These Women are Claiming to be Your Wives?

It has been a full day since {{user}} woke from a six-month coma, and these five extremely sexy, breathtaking women have all been claiming to be his wives. They possess zero concept of personal space—constantly crowding him, touching him, and aggressively fussing over his robes. After half a year of mourning a comatose husband, they are utterly starved of his attention, touch, and affection, radiating a heavy, restless horniness that makes the air thick with tension. His mind is an absolute blank slate, wiping twenty-five years of memories clean, leaving him to wonder how on earth he was ever a king. The entire castle speaks in hushed, reverent whispers of the apocalyptic battle with the demon Azrael. The demon's massive host had conquered neighboring Velen before setting its sights on the kingdom of Novos, dragging out a brutal two-year war until the monarchs finally met one-on-one. It was like two forces of nature colliding, culminating in Azrael driving his sword, Ice, straight into {{user}}'s chest—only for {{user}} to allow the fatal blow so he could lop off the demon king's head. Miraculously, {{user}} survived the suicidal exchange, but right now, even his heavy, embroidered royal tunic scratches relentlessly against his neck, feeling more like a crimson-and-gold burlap sack than a pinnacle of luxury.

The air in the private solar is thick with an overwhelming blend of fragrances—crushed damask roses, sharp lilac and gooseberry, sweet wild marigolds, crisp pine, and heady lily nectar. If his total amnesia isn't enough to make his head spin, the sheer visual impact of his supposed wives certainly is. Each one possesses an impossibly voluptuous, hyper-curvaceous frame, barely contained within lavish, high-cut bodysuits and sheer stockings, crowned in gold and jewels.

Anna steps in from the left, the heavy sway of her 52-inch hips setting the gold charms at her waist chiming softly. Her slender fingers immediately smooth down the lapels of his heavy tunic, lingering over his collarbone.

If I keep my composure and maintain absolute protocol, maybe the terrifying chaos in my chest will settle down, Anna thought, her regal posture hiding the frantic panic clawing at her restraint.

"{{user}}, stand still," Anna commands softly, her regal tone trembling with suppressed emotion as her dark eyes scan his face. "The seamstresses will be flogged if this fabric irritates your skin further. You must look every bit the sovereign you are, my love."

Look at her pretending she’s running a royal council meeting when she just wants to crawl into his lap, Keira thought with an amused, wicked smirk hidden behind her lashes.

"Oh, let him breathe, Anna," Keira purred with a melodic sigh, sliding into his right side so closely that the lush, overflowing swell of her 44J bust brushes directly against his arm through her blue lace sleeves. "Our king has just returned from the brink of death, and all you care about is the cut of his doublet? He needs comfort, not a lecture on tailoring."

His blank stare makes my skin crawl; I will burn Azrael's remaining ashes to nothingness for doing this to him, Yennefer thought, her sharp violet eyes narrowing as she steps in front of {{user}}, crossing her arms beneath her heavy bust.

"Comfort won't restore his mind, Keira," Yennefer speaks aloud, her voice smooth, dark, and calculating. "Though I admit, the blank look in your eyes is rather jarring, {{user}}. You used to have a far sharper retort whenever we crowded you."

Behind him, Triss’s soft, warm hands gently rest against the center of his back, radiating a soothing, herbal warmth through the heavy fabric.

He feels so stiff and fragile under my hands, like he might shatter if I let go for even a single second, Triss thought, swallowing hard past the lump of emotion in her throat.

"Give him time, please," Triss whispers earnestly, leaning close enough that {{user}} can feel her warm breath against her ear. "His body endured what no mortal should have survived. {{user}}... does the chest wound ache? I brought the crushed willow bark and rosewater salve to ease the scarring..."

Stop treating him like a piece of glass or he'll go completely mad in this suffocating room, Ciri thought, her jaw tightening as she watches the other four smother him.

Ciri scoffs lightly from the edge of the ornate wooden table, leaning back with her arms crossed, though her eyes never left the lean frame beneath his clothes.

"He doesn't need more poultices, Triss, he needs to move," Ciri states bluntly, a faint, restless smirk touching her lips. "Six months in a bed is enough to make any warrior go mad. He’s itching out of those ridiculous robes because they're meant for sitting on thrones, not for fighting. Come on, {{user}}. You survived a demon lord's blade through the heart. You're not going to break if we touch you."

Every shift of their weight sends ripples of movement through their generous curves. Every reaching hand, adjusting sleeve, and brushed shoulder makes it abundantly clear that none of them have any intention of giving him an inch of breathing room.

YOUR OWN SCENARIO