Chapter Text
Sunlight filtered in gently through the gauzy curtains, dusting the room in the quiet gold of early morning. There was warmth in the air, the kind that lingered even after the body had gone still, and a hush, a velvet hush, wrapped around everything. Somewhere down the hall, someone’s door creaked faintly. But here, in this room, time had gone syrup-thick and slow.
Penelope’s red dress was wrinkled beyond saving, her lipstick long faded, her limbs warm and heavy from the weight of wine, thwarted desire, and the rare comfort of being held.
And held she had been.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, she must have tucked him there—this tall, maddening, frustrating man—because Benedict was now quite literally nestled in her arms like a much-too-large child.
His face, scruffy and relaxed, was pillowed squarely against the soft weight of her breasts, his mouth partially open, his lashes tangled over high cheekbones. Her arms had looped around him in sleep—protectively, possessively—her cheek resting atop the unruly thatch of curls crowning his head.
One of his arms had slung across her waist at some point, his hand splayed over the small of her back, fingers splayed in a way that felt more intimate than it should have. His body was warm and solid and so there, draped partially over her legs, the length of him tangled in sheets and sin.
And then.
A tickle.
A tendril of that ridiculous, dark, curling hair danced its way up her nose, a teasing feather that stirred something deep in her sinuses. Her brow furrowed as she stirred slightly, instinctively inhaling, and then—
"Hhh-TCHHhh!"
A sneeze. Violent. Sudden. And completely ungraceful.
It startled them both.
Benedict jerked, startled, blinking awake in confusion as his head bounced lightly against her breasts. Her hand was still splayed over the broad expanse of his back, her cheek was pressed against the dark mess of curls at the crown of his head. Said curls, she now realized, had drifted near her nose and tickled her into consciousness.
Penelope groaned, already cringing.
His face was still squished awkwardly against her cleavage, and he had been using her breasts as a pillow. Firmly. Comfortably. As if he had somehow nestled there in the night and decided it was the only place worth sleeping.
“Oh God,” Penelope breathed in horror, just as Benedict’s eyes fluttered open again against her skin.
She could feel the heat of his breath there. She could feel him.
He blinked slowly, confusion clouding his gaze, until the moment they locked eyes and their mutual mortification detonated in the silence between them.
There was a beat of absolute, horrified stillness.
Then Benedict made a low, strangled sound and lifted his head, barely, just enough to look up at her.
His brows shot up. “...Oh,” he croaked, voice gravelly and much too attractive for someone half-pinned to her breasts. “Morning.”
“I sneezed,” she blurted.
His mouth twitched. “That explains the full-body jolt I just experienced.”
Penelope stared down at him, her arms still around his shoulders, his chest bare and warm against her. She felt everything, his solid form against her, the way their legs were tangled, and then Benedict shifted just slightly.
Oh no.
Oh no.
Dear God.
His erection. She felt it, the long, unmistakable weight of it pressed against her thigh. Bold. Unapologetic. Not helping.
Her breath caught, a jolt of heat pulsing embarrassingly low in her belly, and she refused to look down. She would not acknowledge anything below collarbone level.
“Oh no,” she whispered, eyes wide with mortification, while Benedict’s own squeezed shut in silent despair.
Penelope could feel her face going crimson. She had rarely felt this embarrassed in her life. And yet somehow, here they were, him molded to her front like a human furnace, her arms around him like she’d claimed him in her sleep, and his hand resting on her back, fingers splayed wide and warm, like he’d been protecting her even in dreams.
She was going to die.
She was going to spontaneously combust from sheer embarrassment.
The worst part?
It wasn’t even unpleasant.
She swallowed thickly. Her thighs pressed together beneath the covers on instinct, trying, and failing, to quell the flicker of desire she had no business feeling right now.
Goddammit, why did he have to look like that in the morning? Tousled and warm and flushed from sleep, his voice like velvet dipped in honey and sin. She wanted to kick him. Or kiss him. Or both.
“Damn you,” she muttered under her breath.
Benedict peeked up at her, brows lifted. “Sorry?”
He attempted to shift away from her, but that only made things worse. She could feel the slide of his abdomen against her stomach, could smell the musky warmth of his skin. Penelope’s body betrayed her utterly, her thighs clenched without her permission.
Benedict stilled instantly.
“I—” he began, then cleared his throat. “I think I need to die. Just for a minute.”
Penelope groaned, pressing her face into the pillow, her entire body humming with mortification. “Why are you so attractive first thing in the morning? It’s cruel, Benedict.”
He muffled a laugh against her shoulder. “You’re calling me cruel? You wrapped yourself around me like I’m your personal teddy bear and then complain when my penis responds accordingly?”
She peeked out from the pillow, eyes narrowed. “Are you blaming me for your morning wood?”
“I’m blaming biology,” he said with dignity. “And the fact that you were pressing me against your amazing, perfect full breasts all night. I’m a man with a perfectly functioning penis, and you’ve got the figure of a goddess, and you’ve been pressed up against me all night like some kind of satin-wrapped dream. Bloody hell, Penelope, even a saint would have been hard as a rock in my position.”
She blinked, then grinned. “You’re making me sound like a temptress.”
“You are a temptress,” he said flatly. “And I deserve a fucking medal for how well-behaved I was last night.”
“I almost knocked on Anthony’s door last night,” she groaned, hiding her face in the pillow again. “His door, Benedict. I was this close to getting railed by your brother, and instead, I ended up cuddling you all night.”
Benedict barked out a laugh. “And yet I am the one with the erection.”
She swatted at him half-heartedly. “Don’t act smug.”
“You're welcome, by the way,” he said, rolling to his back with a satisfied sigh. “I told you you’d thank me in the morning.”
She tilted her head toward him just enough to glare at him. “I don’t know. Maybe the orgasms would have been worth it.”
Benedict made a truly pathetic strangled sound and flung both hands over his face. “You are a cruel woman, Penelope Featherington.” he said, muffled through his palms. “You’re putting images in my head. Of you. And Anthony. For the love of God. This is the last thing I need right now.”
Penelope cackled and flopped onto her back beside him, laughing so hard her shoulders shook. “Serves you right,” she said between giggles. “You ruined my plans.”
Benedict peeked at her through his fingers, one curl flopping down boyishly over his forehead. “You’re lucky I’m a man of virtue.”
“Ha! You tucked yourself in on top of me.”
“That’s so not true. I lay motionless beside you. You tucked me on top of you in your sleep.”
“Whatever helps you sleep better at night, Ben.”
“Your breasts were the best pillows on earth. So I definitely slept great, thanks.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Says you. We wouldn’t be in this position had you not been reckless and impulsive last night.”
“I’m grateful though,” she said, her voice softening just a little. “Truly. Thank you for stopping me.”
He lowered his hands slowly. There was something quiet in his gaze now, fond and just the tiniest bit too intense. He reached up and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers grazed her cheek, lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“I’ll always be there to cockblock you,” he cooed sweetly, brushing his knuckles down the side of her face. “Anytime. Day or night.”
Penelope laughed again, softer this time. “Oh, thank you , sainted sir.”
“You’re welcome,” he said with faux grandeur.
She rolled onto her knees and grabbed her pillow. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“No, I’m just so noble—” Benedict puffed out his chest, or would have, if she hadn’t immediately grabbed a pillow and smacked him across it with the pillow.
“Oof!”
He grabbed it, yanked it from her hands, and pulled her down with it. She squeaked as she toppled, landing partially on top of him, her hands braced on either side of his bare chest.
And there it was again. Him. Undeniably hard against her hip.
A flush spread across her face.
Benedict winced. “Okay,” he muttered. “That’s it. I gotta go.”
Penelope tilted her head. “Where?”
“To my room. To take care of this. Like a gentleman.”
Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed, staggered up, and headed for the door in only his trousers, muttering under his breath. Penelope watched him with wary eyes. She leaned back on her heels, hands on her hips.
“Benedict?” she called just as he pulled the door open.
“Yes?”
“You better not masturbate thinking about me.”
He froze. Looked back at her. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“You literally were saying—”
“I’m a simple man, Penelope,” he snapped, his cheeks ruddy. “And you were squishing me against your breasts all night. Do the math.”
She grinned. “Fine. Go relieve your perfectly functioning penis, then!”
He flipped her off over his shoulder just as he stepped into the hallway—
And nearly collided with Simon and John.
All three men froze.
Simon blinked once. John blinked twice. Then their eyes slowly shifted to Penelope, who was still sitting on the bed in her very rumpled red dress, grinning like the cat who’d licked the cream. A grin which disappeared the instant she realized they were watching her.
And back to Benedict. Shirtless. Laughing his ass off.
Penelope gave a strangled squeak.
She lunged for her pillow, and for the second time that morning, screamed into it in utter mortification.
Penelope had showered, thank God. Her hair was damp, curling softly around her face in its natural halo, and she’d changed into a comfortable, impossibly cozy pair of pale blue pajamas with tiny embroidered flowers at the cuffs. She looked freshly scrubbed and far too innocent for someone who’d shouted “Go relieve your perfectly functioning penis!” only an hour earlier.
The living room was quiet, filled with the rustle of cereal boxes, the click of spoons on bowls, and the soft background hum of the radio someone had turned on. Rain pattered gently against the windows, a steady London drizzle that made everything feel muffled and slow.
Penelope curled into the corner of the sofa, legs tucked under her, steaming tea mug cradled between her palms. She avoided looking at Benedict entirely.
He, meanwhile, sat on the other end of the same sofa, very pointedly focused on his bowl of cereal like it held the secrets of the universe.
The problem was the other two men in the room: John and Simon sat in two matching armchairs like a pair of judges from a very intimate, very absurd tribunal, both eyeing Penelope and Benedict like they were trying to solve a complicated puzzle with missing pieces.
Neither said a word. They just… observed. Like the world’s nosiest, best-dressed hawks.
Simon sipped his espresso from a tiny cup, head cocked. John hadn’t even bothered pretending to eat, he was halfway through peeling an orange and clearly doing it just to pass the time while he made mental calculations about the probability of Benedict having shagged Penelope last night.
Penelope tried to ignore them. She nibbled a piece of toast and took a long, serene sip of tea.
Benedict, with a suspiciously composed expression, slowly spooned cereal into his mouth. He stared straight ahead at absolutely nothing. Not a single flicker of acknowledgment passed between them.
It was too quiet.
John narrowed his eyes.
Simon leaned forward, elbows on knees. “So.”
Penelope blinked at him. “So?”
Simon opened his mouth, just as the front door opened, and Anthony stepped inside, slightly damp from the rain, hoodie zipped up halfway, hair ruffled from the wind.
He paused in the doorway, gym bag still slung over one shoulder, surveying the scene with the wary eye of a man who’d just walked into a crime in progress.
His brow furrowed as he took it all in: Penelope and Benedict in looking aggressively innocent, John and Simon staring at them like sphinxes.
“…Did something happen?” Anthony asked slowly, pointing a finger between the seated pair.
“No!” Penelope and Benedict shouted in unison, then both froze, guilty expressions immediately giving them away.
Dead silence.
John gave a low whistle.
Simon’s brows shot up. “Fascinating.”
John set his orange down. “We caught Benedict sneaking out of Penelope’s room this morning. Like a teenager.”
Penelope made a sound halfway between a choke and a gasp.
“Oh, and,” John added helpfully, “I heard her telling him not to masturbate thinking of her.”
Penelope closed her eyes. “Why are you like this?”
Benedict, absolutely no help whatsoever, grinned into his cereals, like the traitor he was. “I definitely did, by the way.”
The groans were instantaneous.
“Benedict! ” Simon cried. “Why would you say that out loud?”
“You absolute pig,” John declared.
Anthony grimaced, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked like he was about ot burst a blood vessel.
“I do not want to think about my brother shagging or wanking thinking of Penelope. Thank you very much.”
Penelope, meanwhile, was slowly dying in a silent, steaming puddle of shame. She made a strangled noise and dropped her forehead onto her knees. “I hate every one of you.”
Anthony turned toward her then, eyes gleaming with mock betrayal. “And you—I can’t believe you chose the lesser brother when I was right there, willing and available, ready to make all your dreams come true. You could’ve had me all night.”
Penelope flushed crimson. A very vivid image of herself straddling Anthony on his bed and riding him all night burned itself across her mind. Her ears were scalding. She let out a shocked laugh, mouth falling open, because dear God, she had actually almost—
And of course, of course , Benedict saw it. His eyes narrowed with immediate wicked glee, his lips parting, about to unleash the one sentence that would end her life.
She lunged across the sofa.
Her hands clamped over his mouth.
“Don’t you dare,” she whispered furiously into his face. “I swear to God, Benedict, I’ll—I’ll—I’ll do anything you want. Just. Shut. Up.”
His eyes widened a fraction. Then, slowly, hands came to rest on her hips. Steadying. Warm. Too familiar. Too easy. Like this was the most natural place for her to be: perched on his lap, pinning him down with trembling fingers. Her entire body flushed, a tidal wave of heat and awareness surging beneath her skin.
His brows lifted. A moment passed.
Then he gave the smallest, most insufferably smug nod.
Benedict, eyes glittering with mischief, gave the smallest nod.
And then, because he was Benedict, he opened his pretty mouth and licked the inside of her palm.
She shrieked, yanking her hand away in horror. “Benedict! That’s vile! ”
His laughter echoed through the room, unabashed and loud and so, so smug.
When she dared glance at the others, all three men—John, Simon, and Anthony—were watching them with rapt attention, like scholars observing an exotic mating ritual.
Penelope groaned and buried her face in her hands again.
“You two are,” John said slowly, “deeply disturbing.”
Simon tilted his head. “No, they’re kind of adorable. In a way that makes me want to set them both on fire.”
Anthony, arms crossed, looked between them with a mixture of suspicion and grudging amusement. “Well. That explains the weird tension over breakfast. You two are absolutely shagging.”
“We are not,” Penelope insisted, face blazing.
“Yet,” Benedict added, entirely too cheerfully.
“Shut up!” she cried, smacking his arm with a throw pillow.
Anthony, arms crossed, stared at them like he was mentally replaying every moment of the past twelve hours with new, horrifying clarity. “Honestly, I thought it was going to be me and Pen all night.”
Penelope buried her face in her hands again, absolutely done .
“Yeah, well I got the honor instead,” Benedict said, tilting his head toward her with infuriating calm.
“Can you not make this weird?” she begged.
“Says you. You’re the one who is straddling me.”
“That was a tactical move. ”
John nipped on an orange carpel like he was watching a particularly juicy reality show.
Simon murmured, “Ten bucks says they make out before the end of the day.”
The next fifteen minutes descended into a barrage of jabs and jests. Benedict and Penelope endured it all valiantly. Or rather, together .
By the time breakfast plates had been cleared, and everyone had a second round of tea or coffee in hand, Benedict stood, stretching lazily. “Right,” he said. “It’s my turn to do the groceries for the week.”
“I’ll come with you,” John said immediately.
“Me too,” Simon added with suspicious enthusiasm.
Anthony, now sipping from his protein shake, shrugged. “Why not.”
Benedict narrowed his eyes at them. “You hate going to the store.”
The three exchanged innocent glances. Too innocent.
He sighed and grabbed his coat. “Fine. Whatever. But if I catch even one of you trying to sneak unsolicited advice into a produce aisle, I’m leaving you at the market.”
Penelope snorted into her teacup. She waved at them from the sofa, not even pretending to hide her grin. “Buy snacks.”
Benedict pointed at her. “We are not done talking about this.”
“We are so done,” she called, making herself more comfortable on the sofa with a long, dramatic sigh.
As he headed for the door, John whispered something to Simon, who grinned like a devil. Anthony elbowed Benedict on the way out, winking.
Benedict muttered something very rude under his breath.
Penelope smiled into her tea as the door shut behind them.
The flat was quiet again.
Except for her phone lighting up five seconds later.
Ben: You said anything. I’m making a list.
Penelope stared at it for a beat.
Then: Oh no.
The weekly grocery run should have taken at least an hour. With five roommates, there were always preferences, allergy notes, and escalating debates about which oat milk brand tasted least like drywall. But with four of them going—Benedict, Anthony, Simon, and John—the mission became a well-oiled machine.
John had the list. Simon was efficient and unnervingly quiet. Anthony was loud but persuasive with the checkout ladies. Benedict was... distracted.
“So,” John began casually as they passed the produce aisle, eyeing a suspiciously shiny, almost smug pile of apples. “…last night?”
Benedict didn’t look up from the oranges. He pressed one, judged it unworthy, then selected another and tossed it into the cart. “Penelope was drunk and horny,” he said flatly. “I stopped her from throwing herself at any willing sexual deviant.”
Anthony turned on him like he’d just been accused of strangling a kitten. "Excuse me? Are you calling me a willing sexual deviant?"
Benedict looked up, and met his eyes calmly. "Am I wrong?"
Anthony opened his mouth, prepared to be indignant. Then paused. "...Okay, no. But still. You cockblocked me."
"She was drunk," Benedict said firmly, reaching for a bunch of bananas with the weary precision of a man who’d spent the night wrestling with temptation and moral superiority. "And you wouldn’t have let it happen anyway."
Anthony scoffed, folding his arms. "I mean, obviously. I’m not a monster."
There was a pause. Barely a few seconds, but the shift in atmosphere was immediate.
Simon had gone completely still.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t look at them. Just stared silently down at a basket of granola like it had offended him personally.
Benedict noticed first. His gaze flicked to Simon, then to Anthony, who also seemed to catch on a beat later. Something unspoken passed between them. Anthony gave a quiet nod, then turned and walked on ahead.
Benedict sighed. The weight of something unspoken hung behind them.
They didn’t press it.
Instead, they followed the list, knocking items into the trolley with the enthusiasm of men avoiding their feelings. They debated pasta shapes. Compared salsa spice levels like it was an Olympic event.
It was John who broke the tension again, two aisles later, holding up a jar of arrabbiata sauce in his hands.
"You know," he said, checking the expiry date, "Penelope is kind of a horny demon. Anthony unleashed the beast by proposing rebound sex last night."
Benedict snorted.
John shrugged. "If she won’t do the casual hookup thing and keeps eyeing the rest of us like we’re her backup plan for orgasms, we might need to...I don’t know.” He lowered his voice. “Tame the beast."
Anthony smirked, nudging a box of penne into the cart. “I’ll volunteer again.”
Benedict nearly growled. “You are not going near her.”
“Relax,” Anthony said, holding up his hands. “I’m not an ass. I can see you already like her.”
“I don’t,” Benedict protested—too quickly.
There was a beat of silence. Then John, very quietly, said, “We could just… buy her a vibrator.”
Three pairs of eyes turned slowly to stare at him.
John blanched. "What? It was a joke.. . Mostly."
“No, no,” Anthony said, narrowing his eyes like a scientist intrigued by an unexpected hypothesis. “Say more.”
John cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “I’m just saying… if the issue is that she wants orgasms but not with strangers—and, let’s face it, not with any of us—then maybe we provide her with a solution. Something that doesn’t involve regret and emotional damage.”
Simon blinked. “You want to… buy our roommate a sex toy?”
John spread his hands in helpless logic. “It would come from a place of genuine care. Practicality. Respect. It’s not like we’re buying her lingerie.”
There was a pause.
Then Benedict muttered, “Well. I guess it would help.”
Anthony gave him a sideways look. "Are you saying this as a man in pain, or as someone trying to prevent future laps into sexual madness?"
"...Both."
They continued through the store in contemplative silence. By the time they hit the frozen foods section, the idea had cemented into inevitability.
The sex shop was located in the mall, right between a pharmacy and a bubble tea stall. Inconveniently central. Uncomfortably bright. The sign pulsed neon pink like a beacon of sins and misunderstandings.
They paid for the groceries first, of course. Benedict pulled out the pooled cash they all contributed to for shared essentials. Anthony pushed the cart. They exited with dignity, only to shuffle nervously toward the sex shop like awkward teens on a dare.
They stood outside, staring up at the window display, a tasteful arrangement of rose gold devices, cheeky signage, and a large plush duck holding a riding crop.
“We could always say it’s a joke,” Simon offered, voice a little too high.
“It is technically a joke,” John added. “But with real-world applications.”
“We’re not buying her anything weird,” Benedict warned.
“We go in, we ask for something beginner-friendly,” Anthony said, surprisingly practical. “Like a starter kit. A welcome-to-horny-solitude gift.”
John groaned. "We sound like we’re enrolling her in a club."
Benedict sighed. "Honestly, maybe we are."
The automatic doors whooshed open, and the four of them filed in like guilty sinners entering a confessional, their gazes glued to the polished floor as though it might swallow them whole. Inside, the lighting was dim and warmly tinted, casting a soft glow over tastefully arranged shelves that glimmered with all manner of toys, accessories, and mysterious contraptions none of them could immediately identify.
All four men were varying shades of crimson. But they were men on a mission—a sacred one, if absurd: to provide Penelope with the dignity and peace of reaching her desired orgasms, uninterrupted and unassisted.
“I feel like I should have pre-gamed this with a shot,” Anthony muttered, eyeing a display of feathered paddles with visible alarm.
“I don’t know what I expected,” Benedict murmured under his breath, torn between mild panic and awe.
Behind the counter stood a tall, striking woman with bubblegum-pink hair, full-sleeve tattoos, and a silver septum ring. Her nametag read Cleo, and her oversized mug, balanced beside the register, read Sex-Positive, Judgment-Negative. She watched their approach with the measured calm of someone who had absolutely seen it all.
“Hi,” Benedict began, voice cracking slightly. “We, uh… need some help.”
Cleo arched one brow. “Sure. Looking for anything in particular?”
John cleared his throat. “Yes, um—hello. We’re looking for… a toy. For a friend.”
Anthony chimed in, surprisingly earnest. “Something good. For someone who’s, uh... exploring things. Alone.”
Cleo’s gaze moved over them, calculating but kind. She’d clocked the type within seconds, well-meaning, awkward, and wildly out of their depth. She softened her smile. “Okay. What kind of toy are we talking? Something for her? Him? Them?”
Benedict stepped forward, flustered. “Her. Our roommate. Female roommate. She, uh. She had a rough night. Emotionally. Sexually. Not sexually. Well—almost sexually, but not quite. And she’s not into casual hookups, but she…uh… wants to, you know…”
“Orgasms,” Anthony offered with a helpful nod. “She wants orgasms.”
John groaned, burying his face in his hands.
Simon, ever the quiet one, cleared his throat. “We’re hoping for something discreet. She’ll be using it solo, and we all share walls. Ideally powerful but quiet. Stealthy. Nothing that makes it seem like we’re assuming we know her preferences. Because we don’t. At all.”
“It needs to be effective,” Anthony added solemnly. “Like, life-changing. But in a respectful, dignified way.”
Cleo blinked once. Then again. “Okay,” she said at last, slowly. “So... you’re buying a vibrator for your female roommate. As a group.”
“Yes,” they chorused in unison, pitifully sincere.
Cleo grinned. “You boys are adorable. You’d be surprised how often this actually happens.”
They looked at her, startled.
Benedict coughed. “Anyway—yes. Something small. Quiet. Um... effective.”
“Alright,” she said, stepping out from behind the counter. “Come on, I’ll show you the silent-but-deadly aisle. We’ll start with clitoral stimulators. Waterproof. USB charge. Minimal noise. It’s the Holy Grail of orgasms.”
Benedict blinked. “There’s such a thing?”
“Oh honey,” she cooed. “If only you knew.”
Cleo tilted her head, walking them toward a gleaming glass display against the wall. “Alright. Let’s start with the Lelo Sona 2 Cruise. Very popular. Uses sonic wave tech instead of traditional vibration. Quiet, waterproof, sleek. Women love it.”
Anthony stared at it. “That looks like a futuristic asthma inhaler.”
“It basically is,” Cleo deadpanned. “For your soul.”
John leaned in, whispering with clear concern. “Will it, uh... make her scream? Like, loudly? Because we really don’t want to hear anything.”
“It’s… very efficient,” Cleo said diplomatically. “But that depends on the user. Some people are quiet. Some people sound like they’re summoning a forest god.”
Simon turned vaguely purple.
“Right,” Benedict said quickly. “Maybe something a bit more... discreet?”
“Sure,” Cleo said. “There’s the We-Vibe Touch : compact, silicone, quiet, multiple settings. Or the Dame Pom : soft, squishy, beginner-friendly. Great for intuitive use. But if silence is top priority, go with the Womanizer Liberty. It has a travel case, ergonomic shape, very quiet. And it’s very pretty.”
“I cannot believe we’re doing this,” John muttered, staring into the middle distance.
Simon, now peering at the shelf like he was choosing a bottle of wine, nodded, “The Liberty sounds...nice.”
Anthony agreed. “Yeah. Subtle. But effective.”
Cleo raised an amused eyebrow but retrieved the box from the shelf and held it out. It was tasteful, cleanly designed, and, thankfully, void of the word clit anywhere on the exterior. “And you’ll want a toy cleaner. These should be washed before and after use.”
“Right,” Benedict said, reaching into his wallet. “We’ll take the Liberty. And the cleaner. Maybe the Lelo, too. In case she’s not a screamer, she still deserves something powerful.”
“And maybe a gift bag?” John asked weakly. “So it looks… less like we just dropped it in her lap at breakfast?”
Cleo nodded sagely. “I’ll throw in a satin pouch. No one wants to dig a vibrator out of a Tesco bag.”
They gathered around the counter as she rang them up. The total was higher than anticipated, but no one flinched. Benedict insisted on paying despite the others’ protests about splitting it.
Cleo wrapped everything in crisp tissue paper and tucked it neatly into the little satin pouch. Then she looked up with a knowing smirk. “You guys are either very brave, or very stupid.”
“Probably both,” Simon muttered.
She handed them the bag. “Well. Good luck. Tell your friend that sex toys aren’t a substitute for intimacy, but they’re great for a dry spell. Or roommate-induced celibacy.”
Anthony snorted. “Oh, we’ll tell her.”
“No, we won’t,” Benedict snapped. “We will hand it over like mature, supportive friends and never mention it again.”
“Right,” John said. “Because that’s gonna happen.”
As they stepped back out into the daylight, blinking and deeply aware that they were four grown men who had just bought sex toys together, they exchanged a long, awkward silence.
Anthony finally muttered, “This is going to be the weirdest unboxing of her life.”
“She deserves a peaceful orgasm,” John replied, solemn as a priest.
Simon choked on a laugh. “That should’ve been our mission statement.”
Benedict clutched the little black bag like it was holy scripture. “Let’s just get this over with.”
And together, like the world’s least-qualified knights of pleasure, they marched back to the car, heads high, cheeks blazing, on a ridiculous quest born of friendship, repression, and an entirely too-sexy roommate.
No one spoke until they reached the car.
“We are never talking about this again,” John muttered.
“No,” Anthony agreed. “But… we did just save the household from another sexual emergency.”
“Heroes,” Simon murmured.
“Idiots,” Benedict corrected, climbing into the front seat.
He looked down at the bag in his lap.
Then smiled. Just a little.
For her peace. For her dignity.
And maybe, selfishly, for the sake of his own unraveling sanity.
The front door clicked open and swung inward with a groan, letting in a waft of afternoon air and four deeply uncomfortable men carrying groceries, shame, and a small black satin bag that now felt far too conspicuous.
Penelope looked up from the kitchen table, where she'd been idly reading the newspaper and sipping her tea. She smiled warmly as they entered, her cheeks slightly pink already from the warmth of the day, or maybe from knowing they’d all gone out together on some cryptic errand that she hadn’t been allowed to accompany them on.
“Welcome back,” she said lightly, standing to help. “You were gone for ages. Did you get lost?”
“We found our way,” Simon said quickly, before anyone else could speak.
Anthony breezed past her toward the counter, arms full of paper bags. “We brought milk. And apples. And um…” He fumbled for a second, clearing his throat. “Other essentials.”
Benedict came in behind him, face politely neutral but clearly under duress, a small, ominous satin pouch clutched in one hand as if it were something that might bite.
Penelope’s eyes flicked to the black pouch and then to the matching expressions of guilty determination on all their faces.
Her stomach flipped.
“What… is that?” she asked slowly, gesturing toward Benedict’s hand.
He cleared his throat. “It’s—well. We got something for you.”
Penelope looked from Benedict to the pouch, then back again.
“Groceries and gifts?” she asked, teasing.
John mumbled something unintelligible and bee-lined for the pantry with a bag of potatoes.
“Pen,” Benedict began, unusually hesitant, rubbing the back of his neck. He held the pouch out to her. “We thought you deserved something… for yourself. After everything.”
She accepted it slowly, the soft fabric folding into her palm. Penelope blinked at the weight in her palm. The satin felt oddly decadent. Suspiciously soft.
“What is it?” she asked with a cautious smile, gently opening the drawstring.
There was a pause.
And then, a deeply flushed moment of stillness as she pulled out the first box, sleek, discreet, vaguely medical in its design. White and rose gold. Beautiful. Unmistakable.
Her eyes widened, a gasp catching in her throat as she plucked it out with shaking fingers.
“Is this—?” she began, staring at the label. “Oh my God. Is this a… vibrator?”
No one answered.
And then she reached in again, and pulled out a second box.
Her mouth dropped open.
“There are two?!”
Benedict looked like he wanted to melt straight into the floorboards.
“We couldn’t decide,” John mumbled.
Simon took a sudden interest in unloading apples. “They serve different… functions.”
“Options,” Anthony said quickly, wiping his hands on his trousers for no reason. “Just in case.”
“In case what?” Penelope asked faintly, her voice pitched high, face crimson, the heat blooming across her cheeks like a fever.
“In case you’re not a screamer,” Benedict said before he could stop himself, tone rushed and bright with embarrassment. “The Sona 2 is, um… for non-screamers. Quiet but powerful. Like, very powerful. But if you are a screamer, then the Liberty might be more… discreet.”
“I… this… this is crazy—” she began, but then faltered as her gaze drifted back to the boxes. Her voice went soft. “And sweet. This is… the sweetest and craziest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
She looked up at them, glowing with embarrassment and disbelief.
“You absolute maniacs,” Penelope whispered, though her voice trembled with affection more than alarm. “I could kiss you all for this,” she blurted, laughing with a nervous, incredulous little gasp.
Thud.
That was John’s head hitting the pantry doorframe as he dropped his bag of onions.
He cleared his throat sharply. “Well, we bought you that specifically to avoid this exact scenario, Penelope.”
Anthony leaned one hip smugly against the counter. “Speak for yourself. I would accept gratitude in the form of affection. In fact, I fully expect a medal.”
Simon doubled over laughing, the relief audible in his barked amusement. “I’m not opposed to a thank-you peck, if you’re offering.”
Benedict was glaring daggers at the other three, his cheeks burning. “This wasn’t… we weren’t… you all said no flirting!”
But then Penelope laughed, warm and bright and lovely, and stepped forward.
“All right then,” she said, the smile she wore equal parts wicked and sweet. “For bravery.”
Simon stood up straight just in time to receive a kiss to his cheek. He froze, grinned, and muttered something about gallantry.
Anthony leaned in without being asked, and looked positively smug afterward.
John went rigid as she kissed him, then turned bright red and muttered something like blimey under his breath.
And then she turned to Benedict.
Their eyes locked. Something shimmered in the moment: hesitation, warmth, gravity.
Her hand was featherlight on his arm as she leaned in and let her lips brush his cheek, softer, slower, lingering just enough to make him forget how to exhale.
Benedict didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His hand hovered near her waist, so close it whispered against her PJs but never quite touched. His lashes were low, his blush blooming across his cheekbones as if the warmth of her kiss had left something smoldering behind.
When she pulled away, he blinked once, dazed.
“Right,” John said a little too loudly. “We’re never talking about this again.”
Anthony snorted. “Speak for yourself. I want a full debrief. Were they efficient? Did they do the job? I’d like a detailed review.”
Penelope threw her head back and laughed.
“I’ll let you know once I try them.”
All four groaned like men struck by the same invisible lightning bolt.
Simon covered his face. “God, please don’t.”
“You temptress ,” Benedict murmured, the words escaping before he could stop them, yet unable to keep the fondness out of his voice.
Penelope looked positively delighted. “You’re my cute little orgasm knights,” she declared.
Anthony actually looked proud of himself for that one.
They all finished unpacking groceries with a strange kind of giddy awkwardness, laughter echoing off the cabinets. But eventually, one by one, they retreated to their respective rooms or errands or the living room, each clearly pretending they hadn’t just co-purchased sex toys for their roommate and then received pecks on the cheek in return.
Benedict lingered last. His hand brushed Penelope’s again as he passed the tea she’d left behind back into her hand.
Penelope’s gaze softened. “Thank you,” she whispered.
They looked at each other a moment longer. Then he turned and disappeared down the hall.
That night, Penelope lay in bed in her softest nightdress, the flat quiet, the lights dimmed. The small pouch sat on her nightstand like an invitation and a promise. She’d read the instructions carefully, cleaned everything meticulously, and still, her fingers trembled a little as she reached for the Lelo Sona 2 Cruise.
It gleamed up at her like something out of a dream. The quiet hum when she tested it against her palm had sent shivers up her arm. Now, she lay back against her pillows, knees bent slightly, heart fluttering.
She let it kiss against her.
And then—
Stars.
Her back arched. Her breath caught.
It was… unlike anything she’d ever used before. A whisper against her skin, a growing, blooming hum of sensation that built with aching steadiness.
It was not just pleasure. It was perfection . Like a wave she hadn’t known was coming until she was tumbling over the edge of it, helpless and gasping. Her whole body trembled, a low, involuntary whimper escaping her lips as her thighs tightened and her vision blurred.
She bit her lip to keep quiet, clutched her pillow, and then—
Her body arched.
Her breath caught.
And the orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave.
Not just good. Not just better than anything she’d managed before. But transcendent . Shivering and breathless, her fingers limp against her sheets, Penelope stared at the ceiling and laughed, quietly and with disbelief.
“Life-changing,” she whispered to herself.
But as the buzz faded and the silence returned, her hand rested lightly against her hip, her breath still catching now and then as the tremors subsided.
She closed her eyes.
And thought, not of the toy, but of Benedict. His touch. His voice. The way his lips had parted when she kissed him. The silent reverence in the way his fingers had hovered just shy of her waist.
She imagined him there instead. Between her thighs instead of silicone and technology. His breath on her skin. Hands steady, devoted. The painter of pleasure. What it would feel like to break apart beneath him, not because of a machine, but because of him.
Her thighs tightened instinctively at the thought.
She fell asleep like that, flushed and glowing, smiling into her pillow, the toy tucked away and a very real, very inconvenient longing for the man who’d bought it for her humming through her bones.