Chapter 176: Carne +18 Bedtime. Euphemia’s tapestry.

You return to the main hall and scan the remaining women. Prim sits with her pink hair slightly dusty from her perimeter walk with Yor, her eyelids drooping despite her attempts to stay alert. The nervous energy that usually keeps her animated has drained away, leaving her slumped against the table edge with her sheer dress pooling around her legs.

"Prim," you say, extending your hand.

She takes it without hesitation, her small fingers curling around yours. You guide her down the corridor to her room, with the frilly canopy bed and soft pink curtains. She stands before you with quiet anticipation as you release the single clasp of her dress, sliding it off her shoulders. Her white stockings and panties follow. Her body is slender and pale, pink hair cascading over bare shoulders.

You lay her back on the bed and settle between her thighs. She gasps as your mouth circles her pussy, her fingers gripping the sheets immediately. You work her gently but thoroughly, building her arousal in slow waves. Her hips roll against your tongue with increasing urgency. When her climax breaks, she cries out, her thighs trembling around your head. You continue through the aftershocks until her breathing steadies into the deep rhythm of sleep, her pink hair fanned across the pillow.

Arche sits with her chin propped on her hand, her noble features slack with fatigue. She has been managing the twins all day, teaching multiplication, and the mental exertion shows in the slight droop of her shoulders.

"Arche," you say.

She rises, following you to her room. You lay her back on her own bed and lift her skirt. She sighs as your mouth finds her, her body responding with familiar warmth. You bring her to a quiet climax, her fingers gripping the sheets, and she is asleep before you finish cleaning her.

Back in the hall, Laura catches your eye. The German pilot sits with her silver shrine maiden outfit slightly rumpled, her white hair loose around her shoulders. She looks exhausted from the day's social integration, her violet eyes heavy-lidded.

"Laura," you call.

She rises without protest, following you to her room. You strip her shrine maiden outfit with care, laying her back on the bed. She watches you with drowsy surrender as you position yourself between her legs and push your tongue inside her. She moans softly, her body accepting your attention. You build her slowly to a quiet climax. She falls asleep with her cheek pressed to your shoulder, her breathing evening out within moments.

You extract yourself from her embrace and return again. Lacus sits with her pink ponytail loosened, her athletic top slightly askew. She has been discussing magical theory for hours and her eyes carry the glazed quality of intellectual exhaustion.

"Lacus," you call.

She smiles sleepily as you carry her to her room. You strip her sporty top and skirt with care, laying her back on sheets that smell faintly of the lavender she favors. Your mouth descends and she arches with a soft moan, her pink hair fanning across the pillow. Her climax is gentle, her body trembling through it before going completely limp. You pull the blanket over her sleeping form.

Enri stands near the door, stretching her arms above her head with a yawn that exposes the curve of her waist beneath her green sundress.

"I was going to walk myself," she says with a tired smile.

"Not tonight."

You carry her to her room, stripping the sundress and laying her back. She wraps her legs around your hips as you enter her, her green eyes meeting yours with warm familiarity. Two climaxes later, she is asleep beneath you, her body still twitching with residual pleasure.

Yor is next. The dark-haired woman sits with perfect posture despite her obvious tiredness, her hands folded in her lap. She follows you without a word, her assassin's grace making her footsteps silent even in exhaustion. In her room, she lies back with rare vulnerability, her dark hair spread across white sheets. You work her slowly, building her arousal with patient attention. When she comes, it is with a choked gasp that she immediately tries to suppress, her thighs clamping around your head. She sleeps with her hand still resting where your hair was.

Fiona intercepts you in the hallway outside Yor's room, her silver-white hair catching moonlight from a window. "I am ready," she says simply, her ice-blue eyes steady.

Her room is sparse and functional, befitting her operative training. She lies back with military precision, her body tense until your tongue finds its mark. Then her composure fractures beautifully, her silver hair thrashing against the pillow as she climaxes with a strangled cry she clearly did not intend to make. She is asleep within seconds, her face relaxed in a way you have never seen it.

Shirley intercepts you in the hallway on your way back, her orange hair loose, her open-cup maid outfit disheveled. "My turn," she says simply.

You take her against the wall of her room, her back arching as you thrust into her from behind. She comes twice before you finish inside her, her amber eyes glazed with satisfaction as she collapses onto her bed.

You return to find Neia yawning widely, her sharp eyes struggling to stay open. She follows you eagerly, her blue shirt already unbuttoned by the time you reach her door. You service her with thorough attention, her body responding with enthusiastic abandon. She comes twice before sleep claims her, legs still twitching.

Kallen is next. She sits in the hall with her arms crossed, red ponytail slightly mussed. "Just get it over with," she mutters, though her cheeks are flushed.

You carry her to her room and take her slowly, her competitive pride dissolving into genuine moans as you build her to climax. She bites her pillow when she comes, her red hair splayed across the sheets. You finish inside her and she is asleep before you pull the blanket up.

Orihime waits with her auburn hair loose around her shoulders, her festival miko outfit slightly disheveled from your earlier groping. She giggles as you lift her, her warmth pressing against your chest. In her room, she trustingly spreads her legs open, and you reward her with a slow building climax that makes her cry your name softly before drifting off.

Villetta waits patiently in the hall, her dark skin glowing in the firelight. You take her to bed, her body responding to your touch with trained obedience that has softened into genuine desire. She climaxes quietly and sleeps immediately.

Milly sits with analytical composure despite her drooping eyelids. "I was wondering when you would get to me," she says with a knowing smile.

Her climax is intense, her blue eyes going wide before squeezing shut, her analytical mind surrendering completely to sensation.

Alicia follows, her princess-knight frame tense with residual energy from the day. You work her harder than the others, her stamina requiring more effort before she surrenders to sleep with a satisfied groan.

You cross the nearly empty hall toward Charlotte and Euphemia, the last two women still awake. Charlotte sits with rigid posture, her blue eyes tracking your approach with analytical precision. Euphemia watches with serene patience, her violet eyes half-open and her half-cup maid outfit slightly disheveled from the long evening.

You stop before Charlotte and cup her chin, tilting her face up. Your lips meet hers in a slow, deliberate kiss. She does not resist, her mouth softening against yours, her tongue meeting yours with careful hesitation. When you pull back, her cheeks are flushed beneath her composed expression.

"Come watch," you tell her quietly. "I want you to see how I claim a woman's first time."

Charlotte's blue eyes widen fractionally. She rises without a word, following you as you turn to Euphemia.

The Britannian princess sits with her hands folded in her lap, her eyes brightening as you approach. You lean down past her face, your mouth finding the swell of her breast above the half-cup fabric. You kiss each one slowly, tongue circling her nipples, and she inhales sharply, her fingers gripping the edge of the bench.

You hook your arms beneath her thighs and lift her. She gasps, her arms wrapping around your neck, her weight settling against your chest as you carry her from the hall. Charlotte follows three steps behind, her footsteps precise and measured.

In Euphemia's room, you lay her back on the bed with its soft lavender sheets. You pet her face gently, tracing her cheekbone with your thumb.

"Are you ready to be claimed?"

Her violet eyes meet yours with absolute certainty. "I have been waiting. Yes."

You kiss her slowly, deeply, your hands working the half-cup maid outfit off her body with ease. Her skin is pale and soft beneath you, her breasts rising with each breath. You descend between her thighs, your mouth finding her virgin flesh. She moans, her hips rolling against your tongue as you build her arousal carefully, thoroughly. You savor the taste of her, knowing this is the last time you will experience her this way. Her climax builds in waves, her fingers threading through your hair, her back arching off the bed.

When she is trembling and wet, you rise above her. Charlotte stands near the door, watching with wide blue eyes, her notebook forgotten.

You position yourself and push forward in one steady stroke. Euphemia cries out, her nails digging into your shoulders, tears spilling. You hold still, letting her adjust, kissing the tears from her cheeks.

"I am yours," she whispers.

You begin moving slowly, building her toward a deeper climax. She comes apart beneath you with a shuddering cry, her body clenching around you, and you follow moments later, releasing inside her.

After a minute of her slow recovery, you withdraw and instantly swap the stained sheets with clean ones from your inventory. Then you transform the virginity-marked fabric, golden borders materializing along its edges, the blood stain becoming a centerpiece of deliberate artistry. You hang it beside her door.

"I make one of these for each of the women whose first time I take," you explain to both of them. Euphemia gazes at it with wonder, her violet eyes glistening.

"I have seen Lisara's and Kallen's," she murmurs with a smile. "I have my own."

Charlotte stares at the tapestry, then at Euphemia's tear-streaked but radiant face. "You give this much value to a single night," she says quietly. "I did not expect that."

"It is not a single night," you reply. "It is a moment that you as young women have prepared for your entire lives. It deserves to be remembered."

You wave your hand and prestidigitation removes the traces of your shared intimacy from Euphemia's skin, leaving her clean and fragrant. Her violet eyes are already closed, her breathing deep and even, her naked body curled beneath the fresh lavender sheets. The tapestry hangs beside her door, golden borders catching the moonlight that filters through her curtains. You pull the door shut gently behind you.

Charlotte stands in the hallway, watching you with that particular analytical intensity she never quite manages to conceal. Her charcoal blouse with its maid lace trim is slightly rumpled from the long day, her blonde hair loosened from its usual precise arrangement.

"Ready?" you ask.

She nods once, falling into step beside you as you walk toward her room. Her footsteps calculate every movement.

You open her door and guide her inside. The room is exactly as she has arranged it since arriving. Her notebook placed on the writing desk beside a half-finished cup of tea that has long since gone cold.

You unbutton her blouse with steady hands, sliding it from her shoulders. She does not resist, her blue eyes tracking your movements with clinical observation even as her breath quickens. Her skirt follows, pooling at her feet. You lay her back on the bed in her white undergarments, then remove those as well, exposing her pale skin to the cool air.

"I watched the entire thing," she says as you settle between her thighs. "Euphemia's first time."

"I wanted you to see how I treat women when they give me something precious."

Your mouth finds her and she inhales sharply, her hips shifting. You work her slowly, building her arousal with patient attention while she speaks.

"It was not what I expected," she manages, her voice slightly strained. "The gentleness. The tapestry. You treat virginity as though it is something you are paying for rather than taking."

You circle her clit with your tongue. "Because it is precious to the woman giving it. That makes it precious to me."

Charlotte's fingers grip the sheets. "In France, noble women trade their virginity for political advantage. Marriages. Alliances. It is a transaction."

"And here?"

"Here it is also a transaction," she breathes, her back arching slightly. "But one where the woman receives something of equal value rather than being spent."

You increase your pace slightly, rewarded by a soft moan she immediately tries to suppress. Her analytical mind wars with her body's responses.

"The pairings tomorrow," she says, redirecting the conversation as her composure begins to fracture. "Olivia. She has potential. Natural athleticism, good instincts. Months of dock labor started building her physique and something harder in her eyes."

You hum against her flesh, sending vibrations through her core. She gasps.

"I intend to assess her combat aptitude," Charlotte continues, her voice wavering. "And determine whether her combat sense can be developed."

Your tongue slides inside her and she loses her train of thought entirely, her thighs clamping around your head. You bring her to climax with deliberate thoroughness, her body shuddering as her analytical mind surrenders completely. She comes with a choked cry, her fingers tangled in your hair, her blue eyes squeezed shut.

You continue through the aftershocks until her breathing steadies into the deep rhythm of approaching sleep. Her hand finds your cheek in the darkness, her touch feather-light.

"The tapestry tradition," she murmurs, her eyes barely open. "Will you make one for me?"

"When you are ready."

"I am beginning to think I might be ready sooner than I expected."

She is asleep before you rise from the bed, her blonde hair spread across the pillow, her expression peaceful in a way you don't see it during waking hours.

You leave Charlotte sleeping peacefully and walk the quiet corridor to Renner's room. The door opens silently at your touch. Through the portal-mirror connecting her Carne Manor bedroom to her Re-Estize Castle chambers, you see the princess curled beneath her sheets, her golden hair fanned across the pillow, her expression unguarded in sleep. She looks younger than her years in this state, the calculating intelligence behind her eyes temporarily dormant. Satisfied, you close the door.

The Dungeon Passageway to the Lucifuge Estate swallows you in silver light. You emerge in the servants' alcove and immediately hear Oriax's voice from down the hall, sharp with irritation.

"I cannot hold still. My skin feels like it is crawling with lightning."

You follow the sound to the master bedroom. Passing Grayfia's room, she sleeps soundly in the large bed, her silver hair spread across the pillows, her breathing deep and even. Oriax paces beside the window in a sheer nightgown, her rejuvenated body practically vibrating with excess magical energy. She looks like a woman in her mid-twenties now, her silver hair loose and slightly wild, her eyes bright with an almost feverish intensity. She stops mid-stride when she sees you.

"You," she says, pointing at you. "This is your doing. I have not slept because every time I close my eyes I feel like I might accidentally level this estate."

"I did warn you the payment method was unconventional."

"Unconventional." She crosses her arms beneath her breasts, the sheer fabric doing nothing to conceal the way her body thrums with contained power. "I have been pacing for six hours. Grayfia fell asleep almost immediately. Apparently devil physiology processes magical infusion differently."

You lean against the doorframe. "Come spend the night with me and Albedo. I promise you will at least enjoy your long night."

Oriax's silver eyes narrow. "You are asking me to leave my sleeping daughter alone in a house full of magical energy I cannot control."

"The estate's wards will hold. And you need to burn some of that excess off before you accidentally vaporize the furniture."

She considers this for a long moment, her jaw working. Then she exhales sharply through her nose.

"Fine. But if Albedo makes one comment about hierarchy or primacy, I am leaving regardless of how much power is crackling through my veins."

"Then kiss her so she can't speak past your tongue."

Oriax pulls on a dark robe over her nightgown and follows you through the Dungeon Passageway. The throne room of Nazarick stretches before you, its impossible grandeur unchanged. You walk the familiar path toward Albedo's chambers on the ninth floor, Oriax keeping pace beside you with the restless energy of someone whose body refuses to settle.

"How long does this last?" she asks as you ascend.

"The infusion? Your body will integrate what it cannot expend. A few more days at most."

"And if I cannot expend it?"

"That is what tonight is for. Though I imagine it will find an outlet somehow, likely an urge or instinct."

Albedo's door opens before you reach it. The Floor Guardian stands in a white silk nightgown, her golden eyes bright with recognition. She takes in Oriax's presence with a measured smile.

"My lord. And Lady Lucifuge. How delightful."

Oriax's expression remains flat. "Spare me."

Albedo's smile widens rather than diminishing. She steps aside, gesturing inward. The chamber beyond is spacious and luxurious, dominated by a bed large enough for six.

"I trust you had a productive evening," Albedo says to you, her wings swaying gently.

"Productive and long. Carne Manor is asleep. Oriax needs to burn off magical excess. I thought the three of us could manage that together."

Albedo's eyes gleam. "I would be honored to assist."

Oriax shrugs off her robe, revealing the sheer nightgown beneath, her rejuvenated body practically glowing with contained power. "Just do not make it weird."

"Lady Lucifuge," Albedo replies with perfect composure, "I assure you. I only ever make things magnificent."