Cameron To Candy

Candy didn’t see it coming. Which, frankly, was the story of her entire marriage.

The Ministry had sent out the notice that morning, an obnoxiously pink parchment declaring the Revised Cuddle Compliance Mandate for Snowsash. Husbands and wives were now required to engage in “affectionate winter contact” for at least fifteen minutes after evening chores, to “maintain domestic harmony and appropriate body warmth.”

Marcus read it, stared for a moment, reread it, then said, “Well… rules are rules.”

That was how Candy found herself perched, awkwardly, on Marcus’s lap in their parlor.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered.

“Tell that to the Ministry,” he said, gently placing one hand on her back so the mandatory “affection rune” on the wall would register physical contact. The rune glowed a prim approving blue.

He wasn’t doing anything dramatic. Just sitting there, steady and warm, one arm around her waist. His other hand… well, he reached up and smoothed her hair, slow and absent-minded, like he’d been brushing stray strands out of her face for years.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have meant anything. But the law required sustained affection, and Marcus took rules seriously, especially when the alternative involved paperwork and fines. So he kept stroking her hair: Gentle, calm, almost rhythmic while they tried to focus on the movie playing on the magic mirror overhead, and Candy felt something unexpected spark in her chest.

She tilted her head back and met Marcus’ gaze. There was a moment, a long pregnant pause, and then Marcus leaned in. His lips pressed against hers. She didn’t press back, but she didn’t rebuff him either. Then his hands wandered to the fullness of her chest, and with a single powerful motion, he ripped the blouse open, causing her full, ample bosoms to bounce free. Her aching pink nipples immediately stiffened in the cold air.

And….

“Wait, wait! Wait!” Candy yelled.

The room froze. Even the candles stopped flickering.

Back in the parlor where the Literary Society was meeting, Candy leapt to her feet.

“Why,” she demanded, pointing at the velvet-bound notebook, “are we doing this?”

Across the tea table, Tilda coughed delicately, looking away from the story she’d been reading. “Because, remember? Customs confiscated the Consort’s book we were going to read, so we all agreed to write our own short fiction. It’s why the meeting date’s a bit off… remember?”

“I remember the plan,” Candy said, arms crossed. “I’m asking why you made eroticfriend fiction, about Marcus and me!”

Tilda looked helplessly at the others. “Well, I just thought it might help you… come around.”

“Come around to what?”

“Well,” said Tilda, twirling her quill out of awkwardness, “we know the marriage was arranged, and Marcus isn’t exactly your type, so we figured if we wrote something romantic, you might, you know, see the potential.”

“Oh, for gods sake,” Candy exclaimed. “I don’t know how you know my nipples are pink but no! I’m nixing this. Next author!”

Clarisse stood up, cheeks already pink, and clutched her notebook like it was a spellbook about to explode.

“Um… s-so this one is a romance. I tried to make it… pretty.”

She cleared her throat.

“I call it “The Rose at Eveningfall, by Clarisse Spindleward, age 23, newlywed, still learning… Er,” she cleared her throat and began reading in a breathy, hopeful voice, paper shaking slightly.

“There once was a wife who had trouble believing she was lovely. Her husband decided to remind her.

He took her to a lantern-lit restaurant perched over a quiet river, the kind where the menus come rolled in ribbons, and the chairs sparkle because an enchantment got bored one night. He even dressed up, wearing the good shirt he only saved for feast days and unexpected inspections.

When they arrived, he presented her with a single red rose. Not conjured, or made of paper, but bought, carefully, with intention. The wife felt the petals warm against her cheek before she even realised she was smiling.

He guided her to her seat with a gentle hand at her back, whispering, “Easy now, dove.”

He always called her little pet names: dove, blossom, treasure, like he couldn’t decide which suited her best.

She had known him for years… and yet tonight, something felt different.

The candles glowed like they knew a secret.

Her heart thumped like it wanted to answer.

They talked.

About nothing.

About everything.

And as he spoke, the wife found herself looking deeper, tracing kindness in the lines of his smile, strength in the way he folded his hands, warmth in the way he watched her as though she were made of spun gold instead of clumsy nerves. It startled her, this careful attention. It made her wonder…

Do I love him more than I admit?

The husband reached across the table and brushed her knuckles with his thumb.

“Candy,” he said, voice soft as a promise, “you look beautiful tonight.”

Candy’s entire body jolted like someone had kicked her chair.

“THAT’S IT! PAUSE!” she snapped from the real-world parlor, shooting to her feet.

Clarisse went wide-eyed, startled. “Oh! Oh gods, I… um… did I do something wrong?”

“Clarisse,” Candy said, pinching the bridge of her nose, “did you seriously write an entire romance story about Marcus and me without telling me?”

Clarisse wilted like a disappointed houseplant.

“I wanted it to be… sweet. And, um… welcoming. And you’re… really inspiring? A-and your marriage is very —”

“Nope! Nope, nope, nope, we’re done here,” Candy said, turning to the others. “I am putting a moratorium on all romance stories involving Marcus and me.”

Verna whispered, “…I thought the rose part was lovely.”

Candy groaned. “Did anyone not write about Marcus and me?”

Maeva stood. “I didn’t.”

“Finally!” Candy yelled. “Please, by all means,” she gestured for her to read.

Maeva adjusted her spectacles. “It’s titled The Washboard Knight. It was “the hottest day in Paddlewick. Our protagonist toiled in the yard, sunlight kissing every ripple of his heroic face. His developed chest and sculpted abdomen had been earned from heavy farmwork. Each bead of sweat glistened like holy water rolling off marble. His shirt, overcome with admiration, simply gave up and slid from his shoulders, revealing a stomach one could wash clothes on. If one were making dinner and needed a cheese grater and could not find it, this man would step in, lift his shirt and oblige. Demarcus picked his axe back —”

“Hey! This is still about Marcus and me!” Candy shouted.

Maeva looked wounded. “No, it doesn't involve you or your stiff pink nipples at all." Candy frowned even harder at the mention of her nipples. "This is about an original character. And his ROCK HARD ABS BABY!” A chorus of cheers went up in response.

“An original character who happens to share my husband’s name?”

“No, no! This one is Demarcus, with a ‘De.’ Entirely different man. Pure coincidence,” she retorted, completely failing to keep her laughter in.

Candy snatched her cloak from the chair. “That’s it! You all need hobbies that don’t involve me, Marcus, or anyone’s abs! I hate you all, goodbye forever!”

As she stormed out, Tilda called after her, “Next time, remember! We’re reading Oracle of Dough!”

“I’ll be there!” Candy shouted over her shoulder. “Still hate you all!”

From behind her, Maeva’s voice rang out: “And the abs glistened on—”

“SHUT UP!” Candy yelled, snickering. She covered her ears and yelled ‘not listening’, then kicked into a sprint all the way out of the building.

“So,” Maeva said, turning back to the giggling group. “Who’s next?”

UPDATE: Our own Tanon2 did a hilarious AI art of Demarcus. Please see below!

I tried putting him in a setting close to what's behind Marcus' house. Not bad, actually.