Chapter 3: Bitch Boy
The twins’ shared euphoria fizzed through their veins like the palace’s strongest sparkling wine as they padded barefoot down the hallway of the royal quarters. The stone was cool beneath their feet, a sharp contrast to the heat still blooming between their thighs. Their matching gowns, little more than whispered layers of peach silk, did nothing to conceal the hard points of their nipples or the slick residue on their inner thighs.
“He’s going to lose his mind,” Sylvara giggled, her voice a hushed chime.
“He’s always losing his mind,” Lyriana countered, slipping her hand into her sister’s. Their fingers interlocked, damp and familiar. “But this time… for real. He’ll smell it on us.”
They stopped before an ornate door carved with scenes of delicate male elves frolicking in meadows. No guards stood here. The Crown Prince’s privacy was absolute, and his interests were an open secret the court politely ignored. Sylvara pushed the door open without knocking.
The Prince’s suite was a symphony in pastel pink and silver. Plush, oversized pillows in shades of blush and cream were scattered across a circular bed large enough for ten. The air was thicker here, sweet with jasmine and the cloying scent of expensive male perfumes. In the center of the bed, nestled in the silken chaos, lay Prince Evandyr.
He was, as always, a vision of elegant indolence. His long, platinum hair—identical to his sisters’—was fanned across a satin pillow. His features were breathtakingly beautiful, finer and softer than the twins’, with a full, pouty mouth and long lavender eyes currently closed in sleep. He wore a gossamer sleeping robe of ivory, tied loosely at his slender waist, which gaped open to reveal a smooth, hairless chest and the gentle, inviting curve of his hip.
“Wake up, Van,” Lyriana sang, bouncing onto the edge of the bed. The mattress shivered.
Evandyr’s eyes fluttered open. They were a clear, liquid amethyst. He blinked, a slow, feline motion. “Syl? Lyri? It’s the middle of the night.” His voice was a melodic tenor, tinged with sleep and mild annoyance. “I was dreaming of being adorned with moon-pearls.”
“We found something better than pearls,” Sylvara said, crawling onto the bed beside him. She leaned in close, her nose almost touching his neck. “We’re different now.”
The prince yawned, stretching his arms above his head, the robe falling open further. “You’re always different after you’ve been at each other. You taste of each other. It’s… distracting.”
“Not that.” Lyriana moved to his other side, sandwiching him. “We visited the prisoner. The giant from beyond the portal.”
That got his attention. Evandyr’s eyes focused, a spark of intrigued gossip flashing in their depths. “Mother’s new obsession? The barbarian? Is he truly so grotesque?”
The twins exchanged a glance of pure, wicked delight.
“Grotesque?” Sylvara repeated, as if the word were a foreign delicacy. “No. He’s… solid. Like the marble of the southern cliffs, but warm. And he smells.”
“He smells,” Lyriana echoed, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Like storms over the iron mountains. Like the deep earth after a hard rain. Musk, and salt, and something dark. A power smell. Mother dropped to her knees and huffed at his crotch right in the throne room.”
Evandyr’s pouty lips parted in scandalized shock. “She did not.”
“She so did,” Sylvara confirmed, her hand drifting to the loose tie of his robe. “And then we went to the cellar later. We pressed ourselves against the bars. We could almost taste it through the iron.” Her fingers slipped the knot free. The robe fell open completely.
The prince shivered, but didn’t pull away. His own anatomy was as delicate and aesthetically pleasing as the rest of him, a gentle offering nestled in a thatch of fine, silver-blonde hair. “That’s… barbaric,” he breathed, but his breath hitched.
“It’s necessary,” Lyriana murmured, her mouth close to his ear. Her hand trailed down his smooth stomach. “The boys here, Van. Pretty Tristian with his lute. Silent, slender Faelen. Even you. You’re all so sweet. So… light. You taste of nectar and spring rain.”
Her fingertips brushed lower, past the neat, pink furl of his sex, to the tight, clenching pucker behind it. Evandyr gasped, a high, pretty sound. His back arched slightly off the pillows.
“He’s not light,” Sylvara whispered, her own hand joining her sister’s, one palm smoothing over his chest, the other guiding his thigh to bend. “He’s heavy. He’s a threat. A delicious, smothering threat. We’re snow bunnies for it.”
“W-What in the blighted glades is a snow bunny?” Evandyr managed to ask, his hips beginning a tiny, involuntary roll against Lyriana’s circling finger.
“It’s what he calls creatures like us,” Lyriana said, her voice thick with excitement as she pressed a single, slick finger slowly inside him. The prince cried out, his body seizing for a moment before melting open. “Pretty, pale things who crave the dark, thick difference of him. We’re addicted to it, Van. And we need you addicted, too.”
What followed was a cascade of frantic, feral energy. Sylvara captured the prince’s mouth, kissing him deeply, sharing the residual taste of their earlier frenzy and the imagined tang of the cellar. Lyriana worked him open with careful, knowing cruelty, adding a second finger, scissoring gently, drinking in his muffled, euphoric whimpers.
Then they switched, moving around him with the seamless coordination of shared lifetimes. Lyriana kissed him while Sylvara took over, her fingers slick now from her own moisture, pushing into him deeper. They narrated their visit to him between kisses and bites on his slender neck and collarbones.
“His arms are this thick,” Sylvara panted, demonstrating with her hands far apart before returning them to Evandyr’s trembling hips.
“His voice rumbles in your bones,” Lyriana moaned, sucking a bruise onto his pale shoulder.
“He called us crazy,” Sylvara giggled, her own need mounting, grinding her bare core against her brother’s silk-clad calf.
“We are,” Lyriana declared, pulling Sylvara into a wet, open-mouthed kiss over Evandyr’s heaving chest.
They were a tangle of identical platinum and grasping limbs, a three-bodied creature of escalating desire. The prince, overwhelmed and feverishly excited, became their plaything, their canvas. They turned him onto his hands and knees, the ivory robe hanging from his shoulders. Sylvara knelt before him, taking his delicate, pretty length into her mouth, her blue eyes watching her sister. Lyriana mounted him from behind, sinking down onto his fingers with a guttural cry before leaning forward to whisper the filthiest promises into his ear—promises of being filled by the giant, of being split open, of finally feeling full.
The room filled with the sounds of their symphony: slick friction, sharp slaps of flesh on flesh, the prince’s shattered, weeping pleas for more, and the twins’ shared, chanting litany. “Snow bunnies… we’re his snow bunnies… and you’ll be one too… you’ll beg for it…”
Evandyr came first, with a broken sob, his body convulsing between their dual attentions. The twins followed in a shared, shuddering peak, their cries muffled against his skin and each other’s mouths.
They collapsed into the nest of pillows and silks, a spent, glistening heap. The prince lay between them, trembling, his beautiful face streaked with tears and smeared rouge. He looked wrecked and reborn.
Sylvara traced the shell of his ear with a lazy finger. “You understand now?”
Evandyr turned his head, his amethyst eyes wide and profoundly changed. The last vestiges of princely pretension had been fucked clean out of him. He nodded, a slow, dazed movement. “The scent,” he whispered, his voice raw. “You’re right. I can smell it on you. It’s… it’s gross. It’s incredible.” He swallowed. “I want to huff it too.”
Lyriana smiled, nuzzling into his hair. “Soon, brother. Soon we all will. Mother will see to it. The whole kingdom will learn what it means to worship something real.”
In the perfumed dark, the three heirs of the Moonshade line lay tangled, their shared addiction no longer a secret between twins, but a covenant of three. The corruption had found another vector, and it spread sweetly, with every breath and whispered promise.