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If Claude had known his arrival would be met with three dead stares and a singular angelic smile courtesy of Marianne, maybe he wouldn’t have come.
“So, Claude, not that you’re not allowed to join girl’s night,” “Because you are!” “Yeah, because you are. Totally. Just, I thought you were hanging out with Dimitri tonight?”
“He has saxophone lessons,” Claude repeats for the second time in two minutes, which isn’t an awful lot, but it’s weird he’s had to say it twice. Hilda just purses her lips despite Marianne’s fussing over his drying nails. “So I’m free.”
“He has sex-o-phone lessons,” Hilda repeats, “and you decided to come to the girl’s side of the Golden Deer dorm instead of waiting for him?”
“Uh, yeah?”
“They must’ve broken up.”
“We did not, Leonie!” Leonie frowns at him, perfectly mirroring Hilda’s unimpressed gaze. She continues as though uninterrupted, chewing her chips extra loudly just to be a nuisance. Behind her, Lysithea’s brow twitches from where she’s buried in a textbook.
“Then why are you here instead of getting fucked? I thought you’d,” Leonie shushes his sputtering, “surprise him after his lesson. With a blowjob. Or your ass, I don’t care.”
“Who does that?” Claude protests, face hot. Hilda makes a guilty noise. “Who—what, why would I do that?”
“Why not?” Hilda counters, slamming her hand against the floor. The chip bags bounce on the flimsy dorm carpet. “You don’t ever come back to your dorm to have Dimitri, naked and raring to go, in your bed?” Marianne makes a guilty noise now. Claude makes a conscious decision to forget the last two seconds of his life.
“No? Isn’t that breaking and entering?”
“Oh Goddess,” Leonie prays, “he’s having a dry spell.”
“I hate you all. I don’t even know why I came here.”
“Neither do we,” Hilda snaps, though she pats him not-entirely-condescendingly on the arm. “Go home and be dry with Lorenz.”
“I hate you,” Claude repeats with feeling. Marianne frowns. “Not you, Marianne. You’re great. I love you. I hate everyone else in this room.”
“Good,” Lysithea finally speaks, slapping her book shut with death in her eyes. “Now that we’ve established you’re not getting some, can you please leave?”
Claude very gently slams the door on the way out.
-
Okay, their sex life isn’t the most exciting thing, but it isn’t dry.
It’s hard to have bad sex with someone like Dimitri. Big, tall, beefy Dimitri. Pretty blonde locks and a chin sculpted by the gods, and for fuck’s sake, the teeny-tiniest waist to hip ratio Claude’s ever seen outside of Saturday morning cartoons. Dimitri looks simultaneously like he could snap Claude in half and like he’d like to be snapped in half himself, and Claude’s perfectly happy to fill in either role.
It’s just that they haven’t really experimented much. Not since they were sixteen, messing around for the first time, and Dimitri had been so nervous that Claude had cried, not from pleasure but from pain, at the force with which he’d pulled on his dick. There’d been thumb prints on his hips (hot) and tear streaks on Dimitri’s cheeks (still kinda hot), and then Dimitri had promised to ever hurt him ever again. It’s been nearly five years of picture-perfect dates ever since, but Dimitri hasn’t dared do anything other than one good ol’ church approved missionary round out of fear.
And that’s fine! That’s okay! Dimitri’s gorgeous, kind, and the most caring boyfriend Claude could ever want. Who else asks if he’s feeling good every five minutes? Who else avoids leaving marks anywhere it's visible, even if Claude maybe-kinda-sorta wants everyone to know they fucked last night? Who even cares if Claude’s got a problem with staring at Dimitri dripping all over the pool floors, smiling cheek to cheek with a goddamn lickable eight pack?
So what if Claude wants Dimitri to carry him with his fucking ripped biceps and fuck him stupid against the dorm walls while calling him his personal slut?
Fuck.
-
“You know, there’s nothing wrong with being vanilla.”
“Ignatz, never talk to me again. Raphael, my second favorite blonde, what have you?” Claude clasps together Raphael’s hands with pleading eyes while determinedly ignoring Ignatz’s vaguely offended noise. “What sweet, sweet advice do you have for the tall, blonde, and very sexy muscular love of my life?”
“Claude, please tell me why you are confessing to Raphael. Has Dimitri finally, as you’d say, dump your sorry behind?”
“Ignore the eggplant.” “Excuse me?” “What should I do?”
Lorenz makes a terribly inelegant snort and smacks the back of Claude’s head—it’s a testament to how close the Golden Deer dorm is that no one blinks an eye. For a university meant for the rich and glamorous, it meant a lot for Claude to finally, after much explicit whining about his love life, break down the walls that normally divided them. If Leonie was here on a scholarship, he really couldn't give less of a shit.
“You don’t seem pathetically mopey,” Lorenz hums, narrowing his eyes as he looks over Claude’s meal. “And you ate. I presume Dimitri isn’t the reason for today’s ridiculousness.”
“You presume wrongly,” Ignatz interjects. Claude would throttle him if not for how ridiculously proud he is that Ignatz is comfortable enough now to sass his fellow, significantly-richer, housemates. “Claude’s worried about his and Dimitri’s… nightly activities.”
“Hilda called me, I quote, a boring ass skeleton fucker. End quote.” Lorenz’s brow rises, but he doesn’t actually disagree. The bastard. “She called me easy! And boring!”
“There’s nothing boring about lovemaking,” Ignatz insists, sending pleading glances Lorenz’s way. “What could be more beautiful than a romantic night together, gently holding each other in bed?” Lorenz takes a breath. Exhales it slowly.
“For once,” each word sounds painfully dragged from his lips, “I think I agree with Claude’s sentiment.”
“Hah! Wait—what?”
“Hilda, and by extension you, are agreeable,” Lorenz sighs, looking every bit regretting his birth into this awful world. “I understand the expectation for something more in a relationship. The details kept private, of course,” his nose scrunches up, deeply bothered, “so please never share such things again during a meal. Or anytime. But I cannot say I disagree with the sentiment that missionary can only be so… satisfactory… for so long.”
Victory, of the purest and most ridiculous kind, is the first thing Claude settles on at Lorenz’s words: at long last, Lorenz has finally come to agree with him. Immediately after that is concern that they agreed, what the hell, and then after that, genuine interest.
“So, what should I do?”
-
Approximately three incognito tabs, two-day instant shipping, and well over a hundred dollars later, Claude finds his solution in the form of a slim black textured box delivered right to his dorm mailbox. Lorenz had taken one look at the label and shrieked, all but tossing the package right into Claude’s face.
The same package that sits partially unwrapped in Dimitri’s hands now. His very, very warm hands, matching his exceedingly red face.
“They come pre-charged according to the online description, but they connect using USB-C charging ports so we can recharge them tonight just in case. The wristband is new, an upgrade from the older models, but they also have an app you can just download to your smartwatch instead. Oh, and,” Claude pauses, finally reigning in his rant that’s gone on for the past fifteen minutes, “it should be disinfected before we do anything.”
“Claude,” Dimitri’s voice comes out strangled. His eyes haven’t left the box since Claude first plopped it into his hands. “Is this—I mean, I presume, but I just—I’m…”
“Dimitri,” Claude echoes back, leaning over to place his hand over Dimitri’s. His boyfriend latches onto it immediately, closing his fingers over Claude’s wrists and tugging him until they’re shoulder to shoulder, close enough that Claude could simply tuck his head beneath Dimitri’s neck. Against him like this, the absolute heat radiating off Dimitri is all too apparent.
He’s cute. Adorable, actually. Entirely too much like the Dimitri that first confessed to Claude all those years ago, bumbling through the words—earnest and kind and overthinking. It’s far too easy for Claude to give into the desire to kiss him, nothing more than a fond peck, pressing their lips together.
“Dimitri,” Claude repeats, squeezing Dimitri’s palm. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
“It’s not—I don’t not want to…” Oh? It’s the first he’s ever heard of such a sentiment from his boyfriend’s lips. Claude cocks a brow, searching, and Dimitri’s face only seems to grow redder. “I fear that I may want too much.”
Amusement takes hold of him then, warm, and when Dimitri leans forward Claude allows himself to be tipped back for better access. Dimitri is gentle, always, leaving lingering desire behind with every slide of his fingers along Claude’s side, box abandoned. There’s never been a moment Claude’s had him that hasn’t felt loving, like he was something precious, something to be held close to one’s heart, and his hands squeeze at Dimitri’s waist when they tip over.
Lorenz screams for a second time when he walks onto them cuddling, clearly nude, and swears very, very loudly that if he sees them like this a third time he will have Claude run out of the dorms.
-
“It is for this reason that swords were considered a noble weapon in ancient Fodlan despite their ineffective reach in comparison to spears and bows…”
“Claude? Hey. Are you okay?” Claude startles, blinking open his eyes to Leonie’s furrowed brows. Her pen taps his notebook, still open and blank despite the forty or so minutes that must have passed since the class started. Hers, in contrast, is filled to the brim with a rainbow of inks and highlights.
“Uh.” Smooth.
Gods. Even if this wasn’t the most boring lecture of Claude’s lifetime, he doubts he could pay attention to anything other than the desperate ache between his legs. His wrist trembles as he forces himself to straighten, swallowing down a moan at the way it shifts the toy within him. It’d been his idea at the time, sure, but…
He hadn’t expected this from Dimitri.
“Claude?”
“I’m fine.” Leonie raises a brow, unconvinced, but she relents enough to straighten and continue jotting down Professor Byleth’s notes. He makes a pathetic attempt to pay attention to the lecture but every shift, every twitch, gods, every breath he takes feels like it’s too much, too obvious. If Leonie, the person most captivated by Professor Byleth, noticed, then who wouldn’t?
His eyes stray to the other side of the lecture hall. There, Dimitri sits, staring at Professor Byleth like this was any other class. Unbothered. Normal.
He feels more than sees the way Dimitri folds his arms, decidedly conspicuous, and plays with the watch on his wrist. Claude bites down his lips and softly thanks the Gods that he’d been wise enough to wear black jeans today.
He spends the rest of the lecture painfully trying to hide his straining erection. Leonie gives up on him the moment Claude packs up with five minutes to go, opting to hide his face in his arms instead of looking or, rather, having anyone look at him. The sensation of people getting up en masse, jostling the floor with their scraping chairs and lugging textbooks, is almost too much.
By the time a hand cards itself through his hair, Claude’s about ready to call this quits, boring ass skeleton fucker or not.
Warm fingers press against the beads of sweat under his bangs and he groans, half defeated and half aroused, as they press upwards to comb his hair back. The desk has long since faded being cool relief when he began resting uncomfortably against it minutes ago, but he keeps his head pointedly lowered as the world continues to spin lazily around him. He’s aware, on some level, that Professor Byleth is still in the lecture hall—they have the next lesson planned at fifteen, to be fair—and that Dimitri offers them a courtesy greeting.
Then there are fingers prying his bag from his lap, earning an embarrassing whine at the cold air introduced to his aching dick, followed by an arm to slump again. He’s aware that Dimitri is speaking in low tones, that he’s propped against the plushest chest in all of Garreg Mach, that surely, somewhere, someone is watching when he pries his jaws open and takes a bite. Dimitri startles, protesting with a squawk, but for all the goddamn bull Claude’s been through for the past 90 minutes he thinks the least he should be allowed to take is a bite of titty.
Dimitri’s hand is warm when it presses against his flushed cheeks again, and when Claude looks up to see pleasure and guilt at that pleasure swirling in Dimitri’s gaze, it is all too easy to lean upwards and kiss the man senseless. His hands claw at blonde locks, tugging, and Dimitri follows obediently, always kind, always wanting. His lips part for Claude, gasping into his mouth, and the sensation shakes Claude to his core.
“Claude—ah, Claude.” Dimitri groans. Pride swells within Claude at his face, ruddy red cheeks and saliva threatening to spill from his lips; it is always a pleasure when Dimitri wants, so plainly, nothing more than to serve.
Claude trails a hand down Dimitri’s face, pressing a kiss against his throat that would be almost chaste if not for the promise it held. Dimitri’s swallow is an audible thing and he laughs for the joy of it when Dimitri ends up kicking the door to his dorm open rather than putting him down. “Desperate, aren’t you?”
“Always,” Dimitri admits, gasping when Claude kisses his throat again, baring his teeth against the delicate skin. “I could never get enough of you.”
Warmth flares within him for a second time as he tugs Dimitri into another kiss, bruising. He keens as Dimitri readjusts him in those arms, Gods, those arms, pressing a heavy hand between his legs. The shift has the toy within him moving, pressing in deeper, better, and Claude finds his entire being shaking with the trembling pleasure it leaves him in. It’s so much, overwhelming with Dimitri pressed against him, under him, a hand to rock against and a mouth to whine into, and yet it’s not enough.
“More,” Claude demands. He claws at Dimitri’s hand, the one he’d been rocking against just seconds ago, for that stupid wristwatch. The button clicks audibly beneath his hand, once, twice, thrice, but nothing changes. “What?”
A guilty noise draws his eyes back to Dimitri and his stupidly handsome face, sheepish grimace and all.
“I think,” Dimitri hesitates, “I don’t think I charged the watch enough.”
If Claude loved Dimitri any less, he’d probably throttle him. He still considers smacking his boyfriend in the face if not for the fact that his legs may well have become jelly at some point in the past, oh, hour or so of this incessant vibration.
Fine. He’d rather Dimitri than a silicone replacement anyway.
It shouldn’t be so charming to know Dimitri would have backed away earlier if he could, but it is. Chivalrous and kind to a fault, always, his most precious prince. The same that eyes him, ocean blues wide and worried despite the obvious lust that Dimitri keeps lidded, as he speaks. “Is this okay?”
“Fantastic,” Claude urges, tugging at Dimitri’s hair again and smirking when it earns him a deep groan that shakes Dimitri’s entire body. Gods, he needed these pants off yesterday. “I’ve been waiting all day for you to fuck me.”
His side of the dorm is less clean than he’d like it to be. They could always throw his blankets onto the floor like usual, but he’d left his laptop here, still charging, as well as his unzipped makeup bag (forgotten in his haste to fit the toy inside while running late to class) and he doesn’t particularly enjoy the inevitable digging around the carpet to find his brushes at a later date.
Lorenz’s bed, however, is perfectly made.
Claude does the quick math in his head—how much Lorenz loves him versus how much Lorenz loves his bedsheets, the average cost of rent in the college neighborhood, and how fast he can run from the other once he inevitably finds out how his sheets have been dirtied. Dimitri’s hand slides along his jeans and oh, that’s new, the tug of his fingers on the vibrator still within him. He jolts at it, gasping, and suddenly the math doesn’t seem to matter at all.
Not when Dimitri is pressing against him like this, raw and hungry and full of desire, the way Claude’s always wanted to have him.
“Me too,” Dimitri croaks into his ear, warm, wet, and Claude shivers as Dimitri balances him entirely on one hand to palm the other against his crotch. He blinks blearily at his boyfriend, squinting as Dimitri takes the initiative to sweep the blankets off his bed to lay them both in it. Goodbye, mascara.
“Huh?”
“I’ve been waiting all day to fuck you too.” The admission is shame-faced, guilty, yet the thrill of those words coming from Dimitri’s mouth runs through Claude is white-hot. It’s almost as sexy as the shake of Dimitri’s hands as he thumbs open Claude’s jeans, tugging them off his hips with force. Claude groans in appreciation as his dick is finally freed, waggling his brows and laughing softly at the way Dimitri freezes at his clearly commando state.
“Oh, Claude, I’m sorry, I just—” Dimitri stammers, eyes wide and hungry, and the sight of his boyfriend slack-jawed at the sight of his weeping dick and unmistakably stretched out rim, squeezing at every perfect vibration, settles something smoldering deep within Claude.
“What are you apologizing for?” He grins, wide and cheery, as he draws a hand up and combs back Dimitri’s hair in a mimicry of his earlier actions. Dimitri goes soft in his hands, nuzzling his palms not unlike a dog and Gods, Claude doesn’t need that imagery of his boyfriend collared right now. Especially not when Dimitri’s eyes refuse to stray from his crotch, lips ajar.
“I love you so much.” It’s a whisper, so soft Claude isn’t sure he’s meant to hear it, but Dimitri’s gaze burns when it finally drifts back up to meet Claude properly. He swallows.
“If you’re really sorry, why don’t you strip and show me how much you want this?”
Dimitri whines at the words, shivering, though they spur him into action. In the future, perhaps, Claude would ask him to do it slowly, making him fold his discarded clothing before presenting himself fully. But the shaking in his legs has yet to cease, the toy in him obvious with every shift on his bed, and all he wants is Dimitri in him now.
“A-ah! Claude?” The moment Dimitri’s pants hit the floor, Claude has a foot gliding up that thigh, pressing Dimitri’s dick against his stomach. He’s dripping pre, smearing the shiny slick across those gorgeous abs, and sighing prettily as Claude slides his leg back down. “Claude, please, can I touch you?”
“Hmm,” Claude hums, pretending to ponder. He drags his foot back up those inner thighs, smiling as Dimitri shakes.
“Claude.” He’s beautiful like this—soft and warm with the kindest eyes Claude’s ever seen, pleading with full body shivers at every touch. Dimitri blinks at him through wet lashes, always a crier from the very first time, and Claude wants so desperately.
“Come here, then.”
The speed with which Dimitri rushes to the bed startles a genuine laugh from Claude, smothered just as quickly with a fierce kiss that has him clawing at Dimitri’s shoulders. His nails dig in deep, leaving behind angry red lines, and he groans at the thought of Dimitri’s team members seeing those. He could leave anything, everything, on Dimitri’s skin; Dimitri would love it. Love him.
The quiver of his lip has nothing to do with lust.
“I want you in me.” Needy, demanding, pleading—Claude doesn’t care. He pulls at Dimitri’s hair, down, lower, until he can bury his face into the curve of that shoulder and bite. Dimitri murmurs something into his hair, warning, and then he’s keening as the drag of Dimitri’s palm against his dick, trailing down.
“Oh, fuck.” Dimitri crooks the vibrator deeper into him, teasing, and Claude trembles with the force of the yelp it startles out of him. There’s a growl over him, barely restrained, and the vibrator is pulled from him in one twist of the wrist. It leaves him empty, gaping, and he pants as his thighs desperately try to pull in and offer some relief to the want that pulses through him. “Dim—ah—Dimitri, fuck.”
“I’m here,” Dimitri hisses, ragged, as the head of his dick kisses Claude’s rim. He wants to laugh at the absurdity of the situation—Dimitri, entering him without a solid ten minutes of petting and prepping first, insistent on emptying out a bottle of lube before getting anywhere close to inside? Yet all he can offer is a guttural chuckle as Dimitri begins to push in, humor forgotten entirely for more banal pleasures.
He wouldn’t mind giving it all up: the university, the wealth, the so-called all important networking, to have this moment stretch forever. Dimitri hangs his head as his arms tremor to keep him steady, entering Claude all too slowly; his biceps tighten as those fingers curl around Claude’s bedsheets and his eyes cannot help staring at the flex of Dimitri’s pecs when he groans in appreciation at a tight squeeze.
“I’m here,” Dimitri repeats, a scratchy, fucked out noise leaving him as he bottoms out.
He’s full. He’s so fucking full, always, stretched better around Dimitri’s cock than any toy, and Claude belatedly regrets that he didn’t get a dildo sculpted from Dimitri’s dick instead of a generic vibrator.
One glance at Dimitri’s flushed face, lips swollen, makes all regrets fly free from his mind.
“I love you.”
It’s—not sexy, nor particularly sweet. Claude cringes at the dry croak of the words yet he can hardly care at the way Dimitri’s breath hitches, the way the dick within him twitches, pushing impossibly forward even though there’s nowhere left to fit it.
“Come here, already,” Claude coaxes, even though Dimitri is already as close as humanly possible. It’s a piss-poor attempt at deflection, but Claude is nothing but dedicated. “Fuck me properly.”
Dimitri closes his eyes, panting, as his legs tremor where they lock against Claude’s. Slowly, the dick within him retreats. Claude squeezes around Dimitri as he moves, grinning when he whines at the simulation, until Dimitri pulls nearly fully out. There’s a lull as they take in where they remain connected, Claude’s puffy red rim clenching around Dimitri’s head, tempting, and Dimitri breaks first.
“I almost came,” Dimitri admits in a hushed tone, cheeks burning. “Just now. I needed—a minute.”
Amusement shakes Claude’s shoulders as he laughs at his poor boyfriend’s predicament, vivid red cheeks and all. The pout on Dimitri’s lips is all too sweet until it twists into something more carnal, dangerous, and Claude finds his shoulders shaking not from laughter but from pleasure as Dimitri fucks back in without warning.
“A-ah, gods, fuck, yes!” Claude throws his head back in a shout as Dimitri angles perfectly, swiveling his dick right against that sensitive bundle of nerves. There’s a creak of the bed slamming against the wall from the force as Dimitri’s fingers dig into his hips, propping him up until his back curves from where he’s being impaled, and the change in positioning has him groaning. The sound of their flesh slapping, lout and unmistakable, fills his ears.
“You tempt me.” Dimitri all but snarls against his ear, and this, this, is what Claude craves—that moment Dimitri ceases keeping himself perfectly polite, perfectly in-check, as all nobles are demanded of. The rutting of his hips is anything but well-mannered; the hot, wet words against his skin a sin.
“Yeah?” He drags in a ragged breath that breaks on a moan when Dimitri grinds against his prostate with little mercy. It’s petty vengeance to catch Dimitri’s nipple in his mouth, biting hard as Dimitri stutters, pain and arousal alike coloring his pretty shouts. His head tips back again as Dimitri’s hands grasp at his thighs, pressing them down under Claude has no leverage in his legs to do anything but lie there, fucked raw.
“I’ve w-wanted, ah,” Dimitri’s voice breaks on a particularly sharp scrape of Claude’s nails against his nipples, leaving them swollen from the abuse. Dimitri’s voice shakes on a throaty groan as he presses Claude deeper into the bed, hips beginning to lose rhythm as his pleasure grows hazy. The sight of Dimitri unfolding, brows drawn together and mouth ajar through pant after desperate pant, has him squeezing tight. “Claude, Claude, Claude.”
“Inside,” Claude swears, and the particularly harsh thrust of Dimitri’s hips at the demand is all too much. He squeezes hard around Dimitri as one hand darts down to jerk at his weeping dick, kept on the edge for too long. He’s too close to keep any more composure, legs locking around Dimitri’s waist as he boxes him in. “D-deeper, ah, fuck, fuck, Dimitri!”
“I—ah— I’m!” The sound of his sheets ripping is Claude’s only warning before Dimitri pitches forward with a strained shout, finally filling him up with his cum. The dizzying blink of Dimitri’s dazed eyes, drool smeared from his lips down to his jaw, is all Claude needs to tip over the edge himself, shaking as his vision blurs.
Dimitri fucks him through the orgasm, thighs flexing with effort as he pushes his cum as far deep as it can get. It’s only once Claude limply raises a leg to kick him, nothing more than a tap, that he slows. Still, he doesn’t pull out.
He doesn’t need to look to figure out why. The answer is right inside him.
“Still hard, huh?” Dimitri’s face, red to his shoulders, is answer enough. Claude laughs as Dimitri keens, flopping dramatically over him. “You can keep going.”
“Mmnnn.”
“Hello? Earth to Dimitri?”
“I can’t help it.” Did Claude say down to his shoulders? Correction—Dimitri is red all over. Twin pleading eyes blink up at him from where Dimitri’s buried himself by his side, content to rut slowly into his limp body. “I wanted to do this all day.”
“Just all day?” Claude can’t help but tease, chuckling again as Dimitri frowns. His laughter dies at a perfectly angled thrust; whoever said Dimitri couldn’t be vengeful is a liar. “I wasn’t—ah—wasn’t kidding. You can keep going.”
“If it’s too much—”
“Baby,” Claude interrupts, “you let a vibe run in me for two hours.” At Dimitri’s guilty face, he hastily tacks on, “I’m fine. You’re fine. Besides,” Claude winks, shamelessly raising his legs upwards with shaky arms. Thank fuck for Cyril convincing him to join archery club. “If you don’t fuck me, I’ll have to find another toy that will.”
Dimitri’s growl is dangerous, but wow if that didn’t just help Claude chub. He grins, flopping back against the bed as Dimitri’s hands replace his, propping his legs upward.
“I won’t stop unless you ask,” Dimitri warns. Claude laughs, squeezing tight and watches Dimitri falter at the motion.
“I’m counting on it.”
Two rounds, one snapped headboard, and a wail that Claude would deny came from his lips until the day he dies, Claude considers the benefits of moving out to fuck all day. In, rather—moving in with Dimitri. He thumbs Dimitri’s slumbering face, prince-like even in his sleep other than the line of drool running from his lips, and kisses that messy, sweaty forehead. The blonde murmurs something suspiciously similar to a phrase that warms Claude’s entire body.
He wouldn’t mind waking up to this sight for the rest of his life.
-
They startle from sleep only two hours later to the shrieking wail of Lorenz opening his dorm door only to slam it shut a millisecond after, loudly cursing out the entire Riegan family line. Ah.
They probably should have put the vibrator away.