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Despite her marriage to a talented cook, Yor's appetite peaks in the bedroom.
There, she finds herself stripped bare against cotton sheets, wrists pinned atop her head despite zero plans to struggle. This is an afterhours meal, with her half-dressed husband presenting an identical menu every evening:
"Do you want Loid or Twilight tonight?"
==
Loid serves up delectable appetizers.
Foreplay is his expertise; that gentle, slow build up that jellifies Yor’s muscles for minutes on end. He kisses her until both their lips swell plump, worships her skin until every inch blushes back at him. Their limbs crisscross with tender friction, locking each other in a dozen different embraces while his hands explore her terrains.
Sometimes, he’s almost awkward, fumbling with his remaining clothes or the placement of a palm around her breast. That confidence wavers until she assures him with another kiss - equivalent encouragement, equivalent exchange.
It's ridiculously charming how he fakes the part so well.
When conviction restores, Loid prefers a retreat to the foot of the bed. There, he leans in to lap up her essence, taking eternities to ensure Yor remembers all the ridges of his tongue. She is the patron, but he treats her as the meal. And though he offers mere hors d'oeuvres previewing much more to come, her nerves already succumb to small yet explosive doses of satisfaction, each a petit mort rather than a petit four.
Sex with Loid is akin to therapy his psychiatrist self provides, full of questions - You alright? Does this feel good? - and understanding smiles at her nods. Every touch is steeped in innocence, not to assume her fragile but to affirm his intent to support, and heal from inside out. Even as he enters her, it feels like a delayed union, never invasion.
The unconditional respect mesmerizes Yor, pushes her into the deep pools of his eyes. Up above, he undulates back and forth, shifting between looks of affection and looks of ecstasy. Forearms slide beneath to gather her close, granting the crook of his neck for her to bury moans into.
But as she loses count of climaxes, Yor buries more than illegible noise. What repeats is her choice of dish - his name, chanted to the high heavens each time she ascends.
He echoes her, through both body and voice.
Yor. Yor…
Within delicious nirvana, she also tastes peace.
==
On other nights, Twilight lets Yor skip right to the main course.
He's methodical in his passion, shedding the image of family man at an instant. Eager bites land from nipple to hip, only leaving marks where clothing can conceal, where evidence of his lust can remain hidden. Those calloused hands never stray elsewhere as he fingers her in the most precise, ideal spots. When he guides her mouth to his erection, the tug of her hair bears just the right amount of roughness. And once she devours, she draws solely grunts from above, never words.
Throughout, he conveys an expectation of pleasure, but also an unspoken promise that it’ll be reciprocated hundredfold.
Before she swallows his length for a minute too long, he embarks on another purposeful path. Without warning, burly arms lift her like featherweight, propelling them from the comforts of bed. As he stands upright, all of Yor’s limbs clutch around him on reflex, allowing herself be propped up like a sculpted garnish.
A single Need to be inside you hissed into her neck, and she opens wide for him, welcomes those relentless thrusts that both shatter and reconstruct. Loid’s You alright? Becomes Twilight’s You take me so well , and the latter never questions whether she enjoys being ravished - he seems to know exactly how much she does.
From there on, sheets and mattress seldom matter, replaced by surfaces as hard as his steely stare: walls grinding along her spine, ground scraping against her knees, his cock pounding into her core. Time and again, he fucks her in silence until she screams, but even then, Yor’s hoarse throat keeps begging for more.
With Twilight, she basks in the thrill of a one-night stand. Here, she is nothing more than an agent's temporary distraction, a body he subdues on the way to rescue the universe.
So when Yor orders this him by name, she knows to never expect sour, only salty and sore.
After all, the flavor of his come always seasons her tongue just right, and a hunger fulfilled is worth limping for a week.
==
On occasion, she requests a daily special.
There’s Lionel, whose uniform she is fond of removing layer by layer, and Lawrence, with his stubbled chin coarse yet seductive. But her secret favorite is Robert - so cold, so calculating, so ready to educate her with his stash of provocative toys.
Some days, Yor thinks this is the definition of a fetish: to selfishly keep so many versions of the same man for herself. Or maybe, after prolonged years of innocence, she simply compensates for opportunities lost. It’s serendipitous that all she desires dwell under the same roof, and he, a most altruistic spouse, is willing to satisfy any ask.
Some days, Yor thinks this is the definition of a marriage.
==
"There’s something you should know, Yor."
The words arrive out of the blue, after temptation unravels months of resistance. He had been Loid during it all, soft and considerate as he took her first time.
"I'm a Westalis spy. And Anya...isn't my actual daughter."
"I...I don't mind."
Shock arises at his confession, but it subsides within seconds, for secrets no longer surprise or disturb their bizarre alliance. Yor imagines that he had lost control in the moment, permitted post-coital emotions to overwhelm logic. For no other reason explains his utter trust, much less his failure to identify her deceptions. From the start, they've always been each other's asset, and his attention to potential risk furthers her advantage: the more he commits to his role, the more her own disguise improves.
Of course, the orgasms he can apparently coax from her are very, very nice bonuses.
In a bout of audacity, she decides to test the brink.
"Do you operate under an alias, Loid?" Like me?
"I have several, but mainly…‘Twilight.’"
"Then tell me, Loid." She dances fingertips down his exposed hip bone. "What’s 'Twilight' like as a lover?"
Following brief hesitation, he proceeds to not tell, but show her every detail, in every position she’s willing to try.
Come morning, Yor finds countless cracks in the headboard from her vice grips.
==
Since then, she has continued to pretend upon pretend, portraying an ever-doting wife - now with benefits - yet still able to hide her true self. Thorn Princess accepts the new changes to Yor Forger's life with ease: she enters the same bedroom as her husband at night, she adds contraception to the weekly shopping list, she showers extra minutes so he never smells blood while up close.
Keep investigating him. Garden had ordered.
Keep enjoying him. She had vowed to herself.
But time cultivates every truth, and nights are metal cloches hiding the inevitable. Whether she indulges in the slow or the quick, whether she's granted a single blissful release or several, there now exists one more sweet, forbidden food for thought - unconsumed until conclusion, but digested for endless hours.
She loves both of him. She loves all of him.
Yor’s favorite course has always been dessert.
==
No matter which meal she chooses, he's never different in the afterglow.
Like a devoted husband, he collects her spent body into his arms, taming breaths into an equal rhythm. Two figures fall into the same pose night after night - chests pressed together, legs intertwined - as if abiding by a routine they refuse to deviate from.
He fears losing her, she believes.
He loves her back, she hopes.
Indeed, this is the result of their peculiar routine: a mutuality between famished hearts, grown by forces still mysterious. Atop existing immoralities are traitorous crimes of passion: the only misdeeds she may ever plead guilty to.
Do you want Loid or Twilight tonight?
I want both - and both versions of me want you.
Perhaps one day, he'll consider ordering from her menu.
[Fin]
