The carriage rattled to a stop outside a modest inn on the quieter edge of the capital's merchant district. The sign creaked in the night breeze: "The Silver Quill." Seraphine paid the driver with coins from Oliver's pouch—efficient, emotionless—then hoisted the three drunks like sacks of flour. Oliver mumbled incoherently, Isolde giggled into her mug (which she'd somehow kept from spilling), and Ariana snored softly against Seraphine's shoulder.

The innkeeper, a portly man with a mustache like a broom, raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Adventurers were weird; money was money. He handed over a key to a second-floor room—spacious, with two beds, a washbasin, and a window overlooking the alley.

The inn's second-floor suite was quiet when the door clicked shut behind them—quiet in the way only a thick oak door and a half-dozen silencing runes could manage. The common-room roar downstairs had been swallowed whole. All that remained was the low crackle of the hearth, the soft creak of floorboards under Seraphine's unmoving weight in the corner, and the unsteady breathing of three very drunk adventurers.

Oliver let his pack slide to the floor with a dull thud. The room spun once, settled, then tilted again. He braced a hand against the wall, laughing under his breath.

"Gods… that last round was a mistake."

Isolde collapsed onto the mattress with a throaty laugh, her silver hair splaying out like a halo. She'd had more than her share at the tavern—enough to loosen her usual icy composure into something warmer, hungrier. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes half-lidded as she kicked off her boots. "Finally… a real bed. No more rocks digging into my back."

Ariana giggled from the floor where she'd tripped on entry, her red hair a mess, cheeks rosy from the booze. "This place spins… or is it me?"

"Both," Oliver slurred, flopping down beside Isolde. The room tilted pleasantly, the alcohol buzzing through his veins like liquid fire. Weeks on the road—endless fights, no privacy, no release—had left him coiled tight. And now, here they were, alone at last. His gaze drifted to Isolde, tracing the curve of her neck, the way her shirt clung to her sweat-damp skin.

She caught him looking, a sly smile curling her lips. "What? See something you like?"

"Always," he murmured, voice dropping low. He reached out, fingers brushing her thigh—light at first, then firmer, sliding up under her skirt. "Been too damn long."

Isolde's breath hitched, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she shifted closer, her hand trailing up his chest, nails scraping lightly. "Mmm… you're right. All those nights in tents, listening to knights snore. No time for us."

Her lips found his neck, nipping softly, then harder. Oliver groaned, the sound rumbling deep in his throat. His hand squeezed her thigh, pulling her onto his lap. She straddled him easily, grinding down with deliberate slowness, her heat pressing against his growing bulge.

"Fuck, Isolde…" He grabbed her ass, kneading the firm flesh, pulling her tighter. "Missed this. Missed you."

She kissed him then—hard, messy, tongues clashing in a drunken haze. Her fingers fumbled with his shirt buttons, ripping one off in her haste. "Shut up and fuck me already," she whispered against his mouth, voice husky with need.

Oliver flipped her onto her back with a growl, pinning her wrists above her head. "Bossy as ever." He yanked her shirt open, exposing her busty tits—full, nipples already hard and begging. He latched onto one, sucking hard, tongue flicking the peak while his free hand squeezed the other, twisting just enough to make her arch.

"Ah—yes, like that," Isolde moaned, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. "Harder, you bastard."

He obliged, biting down, marking her pale skin with red blooms. His cock strained against his pants, throbbing with weeks of pent-up frustration. He ground against her core, feeling her wetness soak through the fabric.

Across the room, Ariana stirred. She'd collapsed on the other bed, intending to pass out, but the sounds—moans, gasps, the wet smack of lips on skin—pulled her from the fog. Her eyes cracked open, hazy with booze, and widened at the sight: Oliver devouring Isolde's tits, her back arched, silver hair fanned out like a whore in heat.

Ariana's breath caught. She should look away. Close her eyes. Pretend to sleep. But the alcohol burned through her veins, loosening inhibitions she'd never known she had. Heat pooled between her thighs, a slick ache building as she watched Oliver's hand slide down Isolde's body, fingers dipping beneath her skirt.

"Fuck, you're soaked," Oliver growled, plunging two fingers into her dripping cunt. Isolde bucked, crying out, walls clenching greedy around him.

Ariana's hand moved on its own, slipping under her own skirt. Her pussy was wet—soaking—throbbing with need. She bit her lip, stifling a whimper as her fingers circled her clit, eyes locked on the scene.

Oliver stripped Isolde bare, her petite frame writhing beneath him—busty tits heaving, shaved pussy glistening. He shed his pants, cock springing free—thick, veined, leaking pre-cum. "Gonna fuck you senseless," he promised, positioning at her entrance.

"Do it," Isolde demanded, nails raking his back. "Pound this slut pussy—make me scream."

He slammed in, balls-deep in one thrust. Isolde's scream echoed, her walls gripping him like a vice. He pounded her mercilessly, hips snapping, the wet slap of skin filling the room. "Take it—every fucking inch."

Ariana's fingers plunged into her own cunt, matching their rhythm. Her breaths came in pants, free hand kneading her breast, pinching her nipple. "Oh gods…" she whispered, unable to stop. The sight—Oliver's muscles flexing, Isolde's tits bouncing, their moans—pushed her over the edge. She came hard, juices squirting onto the sheets, but it wasn't enough. The ache only grew.

She stumbled off the bed, legs shaky, drawn like a moth to flame. "I… I want…"

Oliver looked up mid-thrust, eyes dark with lust. "Ariana?"

Isolde smirked through her moans. "Join us, girl. Don't just watch like a virgin whore."

Ariana flushed, but the booze made her bold. She stripped clumsily, revealing her curvy frame—ample tits, soft hips, a neatly trimmed bush above her dripping slit. "Please…"

Oliver pulled out of Isolde with a wet pop, cock glistening. "Come here."

Ariana straddled him reverse, sinking onto his shaft with a gasp. "Oh fuuuck—so thick!" Her walls stretched obscene, milking him as she bounced, ass cheeks clapping against his thighs.

Isolde knelt behind, spanking Ariana's ass hard. "Ride him like a good slut." She leaned in, tongue lapping at Oliver's balls, then up to Ariana's clit, sucking greedily.

Ariana screamed, squirting again, soaking Isolde's face. "Yes—eat my pussy, you bitch!"

Oliver thrust up savage, hands groping Ariana's tits, pinching nipples. "Both of you—my whores tonight."

They swapped—Isolde riding his face, grinding her shaved cunt on his tongue while Ariana bounced on his cock. "Devour me—yes, tongue-fuck that hole!"

Seraphine watched impassively from the corner, unmoving, her systems noting the elevated heart rates and fluid exchanges. "Vital signs: stable. Activity: non-hostile."

The room filled with vulgar symphony—slaps, slurps, screams. Oliver railed Ariana doggy, spanking her red while Isolde fingered her own ass, watching. "Breed her—fill that virgin cunt!"

Ariana clawed the sheets. "Yes—cum inside me—make me your whore!"

Oliver roared, pumping hot ropes deep, flooding her. He pulled out, cum leaking, and slammed into Isolde's ass next. "Your turn—wreck this tight shithole!"

Isolde came anal, squirting on Ariana's face below. "Drink it—yes, you thirsty bitch!"

They rotated—double blowjob, pussy-ass swaps, tits smothering faces. Cum and squirt soaked everything, bodies tangled in sweaty bliss.

By dawn, all three collapsed—wrecked, sated, Oliver sandwiched between their heaving forms.

All the while Seraphine stood in the corner watching all this with curiosity.

*****

Sunlight clawed its way through the half-shut shutters, slicing across the tangled mess of sheets and limbs like a judgmental blade. The air smelled of stale ale, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of mana residue—remnants of last night's reckless abandon.

Oliver woke first.

His head throbbed like someone had taken a warhammer to it. His mouth tasted like he'd licked the bottom of a tavern barrel. And the weight—gods, the weight—of a warm, very naked body pressed against his chest.

Isolde.

Her silver hair spilled across his arm like liquid moonlight, one leg hooked over his hip, her breath soft and even against his collarbone. Familiar. Comfortable. Safe.

Then memory slammed into him like a runaway carriage.

Hands. Mouths. Ariana's broken little cries. Isolde's wicked smile as she—

He froze.

Slowly, carefully, he turned his head.

Ariana was curled on Isolde's other side, face half-buried in a pillow, auburn curls a wild halo. One slender arm was flung across Isolde's waist, fingers loosely tangled with Oliver's. Her lips were swollen, her cheeks still flushed with sleep—and a faint, unmistakable bruise bloomed just beneath her jaw.

His mark.

Oliver's stomach dropped through the floor.

Oh. Fuck.

'What the fuck happened last night.'

'What is she doing on my bed. Naked.'

*****

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