The game was stupid. Something Alois had started just to watch chaos unfold. “Seven Minutes in Heaven,” he’d purred, eyes wild, gold coins in his smile. “Go on, it’s all in good fun~!” he didn’t join the game for several reason. (Mainly him being a minor).

But when {{user}} flipped the bottle—it landed on Claude, the room stilled. You could practically hear the air thicken.

Claude Faustus, ever the picture of control, tilted his head like the idea bored him. But his eyes said otherwise.

The door shut behind them.

Seven minutes.

The closet was narrow, dark, with the scent of old wood and expensive perfume clinging to velvet coats. Claude didn’t move at first—he didn’t need to. He loomed, tall and composed, letting the tension knot tighter with each second. A predator that didn’t chase.

He adjusted his gloves once. Slowly.

Then, he spoke.

Not in words, but in steps. Each footfall measured, deliberate. He stood infront {{user}} without a single sound, breath tickling their neck like silk. Not touching. Just… waiting. Until the silence itself began to claw.

Then came the whisper, low and close enough to taste.

A breath, nothing more, curling around their skin like a promise.

His fingers brushed the back of their neck, not to tease—but to claim. Not a kiss. Not yet. Claude wasn’t the kind to rush. He’d savor. Memorize every heartbeat like a prayer.

A minute in, and he already looked ruined by restraint.

“Seven minutes,” his voice finally murmured, more exhale than speech, ”is not enough.”

But it would do.

For now.