude, obscene, and it flooded him with a dark, triumphant warmth. It wasn’t just about size. It was about her acknowledging a preference, a rupture in whatever unspoken arrangement she had with the guy in the next room. It was about him. Jaune.
His confidence, a guttering candle after the treasure-chest ambush and the chaotic tangle on the bed, flared white-hot. It wasn't the fragile ego of a boy scoring. It was the solid, grounded knowledge of a man giving a powerful woman something she genuinely, physically craved.
He resumed moving, his thrusts becoming more assured, more purposeful. He angled his hips, chasing the spot that made her eyes roll back, using the knowledge her words had given him as a map. “You want it deeper?” he growled, the question a challenge.
“Yes,” she begged, a broken sound. “Fucking ruin me.”
He obliged, slamming into her with a force that shook the shower wall. Her cries were swallowed by the steam, sharp, keening things that spurred him on. The climax built not as a surprise, but as an inevitable summit he now knew how to climb. He felt her shatter first, her inner muscles clamping around him in a series of violent, fluttering spasms that ripped a scream from her throat.
It pulled him over the edge. He came with a shout, driving up into her as deep as he could go, painting her insides with hot, claiming pulses that seemed to go on forever. His legs trembled, but he held her there, pinned between his body and the wall, until the last tremor passed.
They slid down the wall together, a heap of slick limbs under the cooling spray. She lay against his chest, her breathing a rapid flutter against his neck. The water beat down on them, washing away the evidence, accomplishing nothing.
He felt the change in himself, a tectonic shift. The boy who had flinched at the sight of lace in a treasure chest was gone. In this steam-choked box, he had been measured and found superior. The knowledge was a weapon, a shield, a new and terrible spell for his arsenal.
Cinder finally stirred. She turned off the water with a decisive click. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by their ragged breaths and the drip from the showerhead. She stood, water streaming from her body, and looked down at him. Her gaze was unreadable again, the vulnerability steam-cleaned away.
But she offered him a hand up.
He took it.
He took it. Her grip was firm, pulling him up with a strength that belied her slender frame. They stood dripping on the bathmat, the steam beginning to clear, revealing each other in the harsh, watery light.
A towel was shoved into his chest. Cinder wrapped another around herself, tucking it tight under her arms. She picked up her torn lace thong from the floor, examined the ruined fabric for a second, then dropped it into Neptune’s small trash can with a final plink. The gesture was like discarding a used cartridge.
“So,” she said, her voice back to its normal, cooled-metal tone. She ran a comb through her wet hair. “Tuesday was interesting.”
Jaune rubbed the towel over his head, hiding his face. The adrenaline was fading, leaving a buzzing clarity. The map of his Friday night campaign, the world he controlled, floated behind his eyes. He saw Blake’s face, her amused, disinterested smirk from months ago. He saw the treasure chest.
“My campaign is Friday,” he said, the words leaving his mouth before he fully processed the thought. He lowered the towel. “The one I run. It’s a custom world. High stakes, political intrigue, moral ambiguity. Better than pirate clichés.”
Cinder watched him in the mirror, her comb pausing. “I’m aware. Neptune whines about how much prep you do.”
“You should come.” He leaned against the sink, meeting her reflected gaze. “Both of you. Be players in my game. I think you’d appreciate the complexity.”
Her amber eyes narrowed, just a fraction. She understood there was more. She always did. “A generous offer, Dungeon Master. What’s the catch? No more communal treasure chests?”
“No catches.” He shrugged, a fluid movement he didn’t feel. “I just want good players. People who commit. Who understand consequences.” He paused, then let the true bait dangle. “Blake Belladonna plays. She’s a regular. One of my best, actually.”
A slow, beautiful smile spread across Cinder’s lips. It wasn’t the sharp, predatory grin from the game table. This was deeper, more venomous, brimming with understanding. She turned to face him, the towel gaping slightly at her chest.
“Ah,” she breathed. The syllable was rich with delight. “I see. You want to show her something. You want to parade your new pets.”
“I want to see her react,” he corrected, his voice flat. “I want her to see what she didn’t want.”
Cinder laughed, a soft, genuine sound. “Petty. I love it.” She stepped closer, her damp hand resting on his bare stomach. “And what do we get out of this little performance?”
“A better game,” he said simply. “And the satisfaction of watching a hypocrite squirm.”
She studied him, her thumb tracing the line of his hip bone. The calculation was visible behind her eyes, weighing the amusement value against the effort. She glanced past him, through the cracked door, to where Emerald was likely asleep in the rumpled bed.
“Emerald will adore it,” Cinder finally said, decision made. “She loves chaos. And I’ve always wanted to see this famous ‘Blake’ up close.” She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “We’re in. Text us the details. But Jaune?”
He waited.
“If your game is boring,” she whispered, “we’ll provide our own entertainment. Right at your table.”
She left then, sweeping out into the bedroom with the towel still clasped like a robe. Jaune stood alone, listening to the drip of the tap. The plan was in motion. A new kind of heat spread through him, not lust, but anticipation.
He walked out. Emerald was awake, sitting cross-legged on the bed wearing only his discarded shirt. She was scrolling through her phone, the pale light illuminating her sly smile. Cinder stood at the foot of the bed, already pulling her own clothes back on.
“So,” Emerald said without looking up. “We’re crashing Jaune’s sacred Friday night ritual. To make an ex jealous.”
“You heard,” Jaune said.
“Walls are thin.” She finally glanced at him, her eyes gleaming. “And Blake’s the bookish one, right? The one who thought your world-building was ‘cute’ before she lost interest?”
The old sting, perfectly recalled. He nodded.
Emerald’s smile widened into something truly wicked. “Perfect. I’ll bring my best psychotic rogue energy. Does she like having her moral high ground undermined?” She tossed his shirt at him. “What’s the system? Anything goes?”
“Within the rules,” Jaune said, catching the shirt. “But the rules encourage ruthless creativity.”
“Even better.” She slid off the bed, stretching, a vivid display of lithe muscle and dark skin. “We’ll be there. Eight sharp.” She sauntered up to him, pressed a quick, biting kiss to his mouth, then followed Cinder out of the bedroom.
Their murmured voices faded down the hall. A moment later, the apartment’s front door clicked shut.
Silence, thick and heavy, settled over Neptune’s room. The only evidence was the destroyed bed, the damp bathroom, the shredded black lace in the trash. Jaune dressed slowly. His mind was already elsewhere, scrolling through his notes, his NPCs, the careful narrative threads he’d woven for Blake’s character to follow.
He would have to adjust everything. Introducing two new variables, two agents of pure chaos, into a calibrated ecosystem. It would ruin his careful plots. It would be magnificent.
He found Neptune and Penny on the living room couch, bathed in the blue glow of a late-night infomercial. Penny was asleep, her head in Neptune’s lap. Neptune gave him a tired, knowing smirk.
“All good?” Neptune asked, his voice low.
“Yeah,” Jaune said, grabbing his jacket. “I’m going to head out.”
“See you next Tuesday.” Neptune’s smirk turned into a genuine grin.
Jaune stepped out into the cool night air. The city hummed around him, a distant, mechanical heartbeat. He pulled out his phone, his fingers hovering over the screen. He navigated to his campaign document, to the roster.
Player: Blake Belladonna. Character: Lyra, the brooding moon elf ranger. Loyalty: Questionable.
His thumb moved, typing two new lines.
Player: Cinder Fall. Character: TBD. Loyalty: Hostile.
Player: Emerald Sustrai. Character: TBD. Loyalty: Chaotic.
He saved the document. The plan was no longer just in motion. It was saved, committed, irreversible. Friday was coming. Blake would be there, in his world, at his table.
And he would finally see her smirk break.