"Ahh-yes, yes, don't stop, harder-!"
The moan burst out of tinny laptop speakers, rattling faintly in the small apartment. A cheap desk, a half-empty soda can, crumpled tissues scattered like fallen soldiers. The glow of the screen lit his pale face in a flickering blue-white light.
Marcus leaned forward, one hand gripping his mouse, the other wrapped tight around himself. Sweat dotted his forehead even though the room wasn't hot. The actress on screen threw her head back, her nails clawing at the sheets, and Marcus's chest rose and fell with her rhythm, as if his whole existence had shrunk to the pulse of pixels.
"Yeah… fuck, that's it," he whispered under his breath, eyes glassy. His voice cracked with a mix of arousal and exhaustion.
The video's volume was too loud for the paper-thin walls of his rundown apartment, but he didn't care. Nobody did. Nobody had ever cared. His laptop, a cheap refurbished model, hummed and whined with the strain of streaming high-definition filth and piracy.
Marcus stroked faster. His breathing turned ragged.
The orgasm ripped through him suddenly and violently, like a cramp that swallowed his spine. He gasped, his breath hot and sharp.
Then another. And another.
He didn't pause. He just couldn't pause. Each wave hit harder, but instead of release, it felt like something was being torn out of him. His body jerked in convulsions.
"Ahhh-haaah-fuck-!" His moan cracked into the stale air. He felt it spill out of him again, and again, far more than he thought his body could hold. By the fourth release, his hand was trembling. By the seventh, his vision blurred. By the ninth, his breath hitched in panic.
His heart pounded too hard. His chest squeezed and clamped, like a fist inside his ribcage.
"W-wait-no, this-this is…" His voice slurred, trembling.
The woman on the screen kept moaning, her ecstasy echoing cruelly against his ragged collapse.
Marcus's head lolled back. Darkness crowded the edges of his vision. His ears rang. He tried to pull in air, but each breath felt shallow and cut short. His fingers twitched helplessly against his damp skin.
He was dying. Dying in the most humiliating way imaginable. Not in a blaze of glory, not in some accident, not even in his sleep. But Masturbating to strangers on a secondhand laptop in a shitty one-room apartment.
A pathetic death.
And yet… as the darkness dragged him under, there was a strange weight in it. A pulling. Like unseen hands gripping his ankles, yanking him down into the abyss. His body slumped in the chair, but his mind was ripped away, falling, falling-
Is this hell? The thought flickered and vanished with the last of his breath.
The moans on the laptop screen echoed once, twice, then cut to silence.
Darkness gave way to cold water and soft, earthy scents. Marcus's eyes fluttered open.
Wait… where am I?
He coughed, gagging on river water that wasn't there a moment ago. The world around him was quiet except for the gentle ripple of the stream and the rustle of leaves overhead. Then, panic hit him in a surge-he tried to sit up and froze.
He was no longer in his apartment.
His hands… his skin… were pale, almost luminescent. Smooth, flawless, like porcelain. And his ears were long, pointed, delicate, almost elfin.
Then, a shiver ran down his spine. This isn't my body.
Then he noticed the wounds. Two of them: one on the temple, a gash darkened with dried blood; another on the chest, shallow but deep enough to be deadly.
"Oh… fuck…" His voice was strange, higher, softer, and alien. Then panic tore at him. Am I… dead? Is this "Heaven-" No... am I… someone else?
Before he could react further, the wounds began to shift. Red streaks receded; skin knitted together as if it had never been injured. And within seconds, the temple gash was gone, the chest wound closed. Marcus blinked, backing up instinctively.
What… what the hell is happening?
He scrambled to his feet by the riverbank, chest heaving. His mind spun with disbelief and awe. This body was alive, but healed differently from his. It was not his own, and yet he could feel every beat of its heart, every inhale of its lungs.
That's when voices came, crisp against the morning air.
"Your Highness… there you are."
Two men emerged from the treeline. Their armor glinted faintly under the sun. One was tall and had broad shoulders with a trimmed beard, knelt slightly as he approached. The other was younger, sharper-eyed, and hovered a step behind, their hands resting lightly on the hilts of his twin blades.
Marcus froze. They think I'm… them?
"Your injuries… they had us worried," the taller man said. His tone was both formal and deferential, like addressing a king. "You… you look well."
Marcus's heart pounded. "Wait, what? W-who are you talking to?" His voice cracked in panic. "I-I'm not…"
The younger man's eyes narrowed. "My lord?"
"I-no! You've got the wrong person! I'm not… I mean…" Marcus stumbled over his words, suddenly aware that his hands and posture were not his own. He caught sight of the reflection in the water: his own, no, their own, elf face staring back at him. Pale, sharp, elegant. Eyes the color of autumn leaves. A prince.
"I… I'm… I don't know how I-" His voice caught, terror slicing through him.
The two men exchanged glances, confusion flickering before their expressions stiffened back into obedience.
"Your Highness," the older one said again, kneeling fully this time, "you must allow us to escort you back to the castle. There are… matters requiring your attention."
Marcus gaped, panic clawing at his chest. Back to a castle? Royalty? Me? I'm not- His voice failed him entirely.
But he didn't have a choice. Every instinct cried out: Run. Hide. Go back to your own body. Fuck. Yet the body moved of its own accord, stiffly, obedient to what the two men expected.
He walked beside them in a trance, his mind spinning. Every step on the soft dirt trail toward the distant castle made him feel like a puppet. His reflection in a shallow puddle made him shiver—the wounds were gone, but so was his sense of self.
"I… this isn't me," he whispered under his breath, almost to himself.
The men looked at him briefly, suspicious, but quickly dismissed it, assuming it was just the shock of surviving the supposed murder attempt.
I can't... I can't let them see I'm me. I have to pretend, or... or WHAT? They'll KILL ME for lying.
The castle appeared at the crest of the hill, a sprawling fortress of white stone with towers reaching skyward. Flags bearing a golden crest fluttered in the breeze. Maids and servants moved busily about the outer courtyard. Marcus's stomach knotted as the magnitude of the situation pressed down.
I have to play this part. If I don't, they'll know I'm not him. And then… I die. I die for real this time.
He followed the two men up the broad marble stairs, each step echoing in the high-ceilinged corridor. The air smelled faintly of incense and polished wood, sharp and clean. Servants hurried past, their soft footsteps almost drowned by the muffled hum of castle life. Every detail of the surroundings screamed opulence: rich tapestries with golden thread, chandeliers dripping with crystal prisms, and walls adorned with painted heraldry.
How am I supposed to pretend I belong here? Marcus's stomach twisted. Every instinct screamed that he didn't. His pale hands fidgeted at his sides, trying to mask the tremor in his fingers.
"Your Highness," one of the men said, bowing slightly, "your chambers have been prepared. You must rest before the council convenes."
Marcus gave a stiff nod. "Yes… right… of course." His voice sounded strange to him, lighter and softer, entirely unrecognizable. He could feel every eye of the palace staff brushing past him, judging.
As they walked, Marcus's gaze flicked around. Most of the courtiers and servants bowed low or curtsied, whispering under their breath. Yet his attention was drawn elsewhere. In a side hallway, two maids hurried along, their skirts rustling as they carried trays of fruit. Four guards flanked them with sharp eyes, looking for danger.
The moment their eyes fell on Marcus, the maids froze. One of them let out a tiny gasp, barely noticeable. The other's hands trembled, the tray tilting slightly. Their faces were pale, fear evident in their wide eyes. Even the guards stiffened, swords at the ready, sensing something wrong in the sudden tension.
What…? Confused, Marcus blinked.
"Your Highness," one of the men guiding him murmured, "you… you might want to be cautious around certain staff. Some may not be… fully loyal."
Marcus's mind raced, trying to parse the words. Not loyal? Are they… afraid of me? He took a careful step closer to the frozen maids. Their eyes avoided his, darting nervously to the guards. He could feel a strange heat in his chest, almost like part fear, part curiosity, part something darker he wasn't ready to name.
He swallowed hard and kept walking, noting every movement. The maids didn't follow; their frozen forms were a silent accusation, while the guards kept a tense posture, unwilling to let anyone move forward without authorization. Marcus's thoughts spun: This body… it's dangerous. The people here… they know something's off.
The group finally reached the inner courtyard, where sunlight spilled across polished stones and reflecting fountains. Servants moved about busily, but one figure caught his attention immediately. She glided toward them, and Marcus felt his heart skip a beat.
He froze.
From the polished boots, up the graceful calves, the elegant curve of her thighs, the sway of her hips, every motion was hypnotic. Her hands rested lightly on the hilt of a ceremonial sword at her waist, the fabric of her flowing robes clinging just enough to hint at the lines of her form beneath. Every gesture radiated authority, elegance, and… familiarity.
Marcus's chest tightened. And then, her face.
Eyes the same color he had seen countless nights ago, lips curved in that same provocative way, hair falling in dark, glossy waves around her shoulders. His stomach churned, disbelief and horror twisting together. Recognition slammed into him like a tidal wave.
No… it can't be…
Every thought, every moan-filled night he had spent alone in his apartment, had followed him here. The princess, the person he had been obsessed with in this new world, was her.
Marcus's knees weakened. His hands twitched. The two men guiding him noticed his sudden halt but said nothing, giving him space.
Around him, the courtiers and servants seemed to pause, a hush falling across the courtyard as the princess's presence commanded attention.
The frozen maids and their guards at the side of the courtyard now stared openly. Their earlier shock had deepened into fear, guilt, and realization. One of the guards shifted, whispering to the other, "She… she's alive."
Marcus's pulse raced. His lips parted slightly, but no words came. A low heat of desire crept through him despite the terror. His mind screamed: This cannot be real. This… this is insane.
And yet, it was real. She was real.
Marcus took a cautious step, following her movements with his eyes. He noticed the subtle details, her posture, the sway of her robes, the way she carried herself as if she were born to command. Each step stirred a dangerous mixture of awe, desire, and dread in him.