This is a steamy MM romance intended for mature readers over the age of eighteen featuring shibari, BDSM, and roommates who discover they aren’t as straight as they thought. All characters are consenting adults.
Reader discretion is advised. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are products of the author’s imagination.
© 2026 Josiah B Vale
All rights reserved.
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CHAPTER FOUR
Bare feet slap cold stone as I sprint through a corridor that twists and narrows, torches sputtering blue against wet walls. Rope vines slither along the ceiling, braiding into nets, diamonds, nooses that sway when I pass. The air is thick and heavy with smoke, sweat, hemp, jute.
I’m running. From something. Or to something. The floor bucks, heaves, then tilts beneath me. I try to stay upright, but my balance fails, horror blooming as I slip. Fall. Slide … into a hungry darkness that swallows the sound of my scream.
Suddenly, I’m high above the world, perched in a castle of towers stitched together by endless ropes in black, purple, and blue—pulled tight across a mountaintop.
Rain claws at the windows. Something is screaming, muffled and frantic. Milo’s voice? Mine? It echoes from behind, and I don’t dare look.
The doors explode open. A throne room, moonlight pooling in waves across marble floors.
Two tall figures stand over me, twisted silver masks warped into frowns that cut to the soul.
Their voices are both unfamiliar and painfully close.
“You’re not what we wanted,” the Queen whispers, her crown a nest of black thread.
“You’re breaking your mother’s heart,” the King intones, the words unraveling as red rope, pooling at my feet.
My hands, raw and bleeding, grip a climbing rope. My arms are giving up. I’m trying to pull myself up a cliffside, but my fingers are shredding, rope biting in. I try to grip the rope with my feet but—my legs won’t move. They’re immobile. No harness, no safety. Just me, the drop yawning below, the sky alive with threat.
Just let go, something inside me begs.
Stay. Milo’s voice, soft and urgent. I look up. He’s above me at the summit, smiling, legs swinging over the edge, wearing nothing but his tightie whities, fearless. The wind tugs at him. “You got this,” he calls.
Thick, crawling shadows gather behind me. Living shadows. They drag me upwards…
I’m at the peak. The black mist pulls away, the world below tiny and distant rivers of blue veins, cabins like dollhouses.
My skin buzzes, breath shallow.
Dante appears—maybe Dante—drifting just above the rock, cloaked in twisting black ropes, a wide-brimmed mage’s hat shadowing half his face. Smoke seeps from his sleeves. “A thank you wouldn’t hurt,” he says, voice velvet and dangerous.
“Th—thank you,” I stammer, heart jackhammering.
“You stayed.” Milo’s voice again, close now. I turn and—he’s right beside me, smile soft, eyes shining bright as hope.
“Look up!” Dante’s shout cracks the air.
I tilt my head. Dark figures peel off the clouds, wings shredding the sky.
Nowhere to run, only cliffs and impossible choices.
Rope lashes tight around my chest, my wrists, my throat.
I try to scream but I choke.
The darkness consumes me.
***
I woke with a gasp this morning, heart slamming, the taste of rope in my mouth. Dry and bitter. I realized my controller was still on my lap. I need to stop falling asleep playing Baldur’s Gate. Freaky nightmares.
A week after that crazy night, the group dynamic was different.
No shit, I guess, but clearly I wasn’t sure how to process it all.
None of us managed to figure out how to talk about it.
Tonight, Dante was out at some bar downtown, probably charming the pants off a stranger, and Chris was pulling a double shift, leaving just Milo and me. Alone for the first time since I felt him wrapped around my cock and it turned my world upside down.
The living room was bathed in the dim glow of a single candle, and a faintly burning sandalwood incense stick next to it. Its light barely touched the half empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table. I glanced at the blue rope I’d purposefully left on the armrest, a coil of possibilities. It was a proper shibari rope, and its rough texture felt like a promise. Maybe Milo would notice and it would start a conversation. Or something.
Sitting down across from me, Milo’s gaze swept from my face to the rope and back again. His voice, when it came, was a teasing drawl, but edged with genuine curiosity. “So, you just gonna stare at that rope all night, or you got plans for it? ‘Cause I’m game if you are.”
Heat started building in my chest, “I can’t stop thinking about it,” I confessed, my voice a low rumble, “picturing how you looked all bound and helpless keeps me up most nights.”
Milo’s eyes flickered, a mix of challenge and something softer. “Well don’t just picture it. Do it. And make it tighter this time.”
Fuck … it was more than enough permission to unleash whatever urges I’d hidden deep within. I nodded, already grabbing the rope. Its coarse texture was rough and familiar against my palms as I stood, motioning for him to get up.
“Guess I should get naked again?” He asked.
“Yes,” I didn’t hesitate. The week of build up driving me over the edge of desire. Fuck the complicated labels, I needed to have him again.
