Ebony Castle

Doha instinctively lifted his head when the fur-clad woman walking a few steps ahead of him suddenly veered to the side. It wasn’t just her; several others were also stepping off the path as if avoiding something, taking a wide detour toward the plaza.

“…Ah…”

The crowd shifted to one side. In the shuffle of people changing direction, Doha’s shoulder collided hard with someone else’s. A white man, who immediately spat out a curse, turned around and glared at Doha, not even giving him a chance to apologize.

“Dammit…”

“Fucking Asian.” He muttered the last part, barely audible, as he brushed off his shoulder. As Doha stared at him in disbelief, the scene that everyone else had avoided came into full view right in front of him. Doha took a hesitant step back.

It was a protest. In the space usually occupied by buskers near the railing, two women and a man sat with bright red bands around their necks. Despite the biting winter weather, their loose cotton clothing left their faces and forearms exposed, turning red and chapped from the cold.

A white sign with large red letters. While Doha stood frozen in place, one of the men leaned forward, reaching out a pamphlet toward Doha. The man’s hand, which grasped Doha’s arm as if to hand him the pamphlet, felt damp and lukewarm, as though sweaty.

“Just once…”

“Uh, okay.”

Doha instinctively brushed off the man’s arm and took the pamphlet, stepping backward.

As he got swept along with the passing crowd for a few more meters, the protesters were no longer in sight. People who had also received pamphlets like Doha discarded them in a nearby trash can as they walked away. The trash can was overflowing with crumpled pamphlets, littering the ground around it. Doha walked a few more steps before slumping onto a bench. Trying to calm his pounding heart, he glanced down at the glossy paper.

“Has Britain forgotten the sanctity of marriage?”

“Stop the Neim Law Revisions”

Unlike the emotionally charged headlines, the rest of the text was dense and political, as if written by someone else. It seemed that the divorce court had recently acknowledged the “manifestation of Neim with someone other than a spouse” as a legitimate reason for divorce. “The ruling that the sexual activity with the Neim individual after the Neim manifestation is not just a matter of living, but directly tied to survival, and therefore cannot be considered adultery, reflects a trend to treat Neim as an extralegal phenomenon, undermining the traditional value of the marriage vow…”

Doha stopped reading, folding the flyer and shoving it into his pocket. An inexplicable sense of frustration welled up inside him, as though something was pressing against his lungs.

The brown, muddy waters of the Thames churned murkily. The people crossing the Millennium Bridge were clad in winter’s typical drab colors. As he walked, his eyes were drawn to the cracked asphalt, dried gum, and cigarette butts. Had this street always been this dirty and desolate?

It had already been seven years since he arrived in London at twenty years old. He’d lived in the city continuously since becoming an adult. He thought he was no longer a stranger here, but today, everything that met his eyes felt stark and unfamiliar. The franchise stores dressed in the shells of old buildings, the view of the riverbank shrouded in fog—all of it seemed odd.

Perhaps it was the space of the city itself that felt strange. After years of huddling in his small flat, stepping out into the streets made it feel like everywhere he turned, he saw people whose faces and names he didn’t know. Their individual circumstances, desires, malice, prejudices, and indifference were all laid bare. His mind, weakened and exposed like skin rubbed raw with sandpaper, felt scraped and bleeding.

Doha suddenly felt an impulse to return somewhere, anywhere. What was suffocating him was a homesickness without a clear destination. He just wanted to escape the city before him, but he couldn’t even remember what the landscapes of Korea looked like anymore.

***

Doha received a call from Jean while riding in Peter’s old car on the way from Inverness Airport to the village.

“Eden! You’re on your way, right?”

The chef’s deep voice was familiar and welcoming. Judging by the gusts of wind roaring through the speaker, he was probably outside.

“…What?”

“Yeah?”

“Until you arrive!”

“It’ll be about… thirty minutes to the village, I think.”

“Ah, great! You’ll get here just in time.”

There was a loud crash, like a tree falling over. Jean shouted into the receiver to be heard over the wind.

“Feels like I picked the wrong day, but we’re cooking over an open fire! By the time you arrive, dinner should be ready. I’ll send Hazel down to meet you in the village.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“See you soon!”

Doha lowered the phone from his ear. The same strong wind that had been blowing through the receiver seemed to rattle the car, as if it might sweep it away. Unlike London, which had been relatively clear, Scotland was bleak and barren, as if torn by the harsh winter winds. Through the window, a desolate wilderness stretched endlessly along the narrow road.

When they arrived in the village, Hazel was waiting in Jean’s truck. Even in the short time it took to transfer from Peter’s car to the truck, the winter wind was strong enough to tangle Doha’s hair. Hazel greeted him briefly before focusing on driving, clearly intent on keeping the truck steady against the wind.

As they passed through the gate and entered the forest, it became much quieter, the trees shielding them from the wind.

“Looks like a storm is coming,” Hazel remarked. Doha, who had been looking out the window, turned his head.

“Do you think we’ll be able to eat outside in this weather?”

“Probably not. Even if the cooking is done outside, we’ll have to eat inside. It’s too cold out here.”

True to her words, when they arrived at the estate, Jean was coming in through the garden gate carrying a large tray. He gave Doha a hearty nod, as though greeting someone he had just seen the day before.

“Had a good trip? You must be hungry.”

His nose and ears were red, and cold air clung to the thick jacket he was wearing. He must have been cooking outside for a while.

“Everything’s ready, so let’s head up to the dining room. Ah, are you curious about the open fire? Would you like to see it?”

“…Yeah, sure.”

“Let me just take this up, and I’ll show you. Locke and Scott are already in the dining room.”

“…”

At the mention of Tristan’s name, Doha felt something drop in his stomach.

Even after returning to London, his body had ached all over for days. Tristan wasn’t there in his cramped, damp flat, and for the first time, Doha had felt relieved by that fact. The last few days had been so consumed with practice that he hadn’t had time to think about him, but now, facing the thought of seeing him again, a wave of fear and discomfort churned inside him.

“Come on, let’s go.”

Jean said with a burst of energy as he descended the stairs. He led Doha outside to the garden, where a large bonfire had been set up on the soil beside the vegetable patch. It looked like a full-blown campfire scene from a movie, with a metal grill placed over it. Even standing near it made the heat wash over Doha’s face. A whole chicken was skewered on a long spit over the crackling flames.

“See, when you turn this, the chicken rotates.”

“…Oh.”

“When you grill like this, just adding salt and herbs gives it a deep flavor. Even the areas away from the direct flame are over 300 degrees.”

Jean lifted a long skewer and poked one of the chickens. Fat sizzled on the crispy skin and dripped onto the fire below.

“It’s done.”

Satisfied, Jean used thick gloves to remove the skewers and transferred the chickens one by one onto plates. Doha grabbed a small tray Jean handed him, and together they headed back inside. In the mirror of the entrance hall, Doha saw that his cheeks had turned red from the cold.

“Well, sorry to keep you waiting.”

Jean pushed open the half-closed door to the dining room with his shoulder, balancing the tray.

“Eden, sit over there. …Eden?”

Doha stopped at the threshold. From the head of the long table, Tristan’s profile came into view. The glow from the fireplace bathed his pale cheeks in a warm amber light.

Hearing the sound of footsteps, Tristan, who had been talking to the secretary, turned his head. His straight, high nose, and long eyelashes caught the firelight. For a brief moment, it seemed like time had stopped, and Doha felt as if everything was glowing. Tristan slowly curved his lips into a smile when he saw Doha.

“…”

It wasn’t the kind of smile one gives a guest, nor was it the expression one gives an unwelcome visitor. There was a subtle, brooding heat simmering in Tristan’s dark eyes—something no one else could see.

Doha instinctively wanted to take a step back. His stomach clenched tightly, and he couldn’t meet Tristan’s gaze.

“Eden?”

Jean nudged Doha on the shoulder.

“Careful, you’ll drop it.”

“…Oh.”

Doha steadied the tray that had tilted forward. He felt Tristan’s gaze follow him as he approached the table, unable to lift his head the entire time.

“You’re using your hands perfectly now.”

As Tristan mentioned, Doha’s fingers were securely supporting both sides of the tray. Doha responded a beat later.

“Thank you.”

Even with a slight lift of his gaze, Doha felt as if his eyes would meet Tristan’s. There were four places set at the table, including one for Jean. Although it was likely an invitation for Doha to sit in his usual spot, he circled the table, taking a seat as far away from Tristan and closer to Jean.

Beyond Doha’s bowed head, the conversation between Tristan and the secretary resumed where it had left off, discussing fourth-quarter forecasts and results. Throughout the complex conversation, Tristan’s voice remained low and gentle.

After serving Tristan, Jean, with his soot-smeared face, plated some chicken, corn, and various vegetables for Doha.

“It would’ve been nice if Hazel could join us, but she already ate. … How is it? Good, right?”

Watching Doha eat, Jean asked. After swallowing, Doha answered.

“Yes, it’s delicious.”

“I’ve been doing this occasionally because I feel we need to before the weather gets colder. It’s a bit of work, but cooking over such a strong flame really brings out the natural flavors of the ingredients. It’s hard to do this in the middle of London, but it’s possible in a place like this. It’s one of the reasons I agreed to work at this estate in the first place.”

As Jean spoke, it seemed like Tristan and the secretary had finished their conversation. Silence settled, broken only by the sound of cutlery and the crackling of the small fire.

Doha’s right cheek stung. He couldn’t turn his head, sensing Tristan’s gaze on him again.

The food was among the best he’d ever tasted, yet he couldn’t fully focus. As he lifted his head to add more sauce, his peripheral vision caught sight of Tristan’s hand, holding the thin stem of a wine glass. The pale, elegant fingers had soft, pink nails.

“…”

Doha took a sip of water. Jean watched him with satisfaction, seeing Doha properly using a fork and knife.

“Eden, you’re eating more than before, aren’t you?” Jean asked, noticing Doha’s almost empty plate.

“You’ve gained a bit of weight too, haven’t you? You used to be so thin. You look much better now.”

“…Really? I don’t own a scale, so I’m not sure.”

“What do you usually eat in London? You said you live alone, right?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not eating those instant noodles, are you?”

Doha, now in an awkward position, delayed his response by slowly chewing and swallowing a corn kernel. Lately, he’d been eating more regularly due to frequent hunger, but his best effort was reheating franchise sandwiches or soups from the freezer. Occasionally, he’d resort to eating cup noodles like the ones Jean disapproved of. The cost of flights to and from Scotland two to three times a month was high, and his bank balance was quickly dwindling.

Had he been responsible for paying Daniel’s medical bills directly, he would’ve gone bankrupt long ago. The growing debt he owed to Tristan weighed heavily on his shoulders.

“Eden! You can’t do that. You need to eat properly.”

Jean scolded him with disapproval.

“Now that your hand is better, wouldn’t it be better to cook at home? There’s a limit to eating out. I can teach you a few simple recipes while you’re here.”

“Ah…”

Jean’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, but Doha trailed off. Somehow, what seemed like a simple recipe to Jean felt overwhelmingly complex to Doha.

At that moment, a soft voice from the head of the table interrupted the conversation.

“A pianist shouldn’t be using knives.”

Doha instinctively looked up and met Tristan Locke’s eyes.

“…”

Tristan, having finished his meal, was resting his chin in his hand, quietly listening to the ongoing conversation. His languid, pale face was directly facing Doha, with eyes that held a burning intensity, unhidden by their lowered lids.

The stately dining room, where everyone had gathered to eat, seemed to fade into the distance. Doha’s mouth went dry as he felt that Tristan could pull him across the table and climb on top of him at any moment. His wrist stung as if it were caught in a firm grip. His heart raced, and a tight knot twisted painfully in his stomach.

“Eden.”

Tristan called Doha, as if the secretary and Jean weren’t even present. His voice was low and slightly raspy at the edges.

“Did you enjoy your ten days in London?”

“…Yes.”

The room felt hot. Perhaps it was from the food cooked over the roaring fire. Doha clutched his napkin with his sweaty fingers.

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

Tristan’s cool eyes faintly curved into a smile.

“Did you have enough to eat?”

“…Yes.”

“It would be wise to eat as much as you can now.”

Doha noticed the secretary’s hand tremble slightly, causing the fork to clatter. He bit the inside of his burning lips, his mind swirling so much that he couldn’t think of what to say.

After silently watching Doha for a moment, Tristan pushed back his chair. The secretary immediately stopped eating and stood up as well.

“See you tonight then.”

Tristan said indifferently as he turned his gaze away. A small piece of wood collapsed in the fireplace, sending a flare of embers up the chimney. Like dusk falling over the wilderness, the flickering firelight cast shadows over his pale face.

***

The earlier intensity at dinner seemed as if it might pull Doha in, but perhaps it was just a fleeting whim. As Doha climbed to the third floor just before nine, the man leaning against the headboard of the bed, reading, glanced up.

“You’re early.”

His face appeared calm. He closed the book he’d been reading and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Doha alone in his bedroom. The faint sound of running water could be heard.

Doha briefly imagined the man’s firm, water-slicked body, but stopped himself and moved toward the fireplace. He sat down in the chair in front of it. He tossed a small twig into the flickering blue flames and watched it slowly catch fire, licking at it.

According to Daniel, the numbness in his hand had completely gone. All that remained was strengthening his weakened muscles through rehabilitation and focusing on movements necessary for playing the piano. After that… Doha slowly flexed his hand, gripping and releasing the armrest. His movements felt clumsy, as though he were wearing a thin glove.

The twig in the fire wilted like a spent candlewick. When he blinked, the flickering blue afterimage of the fire lingered behind his eyelids.

“…”

Back in college, Doha had been considered rather level-headed for a music major. He wasn’t prone to mood swings on stage, and unlike some of his peers, he never disappeared for days in sudden bouts of melancholy or exploded with emotions.

The panic and depression that had been hitting him like a downward spiral recently felt unfamiliar. The tension that had pulled at his stomach had now sunk heavily below his navel.

The sound of water stopped. Doha didn’t turn when the bathroom door opened.

The shadows cast by the lamp beside the bed and the fire flickered across the ceiling in multiple strands. The quiet footsteps behind him came to a stop. A light hand rested on his shoulder.

Cool, long fingers still damp from the water. With a slight pressure like a gentle warning, Doha obediently turned his head.

The man stood before him, gazing down. His robe was loosely draped over him, and his hair, still damp, framed his sharp eyes.

“Were you sitting here because you were cold?”

Doha shook his head. As he tried to stand, the man lightly pressed him down, signaling him to stay seated, then circled to the front of the chair.

Doha quietly watched as the man added small pieces of wood to the fire. With skillful movements, the fire that had been nearly snuffed out began to revive. The once-dwindling flame leaped up, consuming the wood.

“Greedy, isn’t it?”

The man remarked quietly, watching the same scene as Doha.

“To stay alive, it constantly has to consume something.”

“…”

“If it were content with simply maintaining a small flame, it could last much longer. But it’s never satisfied and always grows larger, as if it can’t wait.”

As he said, the fire in the hearth now blazed more vigorously, crackling loudly. The flickering golden light danced across his face. In his cold eyes, the flames reflected in small, sharp shapes.

Without a word, he looked down at Doha, reaching out to brush the robe on Doha’s shoulder. His hand, which had been slipping into the deep V-neckline, moved up to gently grip Doha’s neck.

Doha sat still, holding his breath as Tristan lightly tightened his grip around his throat. The pulse under Tristan’s palm raced. Slowly, Tristan removed his hand, his gaze darkening.

He traced Doha’s throat with his thumb before leaning in close, the subtle scent of expensive shampoo wafting over.

“…Hng.”

Doha flinched, but Tristan’s lips lingered softly on the spot where his fingers had just been. Doha swallowed silently, his skin tingling where his lips touched, and the damp strands of Tristan’s hair tickled his jaw.

Tristan lowered his hand, undoing the tie around Doha’s waist, planting slow kisses along the neck he had been choking just moments before. His lips trailed down to the racing pulse, gently scraping his teeth over it before soothing the area with his heated mouth. Unconsciously, Doha’s eyes fluttered shut at the heat blooming deep in his stomach. Tristan’s hand slipped beneath the now-loose robe.

“Why even bother wearing underwear?” Tristan’s voice was low as he pressed his lips into the hollow of Doha’s neck.

“You can’t even see it under the robe.”

“I can’t just… not wear any,” Doha replied, breathless.

Tristan smirked against his chest, his lips lowering. “I don’t wear any.”

His hand guided Doha’s wrist into the robe, pressing it against the firm muscle of his thigh, until Doha’s fingers brushed against the bare skin. Doha stiffened in shock, his hand instinctively trying to pull away, but instead, his fingers brushed against Tristan’s arousal. He began to harden in response.

“Mm.”

Tristan exhaled a soft groan, his nose grazing Doha’s chest, sending a tremor through him.

Tristan pulled back slightly, gazing at Doha’s bare chest before sighing. His large hand lazily brushed over one of Doha’s pecs, fingers catching repeatedly on the small nipple before pinching it firmly.

“Hngh…”

Doha squirmed, attempting to withdraw his hand from between Tristan’s legs, but Tristan grabbed his wrist, firmly returning it to its place. His soft fingers brushed against the base of Tristan’s stiffened length.

“Touch me.”

His voice was rougher now, but Doha was at a loss for words, his fingers awkwardly stroking between Tristan’s thighs. All the while, Tristan pinched his nipples again and again, teeth biting down harshly on the sensitive peaks.

“Hngh!”

Doha reflexively pushed him away, but Tristan eased back without resistance, soothing the reddened, sensitive skin with his fingers. The strange sensation twisted inside Doha’s stomach, and he bit the inside of his cheek.

“…Let’s move to the bed.”

He panted between ragged breaths, his body slipping down the smooth cushion of the antique chair beneath him. The ornate armrests didn’t seem particularly sturdy either.

Supporting Doha’s waist, Tristan chuckled, amused.

“By yourself? I’m staying right here.”

“It’s dangerous near the fire, and… Ah!”

In one swift motion, Tristan lifted the chair Doha was sitting on and placed it facing away from the fire, into a safer position.

“Better?”

“…But still.”

Doha exhaled sharply, irritated by how calm Tristan seemed. He took a deep breath.

“This isn’t normal, doing this on a chair instead of a bed…”

Tristan’s eyebrows raised briefly before a sly grin spread across his face.

“Just because we’re having sex on a chair, you think it’s perverted?”

“……”

“You must not have met a real pervert yet, Eden.”

He leaned in, his muscular frame looming closer.

“Let me introduce you tonight.”

“Aah-.”

Tristan easily lifted Doha, his hands securely supporting his waist as Doha’s body spun through the air.

“Grab the backrest.”

Doha reached out, gripping the chair’s backrest as his knees settled on the cushion. Flames danced in the hearth directly in front of him.

Behind him, Tristan lifted Doha’s robe up to his back, like a skirt.

“……”

Doha could feel Tristan’s heated gaze on his exposed rear, the same burning stare he’d felt throughout their meal. The more aware he became of it, the more his body twisted. The tight space between his thighs seemed to pulse with tension. As his body leaned forward, strong arms wrapped around his waist, lifting his hips back up.

“You’ve put on a little weight. Your butt’s gotten rounder.”

“…Ah!”

The presence drew nearer. Without warning, Tristan dipped his head and bit into one of Doha’s cheeks. The unexpected pain made Doha cling tightly to the chair’s backrest.

“Ugh…”

The left cheek throbbed as though a chunk had been bitten off. Reaching back to touch it, Doha was relieved to find only bite marks, no real injury.

“Mr. Locke…”

He knew it was futile to protest. As expected, Tristan merely brushed the stinging flesh a few times, smirking as his eyes turned toward the right cheek before biting down hard again. The pain was sharp enough to leave a bruise, Doha thought.

“Hngh…”

“Stay still.”

His voice was rough, and Doha could see Tristan’s thick, long member, already close to pressing against his belly.

“Unless you want me to bite here next.”

“Hngh…”

Tristan’s hands kneaded and spread Doha’s cheeks, exposing the sweaty cleft to the cool air. Doha gripped the backrest tighter, shaking his head. His entire body tensed.

Watching Doha’s expression closely, Tristan roughly massaged his cheeks, his body inching closer. He began to rub his hard length between them, teasing the entrance. The head of his shaft grazed over the opening.

“…Hnngh.”

“Don’t worry.”

His lips brushed against Doha’s neck as his firm chest pressed flush against his back. Doha could feel every vibration as Tristan spoke.

“I’m going to have you for the next three days. You really think I’d tear you up this early?”

“…Ugh, hngh…”

One of his hands probed the tight entrance, easing in with persistent pressure. His hand pressed against Doha’s cheeks, pushing in as if to explore every inch. Doha shut his eyes, pressing his cheek against the chair’s wooden backrest.

***

“Hah, ngh, ah!”

Tristan’s thick member scraped Doha’s insides, pulling out only to thrust back in roughly. The movements were fierce, pressing Doha’s knees painfully into the floor. The liquid pooled deep inside squelched with every deep thrust.

Unlike their slow, leisurely start, this second round was savage, animalistic sex. If Doha hadn’t been loosened up already, he would have torn. Tristan remained silent, driving his thick shaft deep, pulling out entirely before plunging it back in with one hard thrust. Doha whimpered as his insides twisted.

The chair beneath them rocked as if about to topple over. Tristan yanked Doha’s hips back, slowing his movements, teasingly thrusting back in.

“Nghh…”

Tristan’s hand pressed down on Doha’s hips, keeping his rear perched on the chair. He moved with purpose, as if memorizing Doha’s inner structure.

“Hnngh, haaa-.”

His belly felt painfully full, his body tingling with strange sensations from head to toe. His throat released involuntary sounds.

“Please… stop…”

Unable to bear it, Doha tried to twist his body away, but the friction only made him rub against the hard length inside. Doha pressed his nose into the embroidered fabric of the chair’s backrest, gasping for breath. His entire body tingled, a strange sensation running through him, making his vision flicker dangerously.

“My stomach… it hurts, just give me a moment…”

“……”

“Locke, please… can you take it out for a moment…”

Even though he knew there was no chance of Tristan complying, Doha made the exhausted request.

“What should I do? I don’t want to take it out.”

The man behind him brought his lips close to Doha’s ear, speaking in a deep, husky voice. His hot breath painted Doha’s earlobe a bright red.

“Where does it hurt? Here?”

“Hnn! No, it’s not…”

“Then let’s compromise. How about I pull out halfway?”

“Mm…”

The retort that even half of Tristan’s length was like a full one for most men rose to the tip of Doha’s tongue, but he knew it wouldn’t help. So, he kept quiet. When he nodded, Tristan pulled back slightly. Even so, Doha still felt weighed down, the strange sensation inside making him flinch. He tried to steady his shaky breaths.

“Are you alright? It must feel empty in there.”

Tristan reached around to rub Doha’s belly with his palm, while his hips pressed deliberately against Doha’s lower back.

“Please, Locke….”

Doha’s tongue felt numb, and his words slurred. His body, trembling earlier, was now limp against the chair, which had been creaking for some time now, as if it were on the verge of collapsing.

“I think this chair’s seen better days.”

Tristan wiggled the armrest with little effort before speaking.

“Can you stand on your own?”

Doha shook his head. His legs had long since given out. The man behind him clicked his tongue in mock sympathy.

“Guess transporting you will cost extra.”

Before Doha could fully comprehend what Tristan meant, the man pulled out, turned Doha around, and lifted him by the underarms. Doha, utterly exhausted, let his cheek rest against Tristan’s solid shoulder. Supporting Doha’s bottom, Tristan rubbed it gently, then aligned himself with Doha again, inserting his thick shaft between the trembling, wet folds.

“L-Locke! Ah, nngh!”

Doha regretted not crawling to the bed himself. His loosened body easily took in the thick head, and he clung desperately to Tristan’s neck, fearing he might slip down further. His legs, wrapped around Tristan’s back, were gradually sliding down.

“Shh.”

Tristan soothed him as he walked slowly toward the bed, each jolt of movement reverberating through Doha’s body.

“Huff, uh…”

When they reached the bed, instead of laying him down, Tristan lifted Doha’s hips a few more times, impaling him deeper each time. Each plunge sent shockwaves through Doha’s overstimulated body, bringing tears to his eyes.

“Please, just… lay me down…”

“Alright.”

With their bodies still connected, Doha felt the soft mattress beneath him. As soon as his back hit the sheets, Tristan spread his legs and began moving roughly again.

By the time Tristan finished the second time, Doha was curled up, drenched in sweat. His hips twitched sporadically, and his stomach felt uncomfortably full, as though just a little pressure would cause the sticky fluid to pour out. He wanted to wash up, but the thought of walking to the bathroom on his own seemed impossible. Afraid Tristan might mention “transport fees” again, Doha simply lay there, breathing heavily.

“Here.”

The mattress shifted as Tristan returned from the other side of the room, gently lifting Doha’s chin with his fingertips.

“Drink.”

The cool touch of a glass met Doha’s lips. He drank with his eyes closed as Tristan tilted the cup for him. After the glass was taken away, something cold and textured pressed against his lips.

It was a strawberry. He accepted it, savoring the tangy, fresh taste like a refreshing rain after a storm.

“Don’t eat the stem.”

Tristan held the strawberry’s green top as Doha greedily devoured the soft fruit, eating nearly ten in total. After drinking a few more sips of water, Doha began to feel somewhat clear-headed.

He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the moisture from his lashes. Tristan’s beautiful face, still calm and unruffled, looked down at him without a trace of exertion.

The early morning light was still dim. Doha knew that after Tristan cleared the empty glass and plate, he would flip him over and lift his hips again. The thought left Doha feeling dazed, and he muttered absentmindedly.

“Why… even last time…”

Tristan glanced at him, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Don’t worry too much.”

Tristan slipped an arm under Doha’s armpits, effortlessly lifting him onto his lap.

“This is only temporary. You won’t be dealing with it for long.”

“Mm…”

“When I was a kid, I’d become obsessed with a Christmas toy for a week, then discard it by the time New Year came around.”

Doha knew Tristan was fully aware of how unsettling his words were, how they were designed to provoke an anxiety he couldn’t voice. Even as the hard shaft once again pushed between his cheeks, Doha tried to swallow back the pained sound rising in his throat.