brotherly sharing

After breakfast, Timo and I headed out. The sky above Berlin was draped in that typical pale grey of early autumn, but the crisp air was a welcome relief after the stifling, charged atmosphere of the flat.

We dropped the clattering empties at the corner supermarket, packed two crates of beer, limes, ice, and dinner ingredients into sturdy brown paper bags, and on the walk back grabbed dripping smash burgers from a street food stall. Timo chewed with his cheeks full, clapping my shoulder between bites and holding court about old mutual acquaintances and his football club.

"Tell me, John," he started between mouthfuls, eyes narrowing into a greasy, knowing smirk. "How are things actually going between you two right now? I mean, we both know what Loona is like when she's in the mood. But this weekend she seems… remarkably domesticated. Are you giving it to her so often she's finally chilled out, or what's your secret?"

A raspy laugh nearly caught in my throat. I took a hard bite of my burger to buy time as heat crawled up into my collar. Timo was utterly convinced that Loona and I had an easygoing, purely physical arrangement—a casual housemate fling, no different from the nights he occasionally spent with her himself. Loona had maintained that facade with clinical perfection, feeding him the illusion that we were just two lads casually sharing the same woman without strings.

"Heavy workload at uni," I deflected, chewing with effort. "She's just glad to decompress."

"Yeah, yeah, don't play modest," Timo chuckled roughly, wiping his chin with a paper napkin before digging a knuckle hard into my ribs. "Good on you, mate. Just don't let it go to your head. You know how she operates: she takes whoever she wants, whenever she wants. As long as she saves some stamina for me tonight. She was giving me that sideways look again yesterday evening."

Beneath my jeans, the stainless steel rested cool and muted against my skin, the silicone absorbing every stride without friction. The chasm between Timo’s boastful assumption—that we were cordially sharing Loona—and the perverse reality where I existed solely as her locked, compliant plaything twisted my stomach tight. Timo believed we stood on equal footing, completely oblivious to the fact that tonight he was merely an instrument chosen to cinch my leash tighter.

Back at the flat, a familiar, almost comforting domestic routine took over.

We stocked the fridge, crashed onto the sofa, and fired up the console. For two straight hours, nothing seemed to exist beyond controller clicks, yelled curses over shots hitting the crossbar, and the green glow of virtual turf. For the first time in weeks, I felt like the old John—a regular student killing a Saturday afternoon with his best mate.

Around half past three, the atmosphere shifted.

Loona emerged from the bedroom. She had showered; dark hair tumbled in damp waves over her bare shoulders. But it was her choice of clothes that instantly dismantled the harmless flatshare dynamic.

She wore paper-thin grey lounge shorts cut so high that the tops of her thighs and the curve of her seat were on full display with every stride. Over them, a washed-out white ribbed tank top. No bra. The fabric clung tight enough that the dark contours of her nipples pushed boldly against the cloth with every breath.

Timo’s fingers froze mid-pass on the thumbsticks. His striker ran the ball straight out of bounds as his gaze locked hungrily onto Loona’s bare legs.

"So, which one of you is winning?" Loona asked with honeyed indifference.

She strolled behind the sofa, resting both hands on the back cushions—planted squarely between us. As she leaned forward, her loose neckline pooled open, giving Timo an unobstructed view down her chest. Timo swallowed audibly, then flashed a broad grin and leaned back with performative swagger.

"John is scraping by on luck," Timo ribbed, openly admiring her chest before throwing her a wink. "Giving him his moment, though. We all know who's got the stamina around here—on the pitch and everywhere else."

Loona let out a low, throaty chuckle, playing into the posturing without missing a beat.

"Big talk, Timo," she purred with dry amusement. "Maybe I'll have to check later whether your mouth is writing checks you can't cash."

Timo’s grin widened, brimming with self-assurance. But while he was basking in his perceived victory, Loona turned her head slowly toward me.

Her emerald eyes bored into mine. Right in front of Timo, she raised a hand, combed her fingers casually through my hair, and let them trail down to rest against the nape of my neck—to all appearances, the tender touch of a woman indulging her regular lover. Yet under her nails lay a cool, uncompromising pressure. She squeezed lightly, keeping me pinned in her stare, and in her eyes flared the exact promise we had sealed in bed that morning: *He thinks he's taking something from me. But he's doing it entirely for you.*

My breath hitched. Blood surged forward, the trapped flesh rearing up violently against the steel housing. The cylinder went rigid, the silicone buffering the pain while ensuring I registered every fraction of an inch of cold metal.

"Let him have his win, John," Loona murmured, the double meaning ringing clear as she released my neck and patted my shoulder casually. "The loser has to mix the drinks later anyway."

Straightening up, she brushed a damp lock behind her ear and checked the wall clock above the kitchen counter.

"Almost four. Nadja should be buzzing up any minute," she said smoothly, strolling toward the counter, the hem of her shorts riding up precariously with every step. "Finish your match. Then we get started."

Timo watched her hips retreat, let out a rough breath, and drove an elbow into my shoulder with a grin.

"Bloody hell, man…," he rasped, keeping his voice low enough not to carry to the kitchen. "I have no idea how you live with her without losing your mind every single day. But tonight she's mine again, John. Just the way it goes."

Staring down at the vibrating controller in my clammy hands, feeling the heavy, pulsing secret locked beneath my trousers, I swallowed dryly.

"Don't worry about it, Timo," I forced out, my voice thick while my heart hammered against my ribs. "I can handle it."

Timo tossed his controller onto the sofa cushion with a triumphant laugh, stretching his arms high and leaning deep into the upholstery with his eyes shut. "Three-one, mate. Bar duty is all yours."

I got up, shoving my hands deep into my sweatpants pockets to mask the unmistakable tension beneath the fabric, and walked through to the kitchen.

Loona stood at the counter. She had quartered limes, laid out a cutting board piled with fresh mint, and was working the cap off a new bottle of rum. Hearing my footsteps, she didn't turn around immediately, waiting until I had stepped in close beside her.

I reached for the bowl of ice cubes, but her hand clamped gently, unmistakably around my wrist.

She guided me around until my back was resting against the lip of the kitchen counter. Her presence washed over me, warm and intimate—the scent of bruised mint, cedarwood, and her skin. Through the gossamer white tank top, the dark tips of her areolas were defined in sharp relief. She met my eyes dead-on, taking in my face with that calm, almost tender vigilance that dismantled every defense I had left.

"How are things holding up down there?" she whispered, so low the words were completely swallowed by the console's hum in the living room. "He was running his mouth quite a bit on the sofa."

"It… it holds," I whispered back hoarsely, my pulse knocking hard against my ribs. "The silicone isn't chafing. But he honestly believes that you and I… that we're just…"

"Let him believe whatever he likes," she murmured, cutting me off softly. Her hand glided up from my wrist, tracing the curve of my bicep before settling against the side of my neck. Her cool fingertips slid under my chin, tilting my head gently to keep my eyes locked to hers. "Timo thinks he's in control. He thinks he's claiming a prize tonight. But you and I know perfectly well who is using whom here."

She leaned in until her lips hovered barely millimeters from mine. Her gaze dropped briefly to my waist, where the hard geometry of the steel pushed against the cloth.

"The deal is ironclad, John," she breathed against the corner of my mouth. "You see this evening through. No pain, no slip-ups like with Emma. I'm keeping you safe. And the second Timo falls asleep tonight, you're back in my bed. Understood?"

I nodded in silence, unable to speak. The mixture of absolute dominion and genuine, shielding warmth left me entirely pliable in her hands.

Right then, the intercom in the hall sounded—two crisp, piercing buzzes slicing through the apartment.

Loona didn't even flinch. A faint, dangerously amused smirk curled her lips. She drew her thumb once across my bottom lip, let her hand drop, and stepped back.

"That's Nadja," she said in her normal speaking voice. "Take the glasses through, John. The game's on."