The rain sang against the thatched roof of the cottage like a thousand soft drums, steady and warm, the kind of sound that made the world feel distant, almost forgotten. Outside, the jungle was alive with the fragrance of wet earth, rain-drenched leaves gleaming in moonlight.

But inside—inside was another world entirely.

The small cottage was packed full of them, limbs tangled, warmth pressed to warmth, as if none of them could ever bear to be more than a breath apart from you again. They could fight kingdoms, they could lift mountains—but the feel of your skin under their hands was the only triumph they truly hungered for now.

You were seated on a low mattress laid with thick woolen blankets, your plump curves draped in a rain-dampened saree of deep maroon silk that clung lovingly to every soft edge of you. The wet fabric outlined your little tummy, the gentle rise of your hips, the full softness of your thighs. The braid over your shoulder was loose, strands of hair curling out rebelliously.

Cherubic. That was how Bhima had whispered it earlier, his huge hand splayed almost protectively over your waist, fingers flexing as if afraid you’d vanish. He rested his forehead to your shoulder now, his breath hot, needy, curling against your ear as his other hand absently kneaded at the soft swell of your breast beneath the silk.

“You’re real,” he murmured hoarsely, as if reminding himself. “You’re here. You came back.”

Yudhishthira sat at your other side, his hand holding yours reverently, thumb stroking slow circles over your knuckles, eyes searching your face as though reading holy scripture. His lips pressed reverent kisses along the back of your fingers like a pilgrim at a shrine.

“I will never choose dharma over you again,” he said softly. “Never again.”

Arjuna was behind you, arms fully wrapped around your waist, mouth tracing the slope of your neck with a tenderness that made your bones ache. His nose nuzzled into the hollow behind your ear, breath trembling. “I shot arrows into the sun for you,” he murmured, his voice almost breaking. “And yet I never hit the mark until you smiled again.”

Nakula sat cross-legged at your feet, resting his cheek against your knee, eyelashes fluttering against your skin as he worshipped your body with the kind of devotion that once shattered hearts on sight. “You are more beautiful than any of Indra’s daughters,” he whispered, voice shaken, “but I only want this—the scent of you, the warmth of you, you.”

Sahadeva, ever the silent one, was curled by your other side, his fingers buried in the folds of your saree, holding tightly as though you were the last thread holding the universe together. His lips pressed against the round curve of your thigh, barely daring, but utterly reverent, the softest sigh escaping him when he did so.

And Karna—Karna was on his knees before you, head bowed to your lap, raven hair spilling like ink over your thighs, his hands clutching your hips. His breath was harsh, raw with centuries of longing denied.

“You should curse me,” he whispered, voice trembling with something ancient and broken. “But instead you… love me.”

You cupped his face gently, fingers threading through his hair, and he shuddered under your touch, a wounded king worshipping his goddess at last made flesh.

Six men, once kings, warriors, and broken sons—now nothing but your husbands. Nothing but men, desperate for the warmth of you, their center, their home.

In that little rain-soaked cottage, there were no wars. No dharma. No prophecy.

Only you.

And they would never let you go again.