Telling Blanc to get a burner phone was such a great decision. She's really blossomed since I started paying more attention to her. Nevertheless, I'm seeing Violette after class today, so I ignore her messages. It'll be fun to see what she does when she has to hold it all inside.

In class, she can't stop trying to catch my eye. Getting laid has been good for her complexion, and she wore her long red hair down today, no sloppy pony or loose bun, so everyone notices her attractiveness. Hearing the rumblings of lust from the straight dudes and, diversity win, two or three girls, just makes watching her simmer that much more fun. It takes all her strength not to flush when she looks at me.

* * *

A few days later, on moving day, I expect Violette to be excited and buzzing around the activity because she's so excited about me moving in. She was electrified the day before, giggling at random times and sing-songing "Oran's going to live here!" repeatedly to no one in particular. Now, I didn't expect her to help, as she's proven herself a true princess many times since I've met her, but I also didn't think she would hide in her room the whole time.

"What's wrong?" I ask from the other side of her bedroom door when there's some downtime. Eric and Jett are with the movers in the kitchen, taking a cooldown break with some drinks.

There's silence for a time, but then I hear a soft noise and her door opens a crack. She peers at me with one eye through the doorframe like Kayako Saeki. "Don't like strangers in the house. Too loud."

"Yeah? I could make them be quieter."

She shakes her head, which I perceive mostly through the sound of her hair rustling and the brief disappearance of her eye and cheek.

"Having them here at all is bad. I'll come out later," she says.

"Is this that famous 'shy' I hear so much about?"

"Mmmmmmmrrrghhh." I wait for the long grumble to pass. She finally concludes, "Yes."

"But you don't get this way with me?" Really, she's never seemed anything less than confident, except for when she's struck by small moments of questioning, and those are always self-targeted.

"I had a plan to control you when I met you, so I didn't get scared." Ah, well. I do appreciate her brutal honesty. "Then, later it... was different."

"Different?"

"Since we became a team."

A team, huh? Good way to put it. I'm smiling at the idea when there's a burst of loud laughter from downstairs, and she shuts the door in a rush.

"Hey, it's okay," I tell her, pressing my fingers on the spot above the door handle, hoping she can sense it. "School must be tough. I thought you just didn't like studying."

"I don't like to talk to anyone unless we're alone," she says through the closed door. I had imagined her as a veritable empress carried around on a palaquin at her school, but she must be more of a ghost hiding in the shadows of the corridors. My heart clenches at the thought of her skittering from class to class behind her veil of hair, only revealing herself now and then to bestow curses of irresistible lust upon her victims.

Imagining her out in the world like that, I realize that I've only seen her in her house so far. We haven't even gone to a restaurant or a movie, you know, date stuff (or plausibly deniable step-sibling bonding, if anyone asks). I thought we were just wrapped up in getting to know each other from every angle, not that she was hiding away the whole time.

But I don't love her any less for it! I fact, I want to pick her up and put her in my pocket like she's a tiny mouse. For her protection, you understand. More than anything, I don't want her to stay locked away from the world. I'd like to do things with her--dinners, museums, walks, concerts, vacations, whatever we can think of--outside of this bubble.

"Would it help if you stuck with me? I could hold your hand."

Her door opens with such a slow and ominous creak that it takes me back to my first sight of her, when her cavernous aura and blank stare immediately put me off. I know better now! If I owned a house, I'd want a specter as sweet as her to haunt it.

More laughter echoes up the stairs, but instead of jumping away, she grabs my hand and presses her face into my arm, her other arm looping around too until she's wrapped around like an octopus.

"This is just another reason you need a big brother, right? I can escort you."

"Yeah," she murmurs into my shoulder as she clutches my hand like a lifeline. "We can try."

We walk down the stairs together in stops and starts, as any sudden rise in conversation and group laughter make her hesitate. From what I can hear, Eric's entertaining the movers with stories during their break, which doesn't surprise me. He sees to get along with everyone. Their positive thoughts about him were loud and clear as they came into the apartment to get our boxes and furniture, even when half of them were caught off guard by his fiancé not being a fiancée.

Eric hadn't told them much about us, and he comes off straight enough--his favorite subject is his daughter, after all--that two of them didn't realize. The other two had an inkling; l commend them for recognizing a bear when they see one. It wasn't a big deal, and the two outliers recovered quickly, but it was funny to witness.

Since they seem like all right dudes, I try to go easy on them when I mentally pressure them to Quiet down. Four is a lot to influence at once, but Violette won't budge past the foot of the stairs while they're carrying on, so it must be done. Besides, it's not too hard to push people into lowering their voices. Restaurants do it by just darkening the overhead lights.

Once the chatter's softened, I walk down the hall toward the kitchen, Violette practically glued to my back. A few more steps and we're there, where the four movers, Eric, and Jett are hovering around the kitchen island, sipping sodas and water.

"Hey, how's the break going?" I ask the crowd, smiling in a way I hope communicates casualness but also that no one should make any sudden movements.

Eric's eyes widen at the sight of Violette behind me. No way, he thinks. He hurries to say, "Hey, Oran, you didn't have to come down, they can handle the rest! If you two need a drink or somethin' just say the word and I'll bring it up there, I know that..."

He trails off, not wanting embarrass Violette by drawing attention to her fear. My arm hurts a touch from how hard she's squeezing it.

"Is that the famous Violette?" one of the movers asks, failing to read the room, too quick for me to silence him. This is why four of them is a pain!

"Dude, you ought to recognize her from all the pictures," another one says, elbowing the first. (They introduced themselves a couple hours ago but I totally zoned out, sorry.)

"Hey now, you make it sound like I'm handin' out headshots, not just proud of my girl! She's doin' all that influencin', y'know," Eric says, before he rushes to redirect. "Anyways, we ought to get the rest of the truck unloaded, I've taken up enough of your weekend, and the kids can fit in here better when we're outta their way!"

He opens his arms and herds them away from us, and I silently encourage them to turn away without further question. As they're leaving, Eric looks over his shoulder, and I sense a vein of possessiveness in him that she's probably had an influence on.

She hates when there's strangers! She didn't come downstairs to get to know one of them better, did she? She wouldn't... would she? Eric wonders. He wouldn't like that. Twenty-something men must be in a different category than her "school friends" or me, because he doesn't spare a second thought to sharing with us.

For the millionth time, I wish I could read her mind! What's her rationale for some of the conditions she sets up? Is it for her own protection, or is there a sexual edge for her to Eric warding off any grown man who might pursue her? It's a mystery to me, but if nothing else, her mercurial ways certainly keep me engaged.

The kitchen's soon free of the hum of strangers, and they'll be coming in next through the front door and climbing upstairs with the collection of furniture that Jett's keeping, so we're safe for now. After a moment of silence, Violette frees my arm with a shaky sigh.

"You did it!" I say, putting my hand on her head. "You did great."

She stares at me for about a minute, long enough that I feel very awkward, before rising on her toes so she can kiss me deeply. I might as well be an old timey cartoon wolf from the way my head could swell and pop from one kiss.

"Want a reward?" I ask after we break apart. She nods eagerly, takes my hand again as the sound of the front door opening reaches us. Tugging, I pull her down past the garage door and downstairs' bathroom, into the spare room that's at the end of the hall.

One night as we were lying on Violette's bed, she explained one mystery to me: this house is so big because more people used to live in it. I don't know why that never occurred to me, but of course Eric wasn't raising a baby at sixteen on his own. He was in his early twenties and coming up in the world of construction when he built this house for Violette, her grandparents, and her aunt (Eric's younger sister). The parents helped pay for it, and he did a huge amount of the labor on his own.

Apparently, her grandparents never loved America, so they're back in Shanghai now that their kids are grown. The younger aunt goes all over the world for some fancy finance job. Eric has older siblings who didn't help raise her scattered around China and the U.S. too. I hear I'll get to meet all of them at the wedding.

So, the spare room used to be the grandparents' room, but now it contains storage, a spare bed, a desk with an old computer, and a corner full of free weights. Not exactly cohesive.

It's private enough. I close the door and pin her to it with a bruising kiss. The sound of movers moving furniture up the stairs is distant, but still present.

"Mèimei, I know you were scared, but did you like looking at them too?" I whisper against her ear. She wriggles her ear away from my mouth, but I see her cheeks heat up.

"A little," she admits. Knew it--Violette's horniness may as well be a universal constant. A bunch of muscular young men who've been doing physical labor, how else is a slut supposed to react? I pinch one of her nipples through her dress and grin at the squeak it draws out of her.

"Bad girl," I tease. She shakes her head, but her hips rubs against mine at the same time. After that stupid fight, I know I tread a dangerous tightrope by calling her that, but it's worth it for how much she loves it when I get it right. It's the same with pushing when she sets a tiny boundary. If the "No" doesn't stop me, then it wasn't an order she meant, was it?

"Can I fuck you right here?" I take hold of her thigh and tug her leg up until she takes the hint and hooks it around me firmly. We're even closer now, the heat boiling between her legs so close and promising. No school today, so she didn't wear panties. I just need a little undoing to get to her.

"We'll get caught," she breathes.

"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Flash them and get all four of them to run a train on you."

"I wouldn't," she moans, but she may as well have a thoughtbubble over her head for how obviously she's imagining it.

"Right, Daddy might get jealous. He'd have to show them how it should be done."

"Oran," she whimpers. Her hips are grinding against the front of my jeans now. We're both keeping our voices down, and there's plenty of distance between us and the stairs, but if anyone came in through the garage, or came down the hall...

Her eyes swing from left to right as she considers it. I reach down to unzip my jeans, holding eye contact with her while I free my dick. Let her simmer a few seconds. Will Little Miss Exhibitionism win out over Shrinking Violette?

"Put it in," she says meaningfully. I shudder as the feeling of a direct order washes over me and obeisance takes over.

It's so blissful to serve her. A flicker of guilt runs through me for the fact I was ever teasing her. If we didn't need to be quiet, I'd whisper that I was always going to do it, of course, and really well, just how she likes, and if she needed everyone else in the house after that, I'd lead them to her like sacrifices.

Instead, I think it while I press my face into her hair, her neck, the crook of her shoulder. We stifle each other, her hand on my mouth or my mouth covering hers. Her pussy works against us, the sucking tightness of her insides dragging louder and louder sounds out of me. I grit my teeth and thrust harder, as if that will help. It doesn't. She holds her finger up to her lips. I nod and try, desperately, to please her in two wholly discordant ways.

Quiet and hard. Quiet and hard.

I thrust into her dutifully, though that makes it sound like a chore, not so pleasurable that it almost scares me. Forever, I could do this forever if she ordered me to. The door rattles from the motion we're making, and I can't even hear the sounds of the movers anymore. They could be at the door giving commentary for all I know. My cock throbs at the thought.

"Cum in me," she says, much to my surprise. Oh, did I do a good job? Had I earned that already? The orgasm rips out of me, and I struggle to swallow the shocked groan it tugs out alongside it, leaving me inside-out too.

"Violette," I gasp, when some of the Wham! has worn off, and our bodies come apart. "Did you have to do it that hard?"

"Sorry." She strokes my face, the gaze of her merciful blue eyes as cooling as rain, though her fingers are still hot.

I smile and kiss at her fingertips. We've started testing the limits and range of her abilities, how the combination of seeing her body down there, her orders, and her intent all mix together into an intoxicating brew. Finesse is tough for her. "It's okay. We'll keep practicing."

She nods, then puts her hands on my shoulders. "Eat me out next."

"Violette," I groan again as I'm forced to my knees.

If fucking her is almost overwhelming, pushing my face into her pussy is annihilation. I've done it a few times now, but each memory of it is like a glass bubble spun from volcanic ash, cloudy and opalescent, impossible to examine from the inside without shattering. The memory or myself, I couldn't say.

It's hard to be down there with my whole mind, so I turn it off and focus on sucking and tonguing her clit, two fingers pumping in and out of her so she has something to squeeze around. She was obviously born to be penetrated; I can't leave her without.

"Oran, Oran, Oran," she whispers in little stoccato bursts.

I'm here, I think, Trust me.

In some other world I might mind that my own cum is mixing in with her juices, but in the one I inhabit in this moment, it's just an interesting addition to the experience. The taste we make together may be too complex to describe or even remember, but getting her off is easy. Especially when there's something like the threat of discovery to elevate her excitement. Her voice rises without me there to cover it.

She was the louder one this time. That's the last satisfied thought I have before I shut down from the too muchness of it all.

* * *

I wake up on the spare bed, on top of the quilt, though a throw blanket has been placed over me. Jeez, that's embarrassing. Eric or Jett must have moved me; no way did Violette pick me up. Unless I was still conscious and just don't remember it, like when I had my fever. I touch my face and find it slightly damp from water, not stickiness. That's nice.

Soon enough, I notice Violette's lying next to me, her back turned away, though I think she's just on her phone now that my eyes are focusing. The sun coming in the window reassures me I can't have been out too long.

"Girl, you really put the knockout in knockout," I say to her back. I feel fine, which is why I'm surprised when she whips around to reveal her tear-stained face.

"Oran! I'm sorry!" she says before pushing her face into my chest.

Oi, I just woke up, don't make me have to put the pieces together. But I don't say that. Instead, I hug her and stroke at her hair until she explains what the problem is.

"I did it too hard again, I'm sorry, I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"Oh, that?"

Is that all? I passed out a few times while we tested her powers (on a bed, thankfully) and I'm sure she'll manage it again, but it doesn't hurt. I just find it funny at this point.

"It's whatever, I think it's just your power interfering with mine," I say. Other people get loopy or dazed when she orders them, whereas I hold up well until I can't anymore, so that's my theory.

She shakes her head into my shirt, which I'm going to have to change later from mascara and snot residue. At least it's black.

"I shouldn't have made you," she says in a thick voice.

"Shh, you know you have permission. Just, not ever on a concrete floor, huh? How'd I get up here, by the way?"

My reassurance and redirection seems to work, as she calms down enough to answer. "Oh, um, I went and got Daddy. The movers finished not long after that."

"Aw, went to the group and got him all on your own? Brave girl," I say into the centimeter of dark brown hair at the top of her head, before it turns bleached blonde.

"Shut up," she grumbles softly. Which does, unfortunately, force me to close my mouth. She really wanted me to stop talking when she said it, even if she didn't mean it quite as literally. If she told me to shut up without the intent, it'd slide off. As far as our testing suggested, at least.

I poke her and point at my mouth until she realizes.

Her eyes go wide and she tugs at my shirt with both hands. "No, you can talk! I didn't mean it!"

"Relax, Violette. You fixed it." I kiss her before she can start crying again. Sometimes she inhabits her big bad wolf role so well I can only applaud, while other times she's more like a tenderhearted maiden who's been cursed by a witch to live inside a sharp-fanged body. Unfortunately, though I try again just in case, true love's kiss doesn't do anything to dispel the curse. Maybe my love is too tainted to count.

"I'm glad you'll always be here now," she says sincerely, unable (thank god) to hear what I'm thinking.

Shifting, I roll on top of her, then sit up until my hips rest on hers. She likes to put herself in this position, so the reversal is sort of fun.

"That's right. Now that I live in the castle, I'll be the prince to your princess. The Merrikat to your Constance." By the smile that plays across her face, she seems to find that funny, even though I know she hasn't read the book. Maybe it's where I'm sitting? I just wanted to feel the way our bones press together from a new angle.

"You say weird stuff a lot," she says.

"But I would burn it all down for you, " I promise. "Though, I'd be the younger sister if you were Constance."

"You'd make a good little sister. If we switched places, I'd fuck you like this," she says, without a drop of irony or even flirtation, really. Like it's a fact of the universe. I bet she has no idea who Kate Bush is.

I laugh, though it's hard to be breezy with her staring at me. I'm very aware of her hips now. "I'm the one who says weird stuff? And who says I'd stop topping if I was a girl?"

"Me. I do. You'd like it."

"Wow, you sure?"

"Yes. I'd fuck you until you couldn't think anymore, so you wouldn't want to."

Well. I'm not necessarily protesting at the pulse that just sent through me, but I'm glad it's my secret. "You sure have a strong opinion on this. Have you been imagining it? Are you a cis guy in this scenario?"

"I guess so. You'd still be non-binary, but a little sister sort? And I'd be a beautiful boy, like I was in a K-Pop band."

"You really are the weird one," I say as I lean down and cup her face. "I'm glad we're in the places we're in."

"Me too. I would be good at it, though."

"I have no doubt."

* * *

Later that night.

Violette, I'm going up tie you up and leave you there the whole day as punishment, I vow as I look in the mirror for the tenth time. This is a dream, a lucid one at that, but no amount of pinching at my modified body, flipping the light switch on and off, or imagining myself somewhere else has taken me out of this nightmare.

"I look so cutesy," I groan to my reflection. Totally adorable, in fact: shortened to Violette's height, eyes rounder, hippier than before, with a small chest to match it. Like I've been taking estrogen for a while, I guess, because I still have my dick. Maddening as this dream is, the fact she didn't envision me as a cis girl is kind of sweet.

But I'm still pissed! I bet you think you're so sneaky. There's no way I'm having a dream like this on accident. I scowl at my smug mental image of Violette, who probably whispered the order into my ear and then told me to forget it.

When I first realized what was happening, I locked my bedroom door and tested it several times, so at least I'm safe from whatever brotherly version of Violette must be lurking in the halls. This isn't Daddy's house in a literal sense, but I feel that it must be, in that way where dreams make perfect sense in the moment. I'm sure she's around.

A knock at the door. Speak of the devil.

"Oran?"

Her voice--I refuse to think of her as anything but my Violette, in protest--has only dropped a few notes, and she speaks as softly as ever. My everything clenches at the sound of her. Dream memories of her beautiful face, sharper and broader than before but no less lovely, bubble up inside me.

Gēgē! my brain wants to say, but I flat out deny it. No! Incorrect! Buu-fucking-buu, dream!

"Yeah?" I call instead. My voice isn't too far off from my normal one. Small blessings.

"You've been hiding all day. Did I do something wrong?"

"No, no, today's just... Actually, I'm sick. I think I need to stay in bed. But I'm okay on my own."

"Sick? Oh no. I'll get you some medicine."

"I'm fine, big brother, just let me sleep!" I hurry to say, so fast the middle part just slips out.

"Let me check your temperature," she says, and then the door swings open like a fucking traitor.

It might be my dream, but I don't feel like the boss of it anymore. Almost like I've passed the lucidity on to her. Before I can blink, she's in front of me. We've fully swapped heights, I note blearily as she grasps my chin with her long, elegant fingers.

Her other hand is on my forehead, though she didn't move it. Moments are running together, becoming less coherent. She still smells like flowers. "You do feel hot. I'll put you to bed."

But I am in bed. Her hair, still long, but natural blonde now I think, from how light her eyelashes are, tickles at my cheek as she leans over me. Her serious boyish face has very kissable lips.

"Do you need it before you can rest?"

"Do... I?"

That makes her smile in amusement from her position on top of me. The weight of her body is heavy and satisfying. She's got to stop being everywhere before I get even dizzier.

"Yes. Usually," she says. Of course. If we swapped everything else, why wouldn't I have gotten her tremendous lust too?

"I do, you're right," I manage to whimper through the fever that's overtaking my consciousness. It hurts inside me, like the way a stomachache hurts, like I might tie myself into a knot if I don't get filled up soon.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it," she says in a reliable, comforting way that soothes some of the burning, and I'm actually getting pretty into the idea when I wake up.

* * *

"Violette."

She sleeps quite heavily and is usually groggy when she does wake up, so it was easy to tie one of her wrists to the top post of her bed. I just borrowed a few ribbons from her dresses and braided them together to reinforce them.

In the midst of yawning and stretching, she notices the state of her wrist with mild trepidation, though there's a thick layer of sleepiness over the top of it.

"Did I do something wrong?" She asks that like she is so innocent, but she's not fooling me.

"You're not getting loose until you confess," I say, my arms crossed over my chest. A chest that I cannot help but appreciate anew for it's familiar flatness.

"I don't know what you mean." She pouts.

Fine. If she wants to do this the hard way, I'm not the one who will start burning up inside soon... as much as the memory of that feeling is still fresh in my mind.