The music swelled as the soaring strains of strings and ethereal flutes swept through the opulent ballroom, their notes twirling and gliding as if on a secret errand toward splendor. Mirna hovered at the periphery of the dance floor, deliberately attempting to vanish into the background—no small feat when flanked by two armored elves, entangled in a genteel yet fervid dispute over her attention.
"I asked first," Hattori declared in a serene, measured tone, executing a bow so flawless it seemed sculpted by tradition. "It would be only proper if she danced with me," he added, his words imbued with the quiet gravity of ancient etiquette.
Honzo scoffed with a roguish smirk that danced dangerously on the edge of insolence. "Proper is boring," he retorted, voice dripping with playful derision, "and you know she despises dullness."
"I'm literally standing right here," Mirna muttered, her voice a mix of exasperation and disbelief.
Yet Hattori paid her no heed. "A single dance. That is all I request," he insisted, his tone as calm as still water.
With an impish twist of his lips, Honzo countered, "But what if she desires a partner whose smile lights up the waltz?" His voice was teasing, the challenge twirling in the air. "She won't know the difference anyway—she'll be too busy trying to keep up."
"Boys!" Mirna's voice rose in frustration, a crescendo of exasperation that demanded attention.
Honzo stepped forward, extending a hand both gallant and mischievous. "One dance, Lady Mirna. I promise, unless you dare insult my hair, I won't step on your precious toes." Mirna rubbed her temples wearily. "By the stars, help me."
Matching his gesture with elegant formality, Hattori offered his hand. "Lady Mirna." That simple courtesy was the final straw. With a frustrated grunt, she spun on her high heel, a torrent of colorful curses surging from beneath her breath—a verbal barrage that might have scandalized even the saltiest pirate. Her sumptuous gown trailed behind her, nearly toppling an aristocratic poodle, as she stormed toward the exit.
"Where are you going?" Honzo called, his voice echoing in the wake of her retreat.
"To find a quiet room, a strong drink, and a moment free from your dramatic hovering!" she snapped. With a deft stride that seemed almost miraculous, she reached her guest quarters unscathed and slammed the door with such force that the candlesticks trembled in their mounts. In that hush, silence was pure bliss.
Inside her sanctuary, Mirna discarded the absurdly high heels and commandeered the nearest bottle of a dark, expensive liquor, pouring herself a drink potent enough to strip the rust from an old sword. That was when a knock sounded at the door.
Without a moment's pause, she barked, "Go away! Go flirt with some other poor soul!"
After a brief pause, Honzo's voice, soft and sheepish through the door, pleaded, "We're sorry. Can we come in to apologize?"
With an eye-roll that threatened to become a full-body workout, she replied, "Fine. But be quick—I'm tired, grumpy, and in no mood for your theatrics."
The door creaked open, and Honzo stepped inside with a grin that managed to be both enchanting and infuriating at this ungodly hour, followed by Hattori, whose stately, towering presence seemed to fill the room in silent defiance. As the door clicked shut and latched, Mirna turned, her eyes narrowing into twin slits. "Hattori. What are you doing?"
Meeting her gaze with deadpan resolve, he stated, "Ensuring our conversation will not be interrupted."
Arching a brow, she challenged, "Are you planning to fight for the right to apologize first?"
Raising a hand in mock surrender, Honzo teased, "I mean... I could take him."
Hattori's eyes remained unflinching. "In your dreams," he replied coolly.
With a resigned sigh, Mirna took a long, contemplative sip of her drink before pointing to a lone chair. "One of you sit. One of you speak. And no theatrics—nobody better cry." In that clumsy moment, both attempted to claim the single chair simultaneously, and predictably, it toppled beneath their combined weight.
Mirna stared down at the entangled heap of competitors. "This," she pronounced flatly, "is precisely why I require chainmail."
In one swift, inevitable motion, Hattori arose, inadvertently shoving Honzo aside, and advanced toward her with a predatory, almost primal grace—a silent, fluid movement that belied the raw intensity of his purpose. His low, rasping voice cut through the still air: "If you cannot decide which one of us you desires, then perhaps we should decide for you," he murmured, revealing a flash of razor-sharp, menacing fangs that sent a shiver racing along her spine.
The words ignited a tremor of unease in her, and instinct compelled her to step back, heart pounding like a tribal drum in her chest. Her gaze raced anxiously over her shoulder to find Honzo already methodically removing his heavy boots and unbuttoning his crisp shirt, his actions deliberate and laden with anticipation. At that very instant, Hattori peeled away his own shirt, unveiling a network of lean, sinewy muscles sculpted with an artist's precision, his deliberate unbuckling of his trousers revealing a physique that seemed forged by desire itself.
Mirna's eyes trailed down his chiseled form, lingering upon the undeniable firmness that now declared itself with quiet intent. A startled gasp burst from her lips as, in an electrified moment, Honzo leaned in and murmured softly against her ear, "Let us show you," his voice a seductive promise that sent shivers along her neck.
With consummate care and reverence, Honzo's hands began the delicate task of untying the intricate lace of her corset, his fingers unweaving each knot as if revealing a cherished secret. Simultaneously, Hattori's single, deliberate finger lifted the fabric of her top, guiding it away with a tenderness matched only by the gentle kiss he bestowed upon her lips. The silken remnants of her dress cascaded softly onto the floor, unveiling every curve of her body—a living tapestry of scars and stories, each mark mysteriously beautiful beneath the attentive exploration of Honzo's delicate touch.
His fingers traced the paths of old wounds like they were ancient calligraphies, while he leaned in to press a tender kiss upon her shoulder, his hardened desire quietly asserting itself along the small of her back. Honzo's hand then found her waist, and with a confident, swirling step, he drew her into another impassioned kiss. Meanwhile, Hattori circled behind, his lips trailing warm, teasing kisses along the graceful curve of her neck—a sensory symphony that set her nerves alight.
His hands roamed freely, cupping her soft, ample breast from behind, his thumb tracing gentle circles around its tender apex. Each caress, every kiss ignited a chorus of soft, conflicted sounds from Mirna—a blend of pleasure and anxious wonder as his attentions mapped every scar, every hidden story etched on her skin.
Their exploration continued with an intensity borne of mutual desire, as both men reached lower, their fingers seeking the evidence of her arousal with ravenous delicacy. In a charged contest of yearning, Honzo's confident finger slid deep within her, sending shockwaves of pleasure rippling through her core, while Hattori, with a playful, conceding growl, allowed his hand to drift down to caress the rim of her enticing entrance.
Mirna's eyes flickered upward in timid astonishment, only to be met by a mischievous kiss planted against her cheek accompanied by a devilish whisper: "We can't possibly fit in just one embrace." Hattori then withdrew slightly to settle upon the bed, his delicate hands softly rimming her flushed cheeks, as if to revere every tender contour.
Still lost in the intimacy of their shared kiss, Honzo guided Mirna closer until she delicately straddled Hattori, even as her lips continued their fervent dialogue with his. With slow, deliberate movements, Honzo lifted her legs to unveil her glistening, moist folds—pale, enticing, and inviting—as if fashioned by desire itself.
Together, the two men held her with a synchronized precision—Honzo guiding his hardened length to trace tender kisses at the very edge of her delicate opening, while Hattori's firm presence aligned against the rim of her secret haven. In a hypnotic rhythm of shared passion, they advanced in unison, their every movement a deliberate exploration of her most intimate depths.
A cry erupted from Mirna—a heady blend of exquisite pain and overwhelming pleasure—as she felt herself filled entirely, her body trembling under the relentless cascade of kisses, gentle sucklings, and the soft, insistent caresses that mapped every hidden contour of her being. Their voices melded with hers in a raw, unfiltered chorus of desire—Honzo's husky admiration exclaiming, "Gods, Mirna, you are so deliciously tight and wet," while Hattori breathed, "Gods, Mirna, you wrap around me as if you could devour me entirely."
As their rhythm converged into a perfect, hypnotic cadence—each touch, each kiss building upon the last—the intensity of their shared ecstasy reached a fevered climax. Just as Mirna began to cry out her surrender, her words silenced by the overwhelming surge of passion as both men reached their own pinnacle deep within her, her body trembled uncontrollably, every nerve ignited by the conflagration of desire.
In the aftermath of that transcendent moment, as her breath came in rasping, ragged gasps, Hattori's low, assured voice whispered with a promise that resonated deep within her, "We are not finished yet."