You’re not a virgin.
You weren’t a virgin even when one of your main hobbies was trolling incel boards with i havent bathed in a perigee and my touch kills whats your excuse, because if there’s one thing you and Kuprum are good at, it’s zeroing in with guided-missile accuracy on the freaks who are some combination of desperate and just plain perverse. You’re no stranger to dragging your claws down the back of some nameless conduit, drinking in power as you ride them hard, and that’s the kind of pleasure you know how to deal with.
It’s this you’re not used to – just being held by anyone except your moirail, with no insults to keep things easy. Just curling up in the space between Marsti’s bent knees and her chest, her gloved hands resting over yours, because you’re tired tonight and none of this has anything to do with hungry desperation. She kisses your ear, because she still wants to touch you; you shiver and shift back in her arms, because you still want to be touched. The sharp nip of her teeth and the touch of her lips are tiny sparks, and you never can help wanting more. But it’s a sleepy, undemanding warmth that surrounds you now, and that’s all it can be, but also all it has to be. You’re not sure how to think about that yet.
She asks what’s on your mind as she brushes the back of your hand with her thumb, soft leather against skin. You could say it still scares you, trusting anyone but Kuprum with this sappy shit. You don’t.
“Telling the incels I got a matesprit,” you say, and she laughs low and doesn’t deny it. The sound leaves you unmoored and buoyant, because yeah, you think. You do.