The maids were relentless. If they weren't openly groping him, they were staring at him like he was the last slice of cake at a starving noble's banquet. Their fingers lingered when they adjusted his uniform. Their breaths hitched when they "accidentally" brushed against him. Their eyes—oh Tenkai, their eyes—darkened with something that made his instincts scream.
Regulus had faced dragons. He had survived divine whims and Nyx's capricious torment. But this? This gilded nightmare of rustling skirts and hungry stares was something else entirely. The maids moved through the manor like a well-drilled battalion, their attacks perfectly coordinated to leave him no quarter. One moment he'd be adjusting his cravat in a hallway mirror, the next he'd feel warm breath on his neck as delicate fingers "fixed" non-existent wrinkles in his uniform.
"Sir Regulus~" cooed a brunette maid, her voice dripping like honey as she plucked imaginary lint from his shoulder, her touch lingering just a heartbeat too long. "Your stitching seems loose here... Let me... attend to it." Her fingers trailed down his arm with deliberate slowness.
He backpedaled into something soft. Two somethings, actually.
"Careful now," twin voices purred behind him as identical maids steadied him with hands that somehow found every inappropriate place to rest. "Wouldn't want you to... fall."
Regulus' mind flashed back to his school days - leaning against sun-warmed walls with his classmates, making appreciative comments about passing women. The memory curdled in his stomach. "I'm sorry," he whispered to ghosts of every girl he'd ever ogled. "I didn't know. I swear I didn't know."
His contrition only seemed to excite them more.
Days blurred together in a haze of near-misses and cold showers. The manor's once-familiar corridors became obstacle courses of strategically placed maids ready to "accidentally" collide with him. The library offered no refuge - every reached-for book came with a "helpful" hand brushing against his. Even the damned kitchens weren't safe, with cooks who suddenly needed him to "taste test" sauces while standing suspiciously close.
And through it all, the cruelest twist - they never let things go too far. Just when his resolve would waver, when the heat in his blood threatened to override common sense, some divine intervention would occur. A dropped tray. A conveniently timed fire drill. Once, memorably, an actual gong.
The absence of a certain goddess was conspicuous. No smug commentary from the shadows. No dramatic entrances to mock his suffering.
Yet, he found himself missing her brand of cruelty.
Somewhere around day seven, Regulus noticed the changes. Without conscious effort, he'd begun anticipating the maids' movements, developing an almost preternatural sense for when and where the next ambush would come. His fingers, once clumsy with frustration, now moved with unconscious grace when adjusting a stray lock of hair for a sighing maid.
"Ahhh~" a redhead gasped as he absentmindedly fixed her crooked hairpin during one of their games of cat and mouse. The sound snapped him back to reality.
He stared at his hands like they'd betrayed him. "Wait. That was just your hairpin."
The maid blinked doe-eyed at him. "And?"
"And—!" His voice cracked. "You acted like I drove you to the edge?" The realization that he'd somehow become good at this twisted his frown.
Regulus stood frozen in the hallway, his own skilled hands still hovering in the air where they'd just fixed that hairpin. The maid before him was flushed, lips parted, waiting—expecting more.
And then it hit him.
Wait a second.
He had wanted this.
Back when he first stumbled into this world, his idiot fantasies had been full of harems and conquests. He'd dreamed of beautiful women fawning over him, of being some legendary playboy who left hearts fluttering in his wake.
And now?
Now he was running from it?
Pathetic.
A slow, dangerous smirk curled across his lips.
The maid noticed. Her breath hitched.
"You know," Regulus murmured, stepping forward, forcing her back against the wall with deliberate slowness. "I think I've been approaching this all wrong."
Her pulse jumped beneath his fingers as he traced the line of her throat.
"If this is my trial…" His other hand settled on her waist, thumb brushing the curve of her hip. "...Then I should be excelling at it, shouldn't I?"
Her lips parted—but no clever retort came out. Just a soft, shuddering exhale.
Good.
He leaned in, close enough that his breath warmed her skin. "Tell me…" he whispered, "did you really think I wouldn't learn how to play this game?"
Then—just as her knees began to buckle—he pulled away with a devilish grin.
"Oops. Looks like we're out of time."
He stepped back, adjusting his cuffs with exaggerated nonchalance as the distant chime of the manor's clocktower signaled the hour.
The maid stared at him, dazed, lips still slightly parted.
Regulus winked. "Until next time."
And with that, he strolled away—leaving her flushed, frustrated, and finally understanding what it felt like to be on the other side of this torment.
The moment Regulus turned the corner however, the maid's dazed expression sharpened into razor focus. She smoothed her skirts with practiced elegance, every trace of flustered hesitation vanishing as if it had never been.
Click. Click. Click.
Her heels struck the marble floors with military precision as she strode down the west wing corridor. The others were already waiting in the solar, sipping tea with perfect poise.
"Parameter one achieved," she announced, her voice crisp and professional. "Subject has demonstrated adequate resistance to basic seduction techniques."
The mage maid set down her cup with a soft chime of porcelain. "Phase two authorization confirmed." Her lips curved into something between a smile and a threat. "Cross the line. Drain him dry."
A synchronized rustle of silk followed as the maids rose, their eyes gleaming with predatory anticipation.
Somewhere in the manor, Regulus—proud of his little victory—unknowingly took his first step into the lion's den.
Regulus prowled the manor with newfound confidence, his earlier hesitation replaced by devilish determination.
The library maid who'd once teased him with whispered suggestions now found herself backed against a bookshelf, Regulus' fingers tracing the spine next to her head as he murmured, "You wanted me to read you, didn't you?"
Her gasp turned into a moan as his teeth grazed her earlobe—
—only for the senior maid to materialize and drag her away for "linen folding".
The kitchens became a battleground of stolen kisses between tasting spoons, the normally composed cooks now melting at his deliberate touches—
—until someone "accidentally" tripped the fire alarm.
By moonrise, the entire west wing staff moved with a strange mix of anticipation and frustration, their usual precision frayed at the edges. Regulus smirked at the chaos—
—until he turned a corner and froze.
Five maids stood waiting in varying states of undress, their expressions no longer playful but hungry. The senior maid stepped forward, her gown pooling at her feet as she purred:
"Lesson two begins now."