In the meantime...

Two days passed in a haze of lectures, assignments, and an undercurrent of anxiety over what loomed ahead. The Vanguard Gala was just days away, and every thought of it churned unease in your gut. Damian Kane’s presence at that event—an unavoidable trial set by Aphrodite—hung like a dark cloud over your head. But there was also something else, something gnawing at the edges of your thoughts. That strange, irritating itch. The one you couldn’t quite name.

This morning, you’d managed to throw together a halfway decent outfit that screamed "guy" while not entirely betraying the reality of your situation. Your go-to hoodie, faded from years of washing, hung loose over your frame, the soft fabric offering some comfort. Beneath it, though, was the ever-present reminder of the curse: a lace-trimmed bra and a pair of silky panties. They weren’t uncomfortable—quite the opposite—but their presence gnawed at your sense of self.

Your jeans hugged your legs a bit too closely for your liking today. It wasn’t until you caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror before leaving that you noticed how your hips curved slightly in a way they hadn’t before. It was subtle, but it was there.

Shaking off the thought, you’d grabbed your bag and headed out, ignoring the nagging itch in your head as best you could.

Now, seated in the back row of the lecture hall, you idly twirled a pen between your fingers as the professor droned on. Your mind kept wandering—back to the weekend, back to the shopping trip, and especially back to that makeover at Sephora. Even after scrubbing your face clean of the makeup that night, the memory of how you’d looked lingered.

Pretty.

The word crept in unbidden, and you shoved it away just as quickly. You weren’t supposed to look pretty. That wasn’t you. That wasn’t right. Yet, no matter how much you denied it, a part of you couldn’t stop seeing the image of yourself in the mirror—those long lashes, the glossy lips, the smooth, flawless skin.

And then there was Liam.

The memory of your argument the day before resurfaced, sharp and annoying as hell. It had started with something so small—your stash of lollipops. Or rather, the lack of them.

You’d gone to grab one, as you often did when that strange itch in the back of your mind became unbearable, only to find the cupboard empty. After searching every possible nook of the apartment, you’d confronted Liam in the kitchen.

“Where the hell are my lollipops?” you demanded, crossing your arms.

Liam, halfway through pouring himself a bowl of cereal, gave you a blank look. “Oh, those? Yeah... I accidentally threw them out when I was cleaning up.”

“What?!” Your voice cracked, and you took a step forward. “Why would you do that?”

He shrugged, annoyingly casual. “They were just sitting there. Figured they were old or something.”

“You know they weren’t old, Liam. And you know I need them.”

“For what?” he shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You’re not five. You don’t need candy, dude.”

You bristled at the condescension in his tone. “It’s not about the candy! It’s—” You stopped yourself short. How could you explain the itch? The gnawing, persistent need without sounding like a complete lunatic?

“I’ll just buy more,” you muttered instead, trying to brush past him to grab your wallet.

But Liam blocked your path, raising his hands. “No, you won’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because we just spent, like, three grand on your stuff,” he replied, his tone frustratingly logical. “I’m not letting you blow more money on junk food.”

“It’s not junk food!”

“Tooth-rotting sugar on a stick? Yeah, it is,” he countered.

You stared at him, your frustration boiling over. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being dramatic,” he retorted, crossing his arms. “Look, if it’s that big of a deal, we’ll figure something out later. But no giant bag of lollipops, okay? Deal with it.”

The argument had fizzled after that, with you storming off to your room and slamming the door like an angry teenager. But now, sitting in this lecture hall, the absence of those damn lollipops was like a gaping void in your mind. The itch—the craving—was worse than ever.

Your phone buzzed on the desk, drawing you out of your spiraling thoughts. You glanced down to see a message from Tyche.

Tyche: Hey, sugar. Got the details for that favor I mentioned.

Your stomach sank as you opened the message.

The girl in question, one of Tyche’s “favored mortals,” was apparently getting married next week, and you were expected to play the role of bridesmaid. A whole day as a girl, surrounded by strangers, pretending to be someone you weren’t.

You groaned softly, dropping your head onto the desk. If Aphrodite didn’t kill you with these trials, the humiliation of them might.

As the lecture continued, your thoughts drifted. The shopping trip had been... transformative, to say the least. You had more clothes now than you’d ever owned, and while they technically weren’t all your style, they fit the role you were being **** to play. You couldn’t deny how much effort Liam had put into helping you, even if he was infuriating at times.

And yet, no matter how many bras, dresses, or heels filled your closet, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just a role anymore. The curse had blurred the lines between what was real and what was **** upon you. The reflection you saw in the mirror each morning felt less like an enemy and more like a stranger you were reluctantly getting to know.

But as your professor wrapped up the lecture and students began packing their things, one thought rose above the rest: that itch, that unbearable need for something you couldn’t define, was getting worse. And without your lollipops, you had no idea how to deal with it.

The scrape of chairs and the shuffle of students breaking into a tired exodus jolted you out of your thoughts. Class was over, though you couldn’t have repeated a single thing the professor had said. You’d taken notes—mechanically, reflexively—but your mind had been a thousand miles away, caught in a tangle of anxiety and that unrelenting itch that just wouldn’t leave you alone.

You gathered your things and followed the flow of bodies out into the corridor, slinging your bag over your shoulder. The strap brushed against the faint curve of your chest, a soft reminder of the lace-trimmed bra you wore beneath your hoodie. You ignored it, as you always tried to, though you couldn’t stop yourself from adjusting the strap slightly to relieve the pressure. It was one of those small, automatic actions you hated catching yourself doing because it felt... wrong. Normal, in a way it shouldn’t.

The rest of your day unfolded in a monotonous blur of minor tasks and nagging distractions. You stopped by the campus library to grab a few books for an assignment you’d been procrastinating on, keeping your hoodie zipped tightly as you navigated the quiet, dusty aisles. Even in the stillness, you felt conspicuous, like every movement you made was louder than it should be.

Your jeans were snug as you bent down to grab a book from the lower shelf, and you felt a flicker of irritation at how they clung to your thighs. Jeans shouldn’t feel like this, you thought bitterly, brushing off the smooth fabric as if that would somehow help. But they did. Everything felt... closer now. Tighter. A little too present.

The gnawing itch lingered as you walked back to your apartment. You’d tried gum earlier. It hadn’t worked. You’d even found yourself chewing on the end of a pen during class until you realized you were doing it. The absent-minded nibbling had felt strange and oddly comforting at the same time, but when you’d caught Liam glancing at you from across the lecture hall with a raised eyebrow, you’d quickly stopped.

And then there was Liam himself. Ever since that night after shopping, you couldn’t stop replaying it in your head—how drunk he’d been, how he’d looked at you, the way his hand had brushed your thigh like it wasn’t a big deal. Most of all, you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he’d asked you to change into something “better.”

He didn’t remember any of it. That much was obvious. He’d been his usual self ever since—teasing, annoying, infuriatingly overconfident. Not a single hint that he’d woken up with any memory of how he’d acted.

But you remembered. And it made things... weird.

By the time evening rolled around, you’d buried yourself in assignments to keep your mind occupied, though you hadn’t made much progress. The itch was worse than ever, a constant, maddening distraction you couldn’t shake. You kept catching yourself absentmindedly tapping your pen against your lips or chewing on your fingernail, stopping each time with a wave of irritation.

When Liam finally came through the door, tossing his bag onto the couch with a dramatic groan, you glanced up from your laptop and immediately felt a knot of tension settle in your stomach. Tonight was...one of those nights, you could just tell. It was unavoidable.

“Ugh,” Liam groaned, flopping down onto the couch like he’d just run a marathon. “Long day, huh?”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to say much.

He grabbed the remote, flicking on the TV, and leaned back with a contented sigh. “Anything good to eat?” he asked casually.

“There’s leftover pasta,” you replied, closing your laptop. “Unless you want to order something.”

“Nah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll just heat up the pasta. You want some?”

You shook your head, your appetite non-existent. “I’m good.”

He wandered off to the kitchen, leaving you alone with your thoughts. As you stared blankly at the TV, your mind wandered back to the argument about the lollipops. You still couldn’t believe he’d thrown them out. Accident or not, it felt... cruel.

The itch flared again, sharp and insistent, and you found yourself biting the inside of your cheek to keep from snapping at him when he returned with his plate of pasta.

As the evening dragged on, the tension between you grew palpable. You both knew what was coming, but neither of you mentioned it until Liam finally set his plate aside and leaned back with a heavy sigh.

“Well,” he said, his tone light but his expression unreadable. “Guess we should... you know.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. The awkwardness was worse than usual, the memory of that night looming like a shadow over your thoughts. He didn’t remember. He couldn’t. But you did.

Liam stood up, stretching lazily, and you followed suit, your heart pounding as you headed to your shared bedroom. As you slipped into the now-familiar routine, that nagging itch remained ever-present, a constant reminder of how much this curse had taken from you—and how much more it could take.

The air in the room felt heavier as you stepped in behind Liam, closing the door softly. The dim light from the bedside lamp cast a warm, golden glow over the space, making it feel smaller than it was. Liam flopped onto the edge of the bed like he owned the place—which, admittedly, he kind of did—but there was an ease in his movements that always made you feel out of place by comparison.

Your jaw clenched, but you shuffled over to the bed anyway, sitting down as far from him as the mattress would allow. The soft give beneath you was oddly distracting, and you had to fight the urge to cross your legs. Instead, you planted your feet firmly on the ground, your joggers bunching slightly at the ankles.

It wasn’t the first time you’d been here, with Liam sprawled casually across his bed and the weight of the “arrangement” hanging unspoken in the air. But tonight, it felt different. The unease wasn’t his—it was yours.

It wasn’t the act itself that bothered you anymore—that ship had sailed weeks ago. No, it was the memory of the last time, the way he’d looked at you, the way his words had sent a shiver down your spine. He didn’t remember, of course. You knew that. But you did, and the echoes of that night lingered like a ghost in the room.

“You sure you’re good?” he asked, his tone casual as he glanced at you.

You nodded stiffly, not trusting yourself to speak. Your mouth felt dry, but at the same time, that annoying itch at the back of your throat was driving you insane. It had been building all day, the restless urge gnawing at you, demanding something to satisfy it. Normally, you’d have a lollipop to calm the need, but Liam had “accidentally” tossed out your stash days ago.

The tension in the room hung heavy as your hands moved closer, brushing over the faint ridges of Liam’s jeans. Your fingertips hesitated for a split second, your nerves catching up with you. You clenched your jaw and **** yourself to focus. Just get through it.

Liam shifted slightly, the mattress dipping under his weight as he leaned further back against the headboard. His long legs stretched out in front of him, his socks faintly brushing against your ankle as you knelt by his side.

“Alright,” he muttered, his voice low and casual, though his tone carried that faint air of awkwardness you were used to whenever this arrangement started.

Your breath caught for a moment, and you hoped he didn’t notice how shaky it sounded. The memory of the last time you’d done this was fresh in your mind, the way drunk Liam had looked at you—too long, too intently. He didn’t remember it, you reminded yourself. He didn’t even bring it up.

But you remembered.

Your hands brushed the fabric of his jeans again, the worn material slightly rough under your fingertips. You curled your fingers around the edge of his waistband, your movements deliberate as you avoided letting your knuckles touch more than necessary.

The air felt stiflingly warm, the faint hum of the heater filling the silence as you worked. Your own hoodie sleeves kept brushing against your wrists, a soft and constant reminder of the layers you were wearing. Beneath it, the straps of your bra felt irritatingly snug, as if they were digging into your skin despite how perfectly they’d fit earlier in the day.

Liam sighed, his head tilting back against the headboard. You couldn’t help but glance up at him, catching the way his eyes fluttered shut for a moment.

“Relax, will you?” he said, though his voice carried no bite.

Your cheeks burned, a flash of irritation sparking through you. “I am relaxed,” you snapped back, though your hands betrayed you by trembling slightly.

“Right,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in the faintest hint of a smirk.

Your fingers curled reluctantly around him, and the warmth of his cock pressed into your palm. The skin there was soft, almost velvety, and your hand felt too small against the weight of him, no matter how many times this happened. You could feel him twitch slightly as you adjusted your grip, a reminder that this wasn’t some abstract task you could detach from.

The itch in your throat flared again, sharper this time, like a relentless nagging at the edge of your consciousness. You bit the inside of your cheek, your lips pressing together as you tried to push the feeling away.

But it was there, persistent and maddening.

Your tongue darted out, wetting your lips in a futile attempt to distract yourself. You hated how automatic the motion was, how instinctive it felt, like your body was responding to a need you couldn’t quite define.

Liam didn’t seem to notice your internal struggle, his head leaning back against the wall as he let out a soft sigh. His posture was relaxed, almost too relaxed, and you envied the ease with which he seemed to let go of the tension.

His head fell back against the headboard, and you could feel the tension in his body slowly ebbing as your hands worked.

Your rhythm picked up slightly, the motion fluid and practiced, even if it made your chest tighten with every passing second. His cock twitched again, and your grip adjusted automatically, a movement so natural it almost made you cringe.

“Damn,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. His voice was low and distracted, his words slurred from exhaustion.

Your jaw clenched, but you didn’t stop. The occasional brush of his thigh against yours, the way his hand twitched on the mattress beside him, the sound of his uneven breathing—it all added to the discomfort curling in your gut.

Your fingers ached slightly from the effort, and you shifted your position, the movement brushing your knee against his. The sensation of his cock under your hand was something you tried desperately to block out, but it was impossible.

You couldn’t ignore how warm he was, how solid. The weight of him in your hand felt foreign, no matter how many times this had happened.

Finally, it was over, as his sticky load exploded in spurts all over your hand.

You sat back slightly, your hands dropping into your lap as you let out a slow, shaky breath. Liam sighed, his head tilting back against the headboard as he let out a low hum of contentment.

“Thanks,” he murmured, his voice low and almost absent-minded.

You didn’t respond, your hand frozen in place in your lap as you avoided looking directly at him. The silence felt suffocating, the itch in your throat still clawing at you like a persistent reminder of everything you couldn’t have.

“Night,” you muttered, standing up quickly.

“Night,” Liam replied, his voice casual and unbothered as he shifted to lie down properly.

You turned and left the room, your steps quick and uneven as you made your way to the bathroom to wash it off. Closing the door behind you, you leaned against it, your chest rising and falling as you tried to steady your breathing.

The gnawing need in your throat refused to subside, a restless energy that made your skin feel too tight, too warm. You ran a hand through your hair, the strands soft and silky under your fingers—a stark reminder of how much had changed.