Like drapery, steam folds upon itself—thickening, the brothers gasp for air. They turn to each other. Their exhales wheeze. They clutch their necks. The ogress's grace slithers through the showers: musk, mosses, sap, and forest floors; her channeling robs them of breath, stealing through their throats, but her grip falters; the men inhale. The men inhale and inhale, then, once more, wind escapes their fraternity—and this airless rhythm beats on and onward.

"You," the ogress says, nodding toward Oren, the chubbier of the two. "Come to the front of me."

Her breath carries the scent of spring from worlds where springs become death: humidity, flood. Oren's feet carry him her way. What sits between her legs—his brain doesn't register at first, but then her member stiffens and throbs. His breath hitches.

Her heart drums, announcing a storm.

"And you," she says, cocking her head to the side. Roman's hands rub the towel down the blemishes of her back: the dirt, the sweat, the grim, the marring. "Continue," she tells him, and his hands knead her lower back muscles sitting beneath the fat.

"Yes, continue," she tells him through a moan. "Deeper, Roman. Harder. Perhaps I'll keep you as my personal masseuse. You'll need to eat and train of course. I'll need you stronger for—"

His hands press hard; her moans echo. Her head turns to Oren, and her laughter's gentleness unnerves him. "Your brother pretends he has it, but the rebelliousness sits in you. The registrars didn't see it, but your heart reminds me of a goblin."

The words don't register in Oren's mind, they flow through as if a warm river to float on. The ogress smiles with all her teeth. Her hand coils around his wrist. "Touch me," she tells him.

And his hands reach between her thighs, her hands pulling him all the way—she coughs.

Her body jostles and the ogress groans with pain. Her cough becomes a fit. Her hands reach for the floor. The flowing vapor thins, and the smell of jasmine fills the space.

Roman pulls his hands from her body. Oren pulls his hands from her. The taste of dirt rides their tongues. The air lightens; her weight no longer sits on the room.

"Impotent," Oren says.

Sweat streams down her forehead and drips off her chin. The brothers back away. She hacks up the air from her lungs, and each breath struggles to regain the loss.

They stare at her—breathless and needy. Her hands scratch at the porcelain, begging.

"Please," she says through a wheeze.

"What the hell did she just do?" Roman asks.

"Hard to explain."

"Help me," she groans."

"Explain."

"No point," he says. His eyes rest on her, pitiless. "The galaxy's vast; from what I've read, everyone has some ancestral power or another. But to recover, she needs one of us to share our breath."

Now her eyes plead.

"Not exactly Hella's plan," Roman says, "but we'll adjust." His standing reaches only to her shoulder. But because the ogress coughs and begs and leans toward him, their heads are level. He leans forward to share his breath, but then pulls back. She leans forward and whines.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"Will you help us going forward?" he asks. "As chamberlain, Sawyer? Will you help us in all…In all…"

"Fuck," he says. "The script? Hella told us—"

"In all the powers," Oren says. "In all the power of which you occupy, have occupied, and will occupy. That's the binding stratagem we need." And that's what Hella meant by suborning everyone—binding.

Roman turns to her. "What he said. I will help you regain your breath—should you agree."

The agreeance comes without a second's gap. She nods. Her hands crawl up the man and her fingers run through his hair. Her words don't come—they can't. When he says, that's not enough, I need the words—her, wheezing, croaks, "I agree."

Roman wraps both hands around her neck. Her eyes widen, and his lips press against hers.

The taste of soil again. His breath pours into her, and her back straightens. Energy surges through her; her thighs press her upward and her head tilts while standing—keeping his lips on her the entire time.

Her hands reach for his throat, then squeezes a little—his hands do the same; when she stops, he stops. A trail of spit hangs between them when one pulls away, though who pulls away can't be said—but her laugh returns before becoming a groan.

"You mocked me," she says, stepping toward Oren. Her muscles flex with every movement until she halts over him. Something in her deflates; perhaps spirit or pride leaves her. "Call me what you will, Earthling. But the weakness of the toiled is this vessel's epidemic. What you see in me will become of you. Whatever the corporation calls your strength shall be blessed exponentially, but they will separate you from all else you know—your heart will be burdened by their governors."

"Too much," Roman groans. "I don't care. If you do whatever you just did again, I'll assume you've broken our binding vow. And I won't be…breathing into you next time."

She grimaces, but smiles a knowing smile. In her mind, she knows the bind has not been sealed. "Give me the rag," she says. "Task complete—I'll wash myself. I'll send the notification to Alice. You'll receive your first merits as a steward. Congratulations."

She reaches for the washcloth, but Roman pulls the towel back.

"No games, Earthling. I am debased enough. I will wash my loins and arse without your assistance—you have done enough. Give me the rag—"

"Raise your arms," he tells her. When her response doesn't come fast enough, his hands dive into the flesh where her arms and torso meet, rolling his fingers through the hairs which are moistened like moss and softened by sweat. Sawyer, the ogress, hollers. His strength pries her by an inch.

"What are you doing!"

"Wrapping up my task," he says. He strains again, but Sawyer resists.

Her mouth opens, but the words don't rise.

"Not out of kindness," he says. "I have always taken pride in my work and will continue to do so—I assume all notions of ranking have disintegrated for the moment, so I will say you are a poor representation of what awaits me in space."

"What—"

"An ogress who can't even keep her cock hard."

"An ogress who controls the ogres and goblins aboard the station."

"So what?"

She reaches for the washcloth again, and Roman pulls back once more.

"I will not stand here, tormented by Earth's waste," she says. "Especially an Earthling incapable of sealing a binding stratagem."

Roman tiptoes to her ear and speaks in tones no one can hear but the ogress. To their left, Alice rests with her eyes closed, unaffected by the commotion, while Hella washes and massages her feet in quiet rapture. To their right, Oren, unknowing of Roman's intention.

"I know exactly how to seal the binding."

"Your sister you talk so much of will receive nothing from this," she says. "She has to touch the totem—"

"Did I say I wish to share what you can give me with her? Your boons? Strength, vitality, power—I won't let Oren touch you either. Only I touch you today. He can find his own refuge,"

He pulls back, and her mouth sits agape.

"Spread your legs," he tells her. "The sealing begins now."

"Careful. You've only read of bindings—you can't break it in the future because you're the instigator."

Yet still, the towel slides from her chest to her stomach, then lower.