Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The young otaku’s room looked like a template stamped out of a million others, plastered from floorboard to ceiling with posters of oversaturated anime characters, girls arching their backs to thrust out their chests, fantasy knights gleaming in heroic poses, smiling idols frozen mid-giggle, all of their eyes fixed upon the single inhabitant of the room. He lounged half-slouched in a squeaky gaming chair, body rocking slowly, the chair creaking out a chorus of mechanical groans in time with his movement.

Alfred wore a pair of lightweight AR glasses, his bright blue eyes glazed with obsession, clarity stolen by the overwhelming illusion projected before him. In his right hand the game controller rattled as his thumb worked the buttons furiously, while his other hand squeezed his own aching length, flushed and fever-hot, the rhythm of his strokes uncannily in sync with the progression bar on the screen. Flesh and digital fantasy overlapped until his nervous system could no longer tell the difference between simulated pleasure and biological sensation.

Inside the screen, the boy he’d pursued for weeks appeared in full interactive glory: Arthur, the blond youth with green eyes, gasping, voice trembling into a syrupy moan. His model’s face shimmered with exaggerated tearshine, his lips parted as if letting Alfred’s name exhale like a ghostly kiss straight into his brain.

“Ah… Alf… y-yes… I… love you… ahh…”

The vowels stretched into broken whimpers, half-whining, half-gasping, dragging Alfred’s blood into a fevered rush. His breath quickened; his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down while guttural noises escaped unbidden from his throat. His palm slickened quickly with sweat and pre-cum, yet his fist grew harsher, pumping faster, the swollen flushed head leaving his hand sticky and wet with every lewd slap of skin against skin.

He unconsciously fused the rhythm of his grip with the game controls, pressing confirm just as his strokes deepened, driving Arthur forward in sync. “Yes, babe,hah...I love you too… mmh-ahh…” he muttered in between gasps, incapable of holding back a delirious whisper like some starstruck fool. It had started purely as a completionist’s ambition to fill out the gallery, but this level of reward was far beyond anything he’d anticipated.

Arthur’s voice climbed alongside his motions, engineered to perfection, faint sobs breaths slipping out and the flick of tongue audible as if caught by a too-sensitive mic. “Hah—forever love me?..Really?...me?...only me?…ahh! ahh! Alf!” Rendered in an oversexed parody of a British accent, slurred with obscene sweetness. Alfred’s cock throbbed angry-red, veins bulging as if blood would burst through the skin,pump grinding against nerves he couldn’t endure.

“Hnnghh!!ahh! Of course! fuck yes!ahh!” His controller clacked frantically, every command cueing another explicit animation. On screen, Arthur writhed against tangled sheets, pale skin blushing scarlet under relentless thrusting, the sound effects spilling a chorus of sinful wet slaps and breathy curses.

Alfred shook violently, trapped in tandem with it all. “Oh God too good, too lewd, ohhh fuuuck!” His torso jerked like a bowstring loosed, the chair sliding back an inch.

He pinched his base, desperate to prolong it, but it only sharpened the unbearable tension. Sweat bristled over his skin, his entire nervous system buzzing. Viscous strands drooled constantly from his swollen tip, coating his hand until it gleamed. His voice choked into cracked laughter and panicked whines, “Fuck—I’m gonna cum, gonna cum—cumming—cumminggg ahhhhhh!!”

Inside the VR, Arthur climaxed with him, the rendering shrill and trembling, crying out as though pinned beneath flesh instead of coded light. “Love you...!cum again!hah!!I need you, Alf!” His slim hips bucked onscreen, animated ass shivering, shaders painting his skin with an uncanny liquid gloss that mocked reality and heightened it at once.

Alfred exhaled half a laugh, half a groan as semen burst up through his shaft, splattering his own belly in heated arcs, droplets flicking even to his desk edge. Yet his eyes stayed fastened behind fogged lenses, glasses misting from his panting. “Oh god, this is insane...this is way too lewd, oh my—”

Slumping back, skin sticky, he nevertheless tightened his grip again. He hadn’t dragged himself through sleepless weeks unlocking Arthur for nothing. He was going to wring every last collectible illustration out of this code.

Without pause he flicked commands, steering the simulation into the next H-scene: Arthur shoving up onto all fours, delicate torso folded flat against dark bedsheets, pale ass forcibly lifted to expose him at the most obscene angle. The detail obscene enough that his stretched entrance glimmered with unreal wet shine, thighs trembling as the protagonist’s thrusting rendered rough and brutal. Arthur’s muffled cries keened into Alfred’s ears: “Mmmmhh—! ahhnn! No...so rough, Alf! too deep… ohhh god…!”

Alfred dragged his tongue across his lips, palming his half-soft cock back to attention. Spit-slickened fingers pumped, tempo measured to mirror the pounding code. Every time digital-Alfred slammed into Arthur’s tiny body, real-Alfred strangled his shaft harder. “Hhhahhh…fuck…for the collection, yes!hah...fuck yes, Artie, take all of it!” Sticky slap-slap echoed from his fist. He trembled outright from the giddy illusion that body and display no longer split apart.

The angle cut again, CG advancing into a straddling scene. Arthur forced to ride on top, spine bowed, green eyes fluttering half-shut, chest heaving and nipples rendered flushed, bouncing on Alfred’s cock mercilessly. “Ahhh!nghh!!Alf...don’t stop! I—I’ll fall!!”

Alfred grinned with feverish delight, words spilling in broken rhythm. “Ride me, baby!god look at you bouncing, fuck...I wish you were actually here......” His own precum streaked the length as he pumped faster, wrist snapping to pace the shifting animation. Confirmation prompts pressed madly, desperate to unlock the next angle, the next climax.

Third CG: wall pinning. Arthur’s small frame against patterned wallpaper, wrists pinned overhead, legs hooked around Alfred’s waist, abdomen bulging with the readout of too-deep penetration. Drool trickled from his lip as his moans warped into pleading sobs. “Ahhh! I can’t—I can’t stand! Stop, Alfred!! My legs!!hahhhhn! they’re shaking—!”

The look was so perfectly debauched his sanity split. Alfred’s tip leaked constantly, hand peeling seed across his skin. He barked laughter, then cracked into a cry, “Ohhh fuck!!!you’re such a slut, Arthur!gonna explode again, yesss!!!ohhh my fucking god—gnnnnn!!”

Alfred lurched forward, torso wedging down into the controller and desk, abdominal muscles knotted tight until they spasmed. His cock jerked violently, release tearing free once again in a blistering spray. Hot streaks of semen splattered across his lap, the plastic of his gamepad, even the shining reflection on the monitor itself, so that for one dizzy moment it seemed as though Arthur’s world had been blurred with his own by those filthy droplets. His fingers, already slick, grew even more slathered with sticky gloss as he clutched the controller through it all, yet still his focus refused to waver from the glowing options onscreen.

“Next! Hah!one more scene—gimme—full collection—yes, yes, YES!!!” His voice shattered into manic laughter.

The fourth cutscene triggered, camera snapping into the angle of a reversed lap position: Alfred’s avatar sprawled back against the chair while Arthur’s small frame was dragged into his lap, forced to straddle him backwards. His pale thighs were bent to obscene openness, his slicked entrance pushed down relentlessly by gravity, plunging the viewpoint right into intimate detail. The hole stretched and clenched around the invading shaft, the animator’s attention intoxicatingly perverse, every twitch enlarged and drenched in shine.

Arthur’s moans rose to desperate, near-screaming pitch, modulated so sharp they cracked into static. “Aaahhh!!!aaAAhh! W-wait! Don’t—don’t spread me like this!!ahhh!”

Alfred’s own body ran with sweat, dripping in rivulets down his back and chest as though he’d been caught in a storm. His fist snapped a violent rhythm down the engorged base of his cock, teeth clamped until his jaw ached. Pressure coiled in him like an engine revved into the red. “Hhnnngghhh!! FUCK, Artie!!!I’m gonna—gonnaaaaaHHHHHHHH!!”

His climax ripped up through him, breaking his throat into a feral roar that shivered his vision white. A messy fountain of white spattered upward, heavy ropes falling back against his belly, thighs, and the gaming chair itself. He convulsed as though tearing out his lungs along with the release.

Onscreen, the scene froze and a triumphant prompt blinked into life: CG Collection Complete.

Alfred slumped, gasping as though surfacing from drowning, yet his gaze clung ferociously to the monitor. He couldn’t peel his eyes away, unwilling to miss even one syllable of Arthur’s final whispered lines.

“Alf… I love you… I’m so glad… that you desired me so much… I’ll always love you…”

The rendered avatar collapsed languid across the dark bedding, snow-pale body painted and glazed with white cum, slim chest rising gently with programmed breaths. In the close-shot, his green eyes,like fresh buds not yet hardened into leaves fluttered, one fluttering closed while the other half-opened, meeting Alfred’s through the haze. His delicate fingers brushed against the blush-pink curve of his cheek. The AR lenses fogged in sympathy, overlaying the screen with mist warm enough that it almost felt real.

“Yes babe, I love you too,” Alfred whispered, but crowned with a crooked grin. He’d FUCKING done it! Every line, every hidden CG unlocked, after more than half a summer drenched in grinding, sleepless schedule reversed, energy spent poring over puzzles of dialogue branches, crafting gifts from rare material drops just to push Arthur’s mercurial affection into the smiling red zone. All worth it every sacrifice to clear the path that 99.9999999% of players had shrugged off as impossible.

And this grand finale H-scene? Honestly hotter than many full-fledged eroge designed solely to titillate. Rawer, filthier, more addictive. “Shot so hard… hahah, better than most porn games.” Alfred chuckled to himself at the thought, chest finally loosening against the chair. His hands fell slack, messy grip leaving streaks of seed across the plastic buttons, eyelids slowly fluttering closed.

A wonderful evening. He would rest satisfied, then wake with fresh plans to line up some lighter, saccharine dating-sims to cool down the remaining half of summer break.

Chapter Text

The night Alfred first met Arthur, he was unsurprisingly slouched at his desk with both hands loosely clutching the controller. For once, though, he hadn’t queued up for any dungeon, hadn’t even accepted a single quest.

Nerves dulled, reflexes halved after too many drawn-out hours grinding in the same loops, he had simply steered his avatar on idle wandering. His character drifted toward an island in the eastern seas, a place whose landscape he already knew by muscle memory, where fog never lifted until past midnight.

His headset rattled with the patter of programmed rainfall, tick-tick-tick-tick, as the noon-bright world dimmed into a dripping twilight. The entire map glistened darker, each tree like soaked cloth props strung on wires, the heavy drizzle blurring distance into shapeless watercolor. He had circled this island how many times already? Too many to count.

But that night… something broke the pattern.

Through the mist between crooked branches, he caught sight of a small gap in the trees—and in that gap, unmistakably, a shape. Something modeled, standing silent beneath the curtain of rain.

Alfred’s brows furrowed. He twisted the camera forward, zooming in. A cloaked figure. A boy. The hood drooped to shadow part of his face, rainwater dripping down his shoulders. Yet within that shadow, two pinpoint glimmers of green, sharp, animal-like eyes burned against the stormy dark.

His pulse spiked. This wasn’t in the character database. Not one of the scripted NPCs he’d ever catalogued. The presence felt alien toward the model-work of the rest of the island, coded impossibly apart, like an intruder smuggled in from another game. An exiled ghost. His heart skipped. A hidden character? A bug? Some ultra-rare Easter egg?

His inborn hero-complex kicked him forward. Without thinking too hard, he directed his avatar to hurry up the slope, closing distance quickly before such a fragile anomaly vanished. He tapped the greeting gesture command.

“Hey! You’re…?”  

Words were hardly out of Alfred’s mouth when the screen screamed red.

The cloak snapped back, rendering the boy’s expression stark through sheets of rain. Emerald eyes cracked wide in terror and in fury. His voice tore out sharp, jagged with betrayed grief:

“You’re here to hunt me down too?! Why do you people always… always chase me, never letting me go?!”

The words had barely left his lips before the entire screen jerked ugly with a flash of red. Out of nowhere, a combat interface snapped active, a burst of magical missiles shrieking through the rainy air.

“Shit—!” Alfred lurched, nearly knocked out in the opening volley. In real life he smacked his knee against the desk, roaring without filter, loud enough for the neighbors to bang the walls.

 “What the FUCK?!” No time to worry about Matthew hammering on his door a second later. Fingers flying, he slammed out of sightseeing mode and stripped his avatar out of the colorful exploration outfit, toggling everything back into blood-and-armor combat gear. His thumbs cracked the buttons like machine guns.

The fight dragged out in tense, punishing rounds. Blurred through sheets of rain, bolts of light slashed across the soaked ground, each blast jerking his health bar lower and lower. From the headset came the boy’s furious growl:

“Stay away from me!”

Alfred hammered at the combo keys, teeth bared, while half-shouting into the mic: “I was just passing by! I don’t want to fight, goddammit, I’m not hostile—holy shit, my deathless save almost went down in flames here!”

His HP plunged into warning red. Only after his desperate voice triggered the [Pacify] option three separate times in a row did the battle system finally relent and dissolve back into exploring mode.

Onscreen, the boy stood gulping harsh breaths, rain rimming his lashes, sticking to his pale cheeks. He stayed silent for several seconds before finally lowering his head, voice roughened into regret:“Call me Arthur…I’m sorry. My nerves are… on edge. That outburst was mine to regret.” He raised his hood a little, then turned his eyes away quickly, as if wary of lingering. “In future—…if you ever need aid, come find me. If it’s within my power, I’ll lend it.”

Something about the tone distant and cautious, pulled taut with restraint, sent Alfred’s skin pricking in chills. His heart launched straight to his throat.

The next instant, golden text streaked across the rainy scene:

New Achievement Unlocked: [Chance Encounter on the Island].

Character Encyclopedia Updated.

“Holy…” Alfred gaped from behind his fogged AR lenses, Adam’s apple wobbling frantically before laughter burst out of him. He flung his controller skyward with a whoop.

He dove straight into the character compendium. Sure enough, a new page had opened—but the portrait was partially hidden under a veil of smoky grey. The only line of text stamped beneath:

Lost Prince · Arthur

[His appearance is entirely a matter of chance. Encountering him again is a matter of fate.]

“That’s it?! That’s all you’ll give me?!” Alfred gasped. His fists trembled as he yo-yoed into his browser, opening forum tabs at a machine’s pace. His search flooded with frantic posts: scattered player screenshots bragging “Lost Prince? That’s must be bushy eyebrows Arthur”, “I saw him once,” threads moaning “haven’t been able to retrigger,” and vague chatter about achieved encyclopedia entries. But not a single person knew how to push his story forward.

The thought slammed into Alfred with shining ecstasy: If I could show off a full CG gallery, every achievement cleared on this hidden prince… imagine the forum losing their proud.

Thus it began: Alfred’s long obsession. That accidental sighting would burn his entire summer into one pilgrimage of grinding.

At first he assumed the standard hidden-character formula would apply: scrub the map endlessly, stockpile presents, toss them in until affection soared. Easy.

Reality, however, proved itself hell in pixels and numbers. This was random spawn hell. This so-called “Lost Prince” didn’t appear daily. He wasn’t tied to a designated corner of the island, wasn’t tethered to an “event” that could be triggered with patience. His presence was pure dice-roll chaos—sometimes glimmering for a moment in rain-mist at midnight, but far more often… nothing. Endless hours of Alfred’s avatar sprinting up and down rain-choked jungle until the storm cleared, morning whited out the map, birds chirped, and absolutely no hooded figure emerged.

Anyone else would have raged-quit after two false runs. Not Alfred. Alfred was stubborn to the bone, compulsion wired into every cell. The harder it resisted, the deeper he dug his heels.

So night after night he strapped on the AR lenses, scarfed down his burger dinners without looking, and drove himself numb, body sore and eyes bloodshot as the headset filled with the monotony of endless rainfall looped with crickets. His avatar sprinted through jungle undergrowth until he nearly passed out in the chair. And when at long last, the flicker of cloak and figure darted across the forest, just once his pulse had battered his ribs harder than any gambler cashing out.

Not that mere sightings guaranteed progress. His early attempts went comically sideways. Alfred dug into his inventory thinking of his one true soulmate-food, grinned, and offered Arthur a Special Ranch-Style Double Burger.

The boy’s model smirked cruel, green eyes flashing.

“That is the token of your sincerity? Garbage food. Poison. Are you attempting to kill me slowly?”

System prompt: Affection -20.

Alfred outright howled. “WHAT?! How the hell dare you disrespect hamburgers! Hamburgers are the greatest gift on earth, goddammit—!” He nearly hurled his Coke bottle across the room. That save file? Ruined. Back to zero. Another cycle of island-running ahead.

And so it went for days more in a loop of insult and heartbreak. Fresh flowers? Arthur sneered: “Flowers wither, meaningless as dust.” Affection -10.

A crafted gemstone? His voice like a blade: “A pretty shell without warmth. Empty.” Affection -15.

Gold coins? Expression cracking into fury: “So to you, I am a mercenary dog?” Affection -10.

Entire evenings’ worth of affection gains obliterated with one lunge of venomous words.

Frustration pounding through him, Alfred forced himself to breathe. Flung into bed, phone in hand, scouring forums while half-ranting at strangers:

“Guys. Somebody please. Anyone know what this Lost Prince actually likes? I’m getting verbally abused by pixels here, and I can’t take it anymore.”

Comments rained in: “Don’t bother. He’s coded as an asshole.”

“Unwinnable trash NPC.”  “

“Storyline’s broken, forget him.”

But the “impossible to clear” reputation only stoked Alfred hotter. The more the crowd gave up, the more rabidly he refused.

Shoving through all-nighters, he began combing Arthur’s reactions line by line, memorizing every cadence. Until one revelation snapped into focus: When Affection is low, gifts were useless—no item could sway him. The only stable way to lift affection was one: dragging him into dungeons and beating bosses side by side.

Which meant every rare point of affection had to be fought out of blood and sweat. Arthur would follow his team grudgingly, chant spells till his voice cracked, and still bark at Alfred mid-combat: “Idiot!You rushed forward again? Do you have a death wish?!” But when Alfred crawled out of a boss fight alive on just one sliver of HP, text in the corner blinked up like a divine blessing:

Arthur’s impression of you has improved.

Affection +5.

The kicker? Arthur’s stats were pitiful. His skill tree looked primitive next to any halfway-decent ally, five-second chants resulting in sad sparks that scaled like cheap nail clippers, and yet he had the audacity to scold Alfred for stretching the line too long.

Again and again Alfred shouted into his headset at 3am, clashing with Arthur’s AI, only to find Matthew beating on his door again, snapping: “Shut up or I won’t get your takeout anymore!”

Alfred had long since lost count of how many times he’d kept himself awake until three in the morning, the burn on his eyes, the sting of red-rimmed sclera threatening to shut, his forehead sagging toward the desk every few minutes.

He lived off caffeine jolts, shoving down canned coffee after canned coffee. Sometimes in the raw frustration of failure he’d tug himself off quick and messy under his desk, barely yanking his pants half back up before grabbing hold of his controller again, diving straight back to the grind. Anger, obsession, lust—they braided and cinched him tighter than chains, locking him into the game’s endless cycle.

And slowly… something about Arthur’s tone shifted.

After a cleared dungeon run his voice softened to a muttered, “…You’re… more reliable than I thought.” When Alfred’s avatar collapsed in combat, Arthur’s slender hand would reach down to revive him, grumbling, “Such a careless mistake. Don’t repeat it.” Coldness still edged words, but buried beneath… there was a trace. A filament shimmer of guarded care.

Until one dusky dungeon, both of them dragging themselves out, stained and bleeding, a hidden cutscene suddenly clicked. Arthur wiped blood from the corner of his rendered mouth, his green eyes weighted by exhaustion, yet a longing thinly veiled within.

He looks shy: “…Tonight… how about the Elven Tavern? Share two drinks?”

Alfred nearly knocked his Coke onto the carpet. His whole body whipped up into a shout: “This is it!!! Fina-fuckin-ly!!!” His finger pounded the confirm button so hard the plastic nearly cracked.

The tavern appeared dim and dream-thick, most patrons melted away, faint amber candlelight painting the wood tables and pale stone walls. Wavering warmth shimmered, blurred everything into intimacy.

Arthur shucked his cloak to the back of a chair, rare gesture of ease, allowing his guarded shell to shed. Wine had tipped pale red along his cheekbones, softening the harsh lines of habit. His green gaze, normally razor, wavered blurred, as if lake water quivering to ripple under summer wind.

Alfred’s avatar sat opposite, a cup of golden mead glowing between his hands. He fixed locked on Arthur’s softened expression across the table, throat bobbing with dry swallows of disbelief. So many dungeons. So much hell. And now—finally. Finally this.

Arthur caught the stare, huffing, twisting his gaze aside. “Why are you staring? …This… it unsettles me.”

Yet the animation flagged clearly, Arthur’s posture had loosened, even his foot leaned beneath the table, brushing faintly toward Alfred’s. The audio track weighted with husky slur, sluggish with the syrup of low-alcohol intoxication: “Mm… it’s late… perhaps… we should… retire to the inn?”

Alfred hardly cared what came next; he was mashing “Yes” like the world depended on it. Camera cut hard to the dim upstairs corridor of the tavern. A door creaked, candlelit inn interior sliding into view—Wall with Elven Pattern, feather mattress neat and folded, shadows breathing in the corners.

Arthur spun at once, startled: “You—you followed me?! But I thought we—ah… we each booked—two—”

The script cut him off mid-protest. Rendering seized Alfred’s avatar, system strength-statistics erupting into play. STR 21 dwarfed Arthur’s feeble CON 10—the shove gentle, but programmed irresistibly firm, pinning him straight back onto the bed.

 The mattress caved under his weight: Arthur sat down with a helpless thump, hands planted to prop himself, head thrown up with wide green eyes. His cheeks flushed crimson, breath short, trembling out: “Wh-what… what is this? You—what the hell are you… thinking?”

The avatar leaned down, one hand braced above the bedframe, the other clamping delicately but insistently around Arthur’s thin wrist. The camera zoomed until only noses, cheeks, and parted lips filled the view. Arthur’s face deepened red, mouth twitching open and closed, voice cracking to pieces: “Stop—don’t lean so close, I—I’m drunk, I can’t… what are you… imagining—”

Breath overlapped, subtitles appeared bold across the bottom of the screen: Choice: [Kiss Him].

Alfred didn’t hesitate for a heartbeat. Button slammed.

Animation rolled. The kiss crashed down.

Arthur’s pupils shrank sharply, horrified shock glistening up his expression. His entire face saturated with heat, cheeks seared scarlet. His hands pushed back frantically, fists pounding Alfred’s chest with brittle force, his body writhing against the inevitability. His muffled cry scratched through the audio: “Mmnn!! No...!!stop......let go—”

But the wine in his bloodstream burned his resistance thin, diluting his strength down to trembling fraction. His struggle melted into tiny kicks against the sheets, his lips pried apart, tongue invaded, the furious green eyes now glossy-wet with tears born half of fear, half biology. His shoulders shook under the weight of the kiss, trembling helplessly as his avatar writhed at the mercy of the controller.

The sequence advanced, layering in more detail. Alfred’s avatar brought both hands to Arthur’s shoulders, easing-slash-forcing him backward until his slender body lay pressed into the broad mattress center. Arthur stiffened, knuckles seizing the bedspread. His voice peaked in cracked, jagged tones: “Y-you little pervert!!what do you think you’re—ahh!”

Buttons shuddered, his coat spooling open, each clasp undone one by stubborn one, revealing skin pale as snow. His thin chest heaved rapidly, nipples tightening hard against cold air, blushing pink halos made to glow by firelight’s flicker.

Alfred’s hand slid beneath the robe lining, gliding rough along the sharp curve of Arthur’s waist, forcing his thighs apart with uncompromising strength. Arthur was bent wide open, his slender body trembling so hard it looked on the edge of shattering entirely. Humiliation stained him bright red; his voice cracked out between clenched teeth, ragged with fury and terror:

“Idiot! Don’t—don’t look—don’t look at me like this—!”

The game offered no reprieve. The animation engine delivered merciless close-up: cloth tugged aside, exposing a half-hard shaft and the glistening slit beneath, humiliation lacquered in slick pre-cum strands.

“Ahh—ahhhnn!” The instant Alfred’s avatar pushed into him, Arthur’s whole body snapped back like lightning, spine bowing upward, fingers tearing fistfuls of the linen sheets. His eyes blurred wet, tears threatening to spill, the mix of pain and shame lacing his voice into trembling fragments: “T-too… too big… s-stop, hhnn... don’t—!”

But animation parameters knew no mercy, Alfred’s model pinned him implacably down, thrusts beginning steady, deep, before winding higher, faster, unrelenting. Arthur’s moans cracked jagged at first, pain-laced whimpers… until gradually they tangled with trembling shards of unwilling pleasure. His thighs, thin and pale, curled unconsciously upward, wrapping taught around Alfred’s waist. Moist breath sobbed out of him, voice higher and higher, fractured to pieces by alcohol fuzz and humiliating ecstasy.

“Hhh!ahhhn! Don’t...Alf!!nghh… you… you bastard… ahhhAHHH!!”

In candlelit glow the scene tangled them relentlessly, bodies pressed, mattress groaning back a filthy rhythm. Skin smacked sharp, wet and obscene. Those stark green eyes glazed, half-shut, the mouth bitten until slick crimson seeped, moan wrenching itself higher. His voice screeched, trembling at the edge of breaking:

“No!no more...I’ll break......I’ll break apart—ahhh aaahhhhnnnn!”

Camera angles twisted cruel, spotlighting amplification of shame: belly bulging slightly under deep penetration, hole gaping red and wet, thrust pulling trails of tears and slick that webbed in obscene strings across his thighs. Nothing but exposure, showing his collapse frame by frame.

When climax animation overtook, Arthur spasmed uncontrollably, legs lashing to bind his partner tight, emerald eyes spilling silver with tears. His frantic cries collapsed into wanton keening, pitched outright into helpless moans:

“Aaaahhhhhhhnnn—hnnnhhh—I’m—c-cumming! Alf—! Hhauuhhhhhh!!”

The screen froze on the frame, Arthur’s body locked in trembling arch, tears streaming down his cheeks, semen splattering between them.

Achievement Unlocked: [A Night Together].

In shadow and amber light, bed creaked under the ruin of the prince’s resistance. His breath came ragged, green eyes shining blurred, his voice shaking into pathetic mutters:

“…Idiot… idiot… why must you do this to me… but… don’t stop… hold me… hold me tighter…”

CG recorded. System prompt: Affection 100%.

The player who had just rammed his way into the home-run endpoint trembled out of his chair in real life, every nerve lit with victory.

“YESSSSS!!!”

It had cost him hundreds, no, thousands of hours of gameplay, but at last Alfred had pried apart the prince’s thighs and taken everything.

Chapter Text

Human desires never last long. The instant after orgasm comes the fade into boredom, the mind already wandering to fresher cravings. Alfred, who the night before had drenched himself over the CG of the lost prince, woke the following day only half-remembering the rush, already itching to flirt up some other two-dimensional waifu.

Afternoon dragged dull in the hum of the air-conditioner. He chomped greasy fried chicken nuggets, sauce streaking the corner of his mouth, slid the AR headset back on, and booted up a newly hyped saccharine romance sim. This one promised nothing heavy, campus story background, cherry blossoms blooming, sporting grounds and desks glittering in pastel light. The heroine rendered on screen: a twin-tailed, blushing student council president with perfect acrylic shine in her eyes. She crossed her arms, head whipped aside, cheeks fever-red:

“I-It’s not like I like you, b-baka! Don’t think I invited you to lunch because I wanted to!”

Alfred grinned wide, both hands lively on the controller. Buttons tapped fast and precise; immersion came easily. “Hehe, tsundere route, easy mode, piece of cake!” he cackled, then dropped his voice into syrup-dripping parody: “Yeah, I love having lunch with you too~”

The background panned, birdsong chirped, simple, light, nothing weighted, nothing haunted.

And then it happened.

Across the pink gloss screen, at the far edge, something unnatural flickered. A haze in the periphery, blurred shadow just behind the carefully painted column of dialogue boxes. A pair of eyes, crystalline green, glared out with impossible focus. A hooded silhouette hazy as smoke hovered inside the delicate world of cherry blossoms.

Alfred blinked sharply, A mutter slipped: “Huh…? Did I imagine that…?”

But the game’s heroine was already screaming on cue, fists shaking: “You better listen! Now you have to take responsibility!” Alfred shook his head, chuckled, let out a “Heheh,” and leaned into the performance. Better to ignore the hallucination than break the flow.

Until fresh letters blared.

[Didn’t you say you’d love me forever?]

“...What?”  

Alfred froze. His whole body bolted stiff in the gaming chair. His throat rasped dry, his controller almost slipped from slick palms. The text was wrong.

Black and white, no shimmering pink edges, no stylish font. Brutal. Blank. Alien. And then another line spawned:[Why are you dating other women?]

The letters writhed, glitching, crawling like some molten code dragging itself in liquid. Sweat crept across Alfred’s palms, his back shoved taut against the chair; instinct whispered retreat. Yet the edges of his visual field were collapsing under a spreading static glow. Pixels drowned in dark.

“Beeeeeep—bzzt—beeeeep!!!” Broken static screamed into his ears, shrill, fractured, insectile. Green eyes bled open across the petals of cherry blossoms. The screen shook cluttered.

One pair. Two. Thirty. A hive of them. Dozens upon dozens of luminous green pupils filled the sakura world, doubling, tripling, multiplying beyond the UI’s frame. They pulsed against the limits of the screen, spilling out beyond the boundary, leaking into the plane of Alfred’s room. Each eye dripping expression twisted between cruelty, desire, accusation, need, all at once.

“Forever? Forever? Forever? Didn’t you promise me? Mm? Didn’t you vow you’d love only me forever? Why cheat… why betray me?”

Spam flooded, message boxes crawling like an infestation of monstrous insects across his desktop, overlapping, consuming visuals. Windows snapped stack upon stack like worms crawling over the glass.

Alfred screeched raw, tearing the headset off and flinging it away, sweat breaking through every pore. His chest heaved violently, ribcage clapping like a bellows set into frantic motion. The room hung silent, only his ragged screaming breath and the drum of his pulse in his throat. The screen hazed into a sudden black-out.

His throat peeled dry. He lifted a palm to his forehead, smearing sweat, manic laughter buzzing out. “...Damn… overheating. Device glitch. Just a bug… yeah… just a bug…”

But the screen cracked itself back awake, pulsing in unnatural white.

One line of writing gouged across the desktop. Then two. Five. A hundred. A tidal wave spilled, choking the display with text-strings overrunning themselves line by line, jamming the resolution into hieroglyphs of obsession.

Why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why whywhy why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why why—

The flood could not be stopped. Text gushed from not only the window, but the physical boundaries of the screen, margins splitting as though data were leaking into air itself. The keyboard trembled beneath his wrists, faint green shimmer licked the space above the keys, little sparks pulsing in time with static hums, a voice snarling mechanical through tinny distortion:

“…You promised me…”

Alfred shrieked like a cornered animal, the sound snapped sharp and broken, puncturing the cramped space of his room, breaking painfully from his throat. His hands clawed at the tower cords, yanked hard:

CRACK.

The power cut. The machine lights died instantly, cooling fan cough gone silent. Screens hushed to black. Only Alfred remained, slumped wrecked in the chair, panting desperate, body slathered in slick sweat, droplets falling onto his keyboard in hollow taps. The headset slid off the desk edge, thumping to the floor with a deadened crack that echoed much too loud.

Alfred sagged lower, chest jerking like torn bellows, lungs swallowing air too fast.

Silence stretched a few heartbeats, until the door thudded lightly.

Knock, knock, knock.

And then a muffled, gentle voice: “Al, I brought your package from downstairs—”The door creaked open.A figure leaned in, almost Alfred’s spitting image but carved softer, tempered. Matthew, arms cradling a cardboard box, the newly shipped limited-edition figure Alfred had ordered weeks ago. His blond hair was tied back loosely, violet eyes blinking against the dim light inside the room.

“Al, you’ve been gaming all day again, haven’t you? You didn’t even come out for—” Matthew’s voice froze mid-sentence. Words died on his tongue.

Because what stared back at him was not the brother he knew. Alfred slumped pale as paper, not wearing those AR glasses he never took off, console monitor completely black, sweat running down his forehead as if he’d sprinted ten kilometers without pause.

Matthew gawked, stunned, then his voice rose sharply, incredulous:“—You’re… not playing games???”

The exclamation cracked everything. Alfred’s trembling body jerked so hard his face collapsed, contorting into something near tears. His blue eyes went frantic, bursting out shrill and broken:

“Holy shit!! My wardrobe just moved! Moved, dammit! I’m not playing anymore!!! I quit!! I QUIT—!” His hand shook wildly, pointing toward the corner of the room.

Matthew turned, brows knitting. The wardrobe sat there, an old wooden piece Alfred had never bothered replacing, its door half-ajar with a casual gape. Inside: crumpled sweatshirts, a cheap cap tilted sideways. Still. Silent. Nothing alive.

Matthew squinted, frowned in embarrassment, shoulders shrugging. “...You didn’t scare yourself playing horror games again, did you? You seriously need to play less.”

.

For two days Alfred exiled himself into Starbucks until closing, staying late with a single cheap coffee cooling beside him, greedily leeching Wi-Fi. He told himself he was scoping out new game servers. In truth, he was terrified of that room. Terrified of the silence in his headset when there should’ve been cheerful BGM, terrified of the phantom echoes—“Didn’t you say forever?” “Why, why, why”—that chased him in every pause.

Even reflections in strangers’ green-tinted eyes, off windows, glass, polished storefront surfaces, made his heart jolt.

But terror has limits. Alfred was a level-ten gaming addict, nerve-wired for compulsion. A day without pressing buttons, without completion percentages ticking upward, his skin itched like ants crawling. Withdrawal ache gnawed him hollow.

In the end, he stormed back inside, resolve thin and breaking. Plugged cords back into the machine. The LED power flicked poisonous green, and Alfred’s pulse hiccuped messy.

He reopened the last galgame halfway cleared, something light, “Heartflutter☆Sakura Symphony,” or maybe “DokiDoki KAWAII Lover.” Meaningless fluff. Sunshine crackling.

New Game.

He exhaled. Relax. Just a normal waste-moe game.

Clicking the gallery, though, his grin froze, breath split in his lungs.

There, on the very last page of the compendium, bottom right. A shadowed silhouette of… not a girl at all.

[???]

Name: ???

Tap to unlock conditions.

Alfred choked, nearly snorting coffee back through his nose. Hands flew to his headset as he barked, horrified: “What the fuuuuuck?! This is an ALL GIRLS GAME! Why the hell is there a dude here??”

Worse: deep in his gut, instinct churned like ice in his veins. He knew. Knew exactly who that shadow belonged to. Arthur. The lost prince. The figure he’d once spent infinite hours bending to climax.

“This… this isn’t possible…” Alfred frayed into static. He cursed under his breath, flipping the interface back and forth, but denial was pointless. The slot was there. The grey silhouette twitched faintly, as though it grinned right at him every time his eyes lingered.

Brain shrieked rational escape: Exit game! Uninstall! Format the drive! Move houses! Alaska! Smash the router! Rip the socket from the wall and salt the ruins! Burn it all!

But his other hand, trembling, couldn’t let go of the controller. His fingertip quivered in endless tiny spasms. And in the hollow of his skull, another voice hammered, insidious, seductive:

Open him.

How do you unlock him?

What happens if you clear the whole compendium?

What rewards will appear?

Terror and hunger fused, grinding him into pulp. Sweat dribbled through every crease of his palm. He looked a drowning addict, no power to rip himself from the abyss.

And the unlock conditions? Unlike anything he’d ever seen in any dating sim. Rules that stank of mockery.

[While pursuing another heroine, three consecutive times, choose the option “She’s kind of annoying.”]

[During all date events, pick “Stay home and clean my room.”]

[Log in for seven consecutive days, but perform no actions. Remain on the main menu only.]

What kind of warped script was this?

Alfred forced a laugh, straining sinews, convincing himself through anger: “Ha! It’s nothing… it’s a bug. Just a bug! Nothing programmed scares me!” His traitor hand pressed [Continue].

The grey silhouette remained slumbering at the bottom of the gallery, grin hidden, waiting beneath the UI. Alfred pasted a nervous smile and pretended not to see it.

For a while, things progressed as expected. He chased the tsundere president’s route, blushing confessionals under the cherry blossoms, steady increase of affection points. On the high school rooftop, sunlight painted petals; tick by tick, her affection bar edged fuller. Alfred let out small bursts of shaky laughter, his confidence cracking half back: “See? You got nothing. You don’t scare me. Ha!”

Then.

It happened where a light café date scene should’ve been. He and the president seated across sparkling pastries, the background track a cheerful tune. She giggled awkwardly, menu trembling in her hand. The NPC waiter approached, mouth curved in customer-service politeness. Alfred’s finger hovered ready to order sweets—

The waiter’s voice rang out in Alfred’s ears.

Low. Cold. British-lilted.

“We only have tea today, sir.”

The blood left Alfred’s face. His brain detonated unreadable strings of useless error. His voice fell out in tandem: “WHAT THE HELL!!!”

Onscreen, the girl’s speech bubble flicked up perfectly normal: ‘The coffee smells wonderful.’ The game’s script trudged onward, oblivious.

But the waiter’s profile dragged forward into uncanny focus. Shadows peeled back.Skin ghost-pale. Blond hair shadow-lined. Green eyes burning out of the darkness like live phosphorus.

Arthur.

Next event, the classic “amusement park” trope, spiraled into something darker. As expected, Alfred steered his avatar alongside the twin-tailed president through a cheesy haunted house stage. NPC zombies wrapped in bandages leapt up with groaning jump-scares; the girl shrieked sweetly, clutching her hands. Alfred, behind the screen, howled louder than she did, adrenaline pumping high. At first, it looked like just another stock set piece.

Until he saw it.

One of the zombie NPCs tugged its bandaged head loose, cloth peeling off, and underneath was no low-poly filler. It was a sharply rendered face, all shadows and green fire, pale lips parting with disenchanted softness.

Arthur.

His mouth moved in cold, restless sync: “Didn’t you promise me?”

Worse was what happened during the gift scene. He had worked carefully, racking event points, saving the perfect item to present to the president. That evening ended soft, warm as scripted. Alfred relaxed, thought he’d slipped safely past another trap. But the very next morning, the game refreshed… and there, beside the garbage bin in the classroom tile, lay the same gift. Identical item icon. Hovering above it, a single drifting word in pale font:

Poison.

A glacier raced his spine. His gut churned hot and sick. Brutal memory blazed, the first time he’d gifted Arthur food in that other game, and Arthur’s cruel sneer: “You call this sincerity? Poison.”

Still, a gamer’s willpower is notorious. Alfred grit his teeth, ignoring supernatural graffiti, ignoring how the world glitch-dissolved into horror. He played through brute force, dragging himself deeper into the route. The student president’s cheeks flushed, her eyes flinched shy, her lips pursed. Onscreen, she leaned in quietly, eyelids drifting shut, trembling, “Kiss me…”

Alfred’s thumb pressed down. The choice [Kiss Her] selected.

The screen flared white for an instant, then fractured.

Scrambled static blasted across the lens, green and grey shards multiplying fast, noise so violent it split his eardrums. Alfred yelped, tearing the headset down. When he risked peeking back, the game had skipped forward, the kiss scene gone, replaced by bland daily frivolity.

The days contorted into a roller coaster, plunging Alfred’s mind into a pit. Blackouts. Sound errors. Arthur’s face intruding everywhere. But Alfred’s mouth stayed stubborn, gasping mantra. “Heh! I ain’t quitting! No way. I’m gonna finish my tsundere line, you hear me?!”

Like a gambler sweating at the table, the deeper he lost the more hardwired he became not to fold.

Step after step, he slogged up the meter. At last the affection bar flared gold. MAX VALUE. Script sequence triggered like a dream. The twin-tailed president stood shy at the school gates. Blushing cherry-red, she snapped her head aside, flapping her ribbons:

“Walk me home today, stupid! Don’t get the wrong idea… I… I only worry you might get harassed by creeps on the way.”

Alfred nearly cried, hand gripping the controller white-knuckled, screaming inward: Yes! Yes!

Camera panned. Her bedroom. Curtains swayed ethereal. Soft lamps cast warmth across spotless sheets. The male avatar stepped in as she retreated, eyes ducked trembling, voice wafer-thin: “J-just don’t… don’t peek around, got it, idiot…”

Textbook progression, flawless so far. Next prompt glowed.

[Pick her up and lay her on the bed.]

Alfred’s head burst fever-hot. Sweat drenched his skin in beads. He pounded the confirm button with wild breath.

Animation rolled: protagonist reached, arms folding around her. A squeak, shriek high and girlish, “Kyaaa!” as she collapsed back against fresh sheets, twin tails whipping in the air. Redder than blood, her glare and shame tangled.

Alfred’s eyes refused to blink. Skin crawled, sweat traced his temple. He swallowed and hit confirm again.

[Pick her up.]

White flash.

Dark.

Total blackness.

True void. Severed silence. There was nothing.

Three seconds. Alfred’s system-numbed brain rocketed, body spasming against his chair. Hands flew, mashing keys, bombarding the pad. Nothing. Empty.

And then—click. A single sample audio cracked like a whip, system chime loud as a gunshot. Suddenly: the main menu, bare and unadorned.

The game had crashed.

Color drained, stomach voided into ice water. His breath sliced like glass.

“N-no… no, no, no, no!! You gotta be fuckin’ with me! I grinded all the way, base route finally—!!” Sputtering, he scrambled, hands flailing to reboot.

The game relaunched.

But the gallery was no longer his.

Every girl—every heroine he’d pursued—had greyed, flattened into silhouettes. Childhood friend. Little sister archetype. Twin-tail president. Cool elder classmate. All erased shadows. Voided. Unclickable.

Only one remained, not grey but sharpened, colored in now as if erasing fog.

There he stood. Uniform white shirt, blue vest-jersey, plaid academy trousers. Familiar gold hair cuffed in boyish short trim. Heavy brows. Eyes the vivid green of uncut gems.

Arthur.

Arms folded against his chest, gaze cutting sideways at the player watching.

Character description:

[Your lover. You promised you would love him forever.]

“WAAAAAAAAH—!!!”

Alfred’s control broke. The controller snapped from his hands, his body whipped back, scrambling, stumbling until he rolled off the chair and collided with his bed. He yanked blankets over himself with a slam, cocooning every inch, curled into a trembling white ball. His body shuddered so hard the bed squeaked beneath him, breath ragged into the cotton. Yet his ears strained sharp, fixed taut on his room. The screen. The wardrobe. Every half-hidden corner threatening at any time to gleam with that impossible green.

 “I won’t play—”His voice broke in fragments, sobbing out like mantra: “I’m done!! I swear I’m done! Don’t follow me anymore—don’t—don’t—ahhhh!!”

.

Next morning, the sunlight should have been harmless, sifting gently through blinds in strips of gold. Yet Alfred squirmed under it, chest raw as if stabbed. He had spent nearly the entire night curled up, slipping in and out of fractured sleep, and his first coherent thought when day finally cracked was the gamer’s universal solution:

If in doubt... call for backup.

Scrolling down his contacts, he tapped the familiar avatar and hammered a message.

“Senior, help me! I think my console’s infected with some kind of virus!!”

Gilbert, already at his office desk “working” (read: absolutely not working), was delighted.Already at the workstation, messages are returned in seconds, and even the strangest online friends are kept close. When you arrive at the workstation, come to chat.. His reply came instantaneous:

“Explain, kid. Time’s no issue! Kesesesese!”

Alfred clutched that lifeline like a man drowning grips air. Fingers scrambled. He initiated remote desktop sharing, babbling frantically into the call:

“It’s serious, dude! Serious! My whole machine’s glitching—there’s this… this GUY who crashed my waifu game and hijacked everything! His sprite… his face—ARGH—you wouldn’t believe it. Just—look!”

Gilbert grinned, adjusted his headphones, hands drumming across clacking keys. Black terminal windows flickered, lines racing neat down Alfred’s machine. Five minutes. Ten. Then Gilbert exhaled a long, lazy “yo,” his tone absolutely unimpressed.

“Not a damn trace, little hero. Clean as factory first-day. Honestly? Like you just walked home with it out the box. Are you sure you’re not just frying your eyeballs with too much titty-VN?”

Alfred’s shirt clung with cold sweat. “No. No, I saw it! I fucking saw it, man! There was this Arthur-looking dude—”

“Arthur-looking? What? you want him so bad you’re hallucinating pixels now? Chill. Lemme prove it.” Gilbert chuckled.

He tapped open the suspicious game: Heartflutter☆Sakura Symphony. Smooth load-in. Pastel menus. Sparkling heroines smirking coy little smiles. Childhood friend, tsun-president, underclassman. All right there, picture-perfect, chattering sugary dialogue bubbles.

“Read the save. Read the FUCKIN’ SAVE!” Alfred’s shriek cracked.

“…okay,” Gilbert blinked, arched a brow. “okay, calm down, baby hero. Watch and learn.”

[Load Game]

Onscreen, the tsundere president tumbled backwards onto a bed, shrieking in mock-scandal as her shirt slid loose. The camera dropped into a heavy CG pan: delicate pale skin, blush flooding across her chest, her flesh rendered fragile in candlelight.

Both men froze, silent.

“Scheiße!!” Gilbert choked, coughed hard, and spat German profanity, slapping the controls to kill the window. “Bro, do you understand I’m sitting in an open-plan office?! NSFW in giant letters across my monitor, is this some new prank—?”

 “Nooo!!! It’s not that—it’s NOT—” Alfred, face flaming scarlet, flapped his hands helplessly, words dissolving into panic. “I swear, fuck, this is awkward!!!”

Half a minute of silence. Then Gilbert posted a meme into the chat, some smug, mocking sticker, and drawled dryly: “Kid, you’ve officially fried your circuits. Look! no bugs. Girls are fine. Save is fine. Machine clean. Only thing busted is your brain from too many late-night wank sessions. I’m out, work calls.”

With a click, the session cut. Connection ended.

Loneliness slid back, swallowing the room.

Alfred collapsed into his chair, forehead pasted with clammy sweat. He exhaled shaking. Maybe… maybe Gilbert was right. Maybe… hallucination? Exhaustion? His damn mind splitting under caffeine and games.

He wiped his face, jaw clattering. Teeth chattered as his finger quivered back to the launch icon. He clicked.

Once more, Heartflutter☆Sakura Symphony filled his headset.

The scene: bedroom. Curtains rippling faint from an unseen breeze. The coverlet cradled a dent.

But the girl was gone.

The screen did not show the pretty little sprite of the tsundere student president at all.Instead a new sprite bloomed, crisp, high-res like the others, but grotesque in context.

A white shirt slid carelessly off from one shoulder. A blue vest, plaid trousers tossed at disorder on the bed. His pose mirrored hers exactly. Lithe body half propped, blush seared across pale cheeks. But his green eyes glittered different, the sneer lipped cruel humor, ridiculing Alfred’s futile resistance.

Arthur now occupied the heroine’s place.

The dialogue box scrolled.

[Arthur]

“Showing me off like some circus animal?”

Alfred’s heart plummeted straight through his ribs. His grip slipped; the controller nearly fell from his hands.

“…No… n-no, what the FUCK is this, this isn’t—”

But the screen rolled onward without pause. Green eyes lowered, breath sliding through printed text as though each word exhaled hot.

[Arthur]

“I was starting to think you finally understood.”

[Arthur]

“That this is our little secret.”

The dialogue printed deliberately, each character flashing steady, sharp.

[Arthur]

Don’t.

[Arthur]

Ever.

[Arthur]

Try to show me to anyone else.

Then the interface broke. The text ripped free of its normal box, hammering in massive font dead center across the screen, glowing in sick phosphorescent green:

I am yours.

ONLY YOURS.

The letters stutter-flashed, refusing to fade.

Alfred’s lips had drained pale as chalk. Heart battered too violent inside him, lodging against his ribs like a wild thing desperate to crack free. His voice rasped in shivering drips: “Oh… God… he’s… he’s fuckin’ real.”

The screen convulsed. Graphics snapped to a new angle.Suddenly, Arthur straddled the POV view.

The outfit was wrong, horribly, perfectly wrong: the loose white shirting, half-unbuttoned; the same academy tie dangling offside; the plaid trousers flung discarded. It was the student council president’s costume, refitted to his frame.

And he wore it indecently. Fabric clung to one shoulder, chest bared with quick rise and fall, pale thighs spread across the bed as he sat down into the viewer’s lap, riding.

The POV lens locked on: the slender churn of his waist. The downward drop. The stiff arousal bared, the slick, glistening entrance spreading slowly around the protagonist’s cock, pushing lower, lower.

“You really are a filthy bastard.” Arthur’s lips parted, warbling sickly-sweet,breathy moan and spit curse mix together, breaking into singsong. Slowly, deliberately, he sank down, inch swallowing around the shaft. His hips rolled in rhythm, strong tremble meeting friction. He panted out jagged fragments, scorn bleeding mid-cry:

“You had me already… and still—you try to climb inside other women. Hhh! ahh! idiot… bastard… ahhnnn—!”

His whimpers were worse than the system heroines: breath caught twisted with nasal whines, breaking at the pitch. Under dim banner of the uniform shirt his chest heaved, nipples pebbled sharp.

The POV made the betrayal humiliatingly inescapable: Alfred’s avatar held pinned underneath, cock visibly driving upward into him. Arthur’s waist worked, slow arcs, then frantic drops. Hips tilted and slammed down, flesh clapped against thighs wet and hot. Clear strings webbed between them, pulling and snapping as Arthur rose and dropped.

Alfred’s brain in reality blanked white static. He wanted to shout: I haven’t! I’m still a virgin, goddammit!! That no woman had ever touched him in nineteen agonizing years. But nothing came out of his throat but a sick wet whine.

Humiliation corrupted him, but his body betrayed all. His cock thrashed hard and hot inside his jeans, straining painful, pressing against the cloth so tight it burned.

Onscreen, Arthur’s moans climbed higher. Green eyes glossed over, hair stuck across his temple slick with sweat. His throat cracked, sobbing words between gasps:

“Cheater… liar… bastard… don’t—hahhh—don’t look for anyone else, you hear? You can only—ahhnn—you can only want me… only me! Only me!!”

The camera burnt merciless into detai, his hole quivering as it squeezed down on the cock, milking hard, frothing slick turning white at the rim, spit-thin strings springing up then snapping apart under pressure. Detail oozed with obscene life, Fragment engineered to flay sanity.

Alfred’s panic melted into the calm of mania. A bizarre serenity struck him. His mouth tugged into a crooked grin, shoulders shaking. 

So this is it, huh. This is how it’s gonna be.

And his thought cut blunt, raw, utterly pathetic.

Well then. Might as well jerk it.

Another day ruled by his cock, oh fucking yeah.