So, they’re lost. Or, well, more accurately, Laios, Senshi and Izutsumi are lost, because Marcille has Chilchuck by her side, which means they could never, ever be lost.
Even as he’s cursing where he’s trailing behind her, under his breath so quietly she can barely make out the words, but they’re sharp and unfamiliar, a language she does not speak, so it’s not like that matters, anyway. Even then, they couldn’t be lost.
“Maybe it’s this way!” she chirps, trying to remain cheerful, trying to lift the mood, turning a corner into another almost, at first glance, identical looking room. Leading the way, so that maybe he’ll stop being so grumpy. It always makes her feel like it’s her fault, for some reason. Like she’s always annoying him, or something of the like
Then there’s suddenly a weird, soft glow under her feet and before she can look down to see what’s going on, he’s shoving her and she’s losing her balance, something rushing in her ears.
“You idiot, watch out!”
She stumbles and falls, squeaking when her hands and knees hit the ground, breathless in surprise, bones aching, white flecks speckling her vision until she blinks repeatedly.
“What was that for?” she complains, but then she turns her head to look at him — and like this, on her hands and knees, she actually has to look up, which has nothing whatsoever to do with the situation at hand, so she’s not quite sure why she notices it so acutely — and freezes.
Chilchuck is standing in a magic circle, its pink glow glittering in his hair and his dark eyes like fireworks. Ah, Marcille thinks, stupidly, frozen to the stone floor digging into her palms and knees. Everything is going warm, she thinks. Have these rooms always been this warm? A curse. He was trying to protect me from a curse. Chilchuck really is too nice for his own good, isn’t he?
(What a silly thing to be thinking in a moment like this.)
Magical traps aren’t exactly as common in the dungeon — at least in the floors Marcille is familiar with, who knows, the lowest ones might be full of them for all she knows — than the ones Chilchuck usually deals with, but they do appear. It’s nice, sometimes, because then she’s the one who has to deal with them, because it means the others rely on her. Because she’s in some ways disarming a trap just like Chilchuck would. She likes that.
But, well, she didn’t do much disarming in this case. Which, bad. Probably very bad. Probably most likely very, very, very bad.
“Chilchuck —” slips out of her, high-pitched and panicked, too late, too late, too late, because by then, the magic circle has disappeared again. Well, the light, that is.
Quickly, she fumbles to her feet, anyway, heart pounding, feeling strangely large in her chest. Rushes over to him just as quick, almost stumbling, hands coming down to press over his chest, feeling his heartbeat thundering even through the leather of his vest; though it might just be her own in her fingertips. “Are you alright?!”
There’s something weird about his face when he tilts his head back, back, back to look at her. Something in his eyes — and have his pupils always been this black, always been this blown out, threatening to swallow the rest of his irises? — about the look in them, about the weird tightness of his shoulders and his jaw. It’s… for one second, it almost makes Marcille think he might be…
(That he’s beautiful in a way she’s never really noticed before, she doesn’t think.)
Slowly, like he doesn’t really understand what she’s saying, his brows draw together. Oh no, oh no, oh no; and she’s still no closer to knowing what kind of spell hit him. Though, well, he’s yet to drop dead on the spot or cough up blood or anything of the like, so that’s something, at least, isn’t it?
Oh, she’s such an idiot. She’d hate seeing Chilchuck hurt, especially if it was because of her.
“I need to —”
— get down and see if the magic circle is still there; if i can read it and find out what this curse is about; if I can help you, was supposed to be the end of that high-pitched, panicked sentence, but his hand closes around her wrist when she tries to move away, cutting her off, and his grip is tighter than she’d ever thought possible with his statue. It kind of almost hurts, actually, grinding her bones together.
Something in her head is swimming. Why is it so hard all of a sudden to focus her eyes on him, anyway? And why is he panting like this?
“Marcille…”
Ah. Ah, ah, ah, there’s something hot shuddering down Marcille’s spine, and when she tries to pull herself out of his grip, he doesn’t budge. He’s not supposed to be this strong, is he? She’s sure he isn’t supposed to be this strong.
Before she can ponder any of this any longer, however — which is getting increasingly harder anyway, for some reason, her brain like cotton in her skull — Chilchuck lets go of her like she burnt him, taking a few hasty steps back, eyes wide, still panting. Without his hand around her wrist steadying her, she’s swaying where she’s standing. Her tongue is dry in her mouth.
“Get away from me.”
Marcille blinks. “Wha —”
“Get away from me,” he hisses through his teeth, brows pinched together, sweat dripping down his forehead from under his bangs. She stares at him with wide eyes and an open mouth for a beat too long before his words and, more importantly, the way he looks truly arrive in her head.
Worry throbs in her head, in her ribcage, in her belly, down between… “Chilchuck —”
“I’m serious, Marcille,” he says, voice tight and eerily calm, hands balled to fists at his sides. He’s in pain, isn’t he? Why isn’t he letting her help him? “I need you to run away now.”
There’s something wrong, she can tell. Not just in the way he’s acting — and he’s always cagey, always grumpy, but right now, he looks nervous, looks almost afraid, looks… looks… hungry…? — but in how her own head is foggy, her body too warm, the way she can’t breathe right, the way her fingers are twitching, itching for…
She can’t think right. There’s something wrong, she can tell, and the spell hit her too, but she’s a half-elf, so she’s quite a lot more resistant to magic than other people, and Chilchuck is…
So small, so cute, so beautiful, so reliable, so handsome, so good, so…
“Marcille,” he hisses, teeth gritted. It’s only then that she notices she’s been walking — swaying, rather — towards him, and his back hits the stone wall before she can stop herself. It’s okay, anyway; she needs to help him. She needs to… find out what’s wrong so she can fix it. That’s what she was doing, right?
“Marcille!”
Ah, she’s right in front of him now. Chilchuck’s head snaps up to look at her again, and the pure, unfiltered desperation in his eyes shakes Marcille out of whatever trance she was in almost violently, making a shaky breath slip out of her. What was she just about to do, anyway…?
“Just let me take a look,” she pouts, faux-assured, faux-composed. “I’ll counter the spell, whatever it was, and then we’ll be fine! We need to find the others, anyhow; I’m getting worried about them.”
He’s clawing at the wall behind him, fingers trembling. There’s something stuck in her throat, something cramping in her belly, something, something, something swirling around inside of her, but she blinks and pushes it aside, instead leaning in to inspect him closer. He flinches when she brushes her hand under his bangs, pressing over his forehead, and yeah, yeah, yeah, he’s burning up.
“Please,” he whispers, and there’s such an honest, pleading tone in his voice that it shivers down Marcille’s spine hotly. “Just — just go. Please. Trust me.”
Trust me, she says, and she wants to. Wants, wants, wants, because she always trusts Chilchuck, because right now, Chilchuck is the one she trusts most, because he’s been for a while. But he’s suffering, she can see that. And —
There is something tugging at her guts, something tingling in her veins, something pulling her towards him, and she doesn’t know if she could move away from him in the first place even if she tried. If she could bear that, right now, because the thought seems terrible, for some reason. He’s handsome when he’s grinding his teeth, his face flushed red, red, red. His ears, too. She likes his ears, she thinks.
“I do trust you,” she breathes, leaning her hands into the wall above him, “so I’ll stay. Do you trust me? Can you tell me — can you tell me what’s wrong?”
Part of Marcille already knows what’s wrong. Feels it fizzing in her veins like elven soda, feels it sink in her belly like a stone. Chilchuck is squeezing his eyes shut, breathing heavily, like he’s trying to block her out, like he’s trying to calm down, and as her gaze trails down his lithe body, she can see that there’s something… poking… through his pants.
“Please go,” he pleads again, instead of answering her question, and for some reason, a whimper spills out of her.
“I don’t — I don’t think I can.”
He growls out a frustrated noise that makes her legs tremble underneath her, that makes something in her head swim dangerously, something inside of her throb. It takes another moment of squirming in discomfort until she finally has to admit to herself what part of her knew this entire time already: she’s turned on. For some reason — and she knows that’s the curse, but it doesn’t really make sense; who would put up a trap like this; what is it for? — she’s turned on.
And Chilchuck is —
Grabbing her again. Chilchuck is grabbing her again, staring up at her with grit teeth and furrowed brows with an expression she’d describe as glaring if she wasn’t so acutely aware of the fire burning in his eyes, of the way he’s… hard. Something that quite misses the mark to dread washes over her.
They’re going to… He’s going to… Is he really going to… They’re going to…
His legs buckle underneath him and he slumps to the floor, tugging Marcille halfway with him, until she’s folded in half, only barely managing to keep her balance. Feeling like she’s watching all of this happen from very far away — through a veil of fog, or something like that — she sinks to her knees and cups his face with both hands to make him look at her. Because she’s worried. Because she needs to check that he’s okay.
His pupils are blown out still, a strangely hazy look in his eyes, and he’s still panting, lips parted. And why does he want her to leave so badly anyway? He really looks in no condition to…
“Chilchuck,” slips out of her for no particular reason, and everything inside of her body is tugging, tugging, tugging towards him.
It’s Marcille who kisses him first, she’s pretty sure. She doesn’t know why she’s doing it — does she want to kiss Chilchuck or is it just this spell rushing through her veins, this curse trap they both fell into even when it hit him much worse than her? — but she’s the one who kisses him first, who leans in and presses her mouth over his, swallowing up a garbled keening noise of his.
It’s like nothing else she’s ever done in her life before. His lips are warm, almost feverish to the touch, rushing through Marcille’s body so headily like she’s never felt anything before. Prickling on her own lips, and it makes her press closer, closer, closer, makes her crowd him into the stone wall of the dungeon, makes her blood rush, her heartbeat throb between her legs.
His hands tighten around her upper arms and while she didn’t realize he grabbed her again, she’s realizing it now; and even through cloth, the touch makes her whine, that’s how much she feels it, like electricity rushing through her, almost violently. Ah, this is bad. Ah, they can’t do this, can they? Ah, ah, ah, the only reason they want to do this at all is because of that spell; Chilchuck would never want her otherwise.
But does he not like blondes…? Were not every single one of his succubi blonde women…? Guilt rushes through Marcille at just the thought; he has a wife, after all. Chilchuck has a wife he hasn’t seen in four years, and they can’t do this. They can’t do this.
Can they?
His tongue presses to her teeth and she shivers violently in his grasp, tipping over before she realizes it, her world flipping with it. Her shoulder blade hitting the floor shakes her out of it, makes the fact he’s pushing her to the ground arrive in her head because it hurts, because it ripples through her body until she’s whimpering into his mouth, kicking her legs involuntarily.
It’s maddening, how much she… feels. How it makes her vision fizz with stars like she has mana sickness, how it throbs and throbs and throbs in her belly, until she feels paralyzed with it.
“Chilchuck,” Marcille repeats, stomach twisting in endless excitement that almost makes her squirm in discomfort and vague dread, swirling together until she’s sweaty and feverish and dizzy. His mouth presses over hers insistently, hands tightening around her arms further until she’s sure she’ll bruise, swallowing up her words, muffling them. “Chil — chuck!”
He’s not listening. He’s not listening to her, and he’s kissing her like a man starving; like in her novels, this whole situation — the stupid spell and the way he’s on top of her, pushing her down — is like in her novels, and she doesn’t really know what to do with that association. What to do with any of this. He’s not listening to her, and he’s not supposed to be this strong, but both are true right now, somehow.
And what’s the most weird out of all of it: Marcille likes it. She finds herself liking Chilchuck’s weight on top of her — and it’s not much, of course, but it still manages to press her into the dungeon floor, still manages to squeeze the air out of her lungs — liking his mouth on hers, liking how it sparks pleasure through her veins in little jolts that make her mind white out, that make her whine into his mouth.
“Fuuuck,” he hisses, reeling back so suddenly it feels like a bucket of ice water over her head (and it truly is so cold without his body pressed against hers; why is it so cold?), and when she blinks, her vision a little blurry, she can see how blown out his pupils still are; how hazy his eyes look. Unfocused. Hungry, hungry, hungry, and his hands squeeze her arms until a small noise of pain slips out of her, his eyes roaming over her body. Marcille is very dressed, but she still feels naked all of a sudden, somehow. “Mar — cille…”
His voice is hoarse, heavy, slow, like it takes all of him just to form a clear thought. Another wave of guilt crashes down on her, for some reason; he really is not doing well, is he? He really got hit so hard, didn’t he? Oh no, oh no, oh no. Poor, poor Chilchuck.
“I’m —” she starts, dizzy, almost a little feverish, and the rest of that sentence was supposed to be sorry, but she never gets that far. She never gets that far, because that’s when he starts ripping at her clothes with a noise from the back of his throat she can really only describe as a growl. “Oh.”
Oh, she says, breathing it out in one startled syllable, like an idiot, and her face burns in embarrassment at it even when her mind is screaming at her that she should probably be caring more about the more pressing matters at hand right now. Namely, the fact that her friend and coworker, who’s married, is ripping at her clothes right now, eyes hazy, very clearly wanting to undress her, to…
Namely, the fact that Marcille finds not even a speck of will inside of herself to stop him. To try to stop him, at the very least. Namely, that she finds she doesn’t want to stop him, not really. Namely, the wave of something scalding — both need and dread, she thinks — washing over her so headily the only thing she can really manage to do is let out a shaky noise as he manages to get her belt open, shoving it aside with a frustrated grunt, as he moves to push the skirt of her dress up, up, up.
Oh, she thinks, for some reason. Oh, oh, oh.
Chilchuck is pulling her pants down before she can really make up her mind about anything; leaving them twisted and bunched up around her ankles, climbing between her legs, and she’s staring up at him with wide eyes as he sits up on his knees, unbuckling his own belt with shaky hands, chucking it aside and ripping at his pants. Staring, staring, staring, as she realizes she thinks she’d like to see him naked right now.
It’s weird. It’s so weird, this heat that holds her body in an iron grip, next to how she can still think — relatively, that is — clearly, much unlike him, apparently. It’s so weird, to know rationally what’s happening to her, what’s happening to them, and still her mouth is dry and she can’t move, can’t push him away, and still she’s aching with how much she wants him.
And still, and still, and still, she watches as he finally shoves down his pants and his smallclothes, too, sucking in a sharp breath at the sight of his dick, hard and an angry red at the tip, and it makes Marcille realize she’s never actually seen one. Not like this. Not at all, actually.
“Chilchuck —” she says, suddenly panicking again as he starts to rip at her bloomers like he’s just realized — or remembered — they exist, that it’s not actually… that she’s not yet actually… naked and… “Chilchuck!”
She claws at his shoulders, hands wrapping around them to try and push him away, but her arms are shakier than they usually are and Chilchuck is much stronger than he usually is and she thinks there’s suddenly way too less air in the room to breathe. She can’t push him away. She can’t push him away, he’s going to do this to her — and it’s not his fault, she thinks desperately, she knows it’s not his fault, and he’s married, too — whether she wants to or not, and she’s never had sex in her life before.
Has never felt this turned on, either, head spinning with how her need is fighting with her common sense in her chest.
(We can’t do this and has he always been this handsome and there’s hair at the base of his co*ck, I wonder if he has more hair over his body; he’s a man, isn’t he and he’s married we can’t do this and I’m scared, I’ve never done this before and I think I’ll go insane if there isn’t something inside of me soon and that stupid, stupid spell, you stupid, stupid girl and this is just like in Dalclan three chapter five page seventy-eight and —)
The sound of fabric ripping filling the air feels like a slap to the face; makes Marcille flinch where she’s pinned underneath Chilchuck. Makes her feel like there’s a heavy weight on her chest, crushing her ribcage, pressing all air out of her lungs until her head is spinning, her fingers twitching uselessly where she’s still clawing at his shoulders. For some reason, the feeling of cloth under her fingers bothers her.
The sound of fabric ripping filling the air feels like a slap to the face, and still it takes her hazy brain a moment to catch on to the fact that he ripped her underwear, that he’s currently pulling the tattered remains of her bloomers off her hips and thighs and chucking them over his shoulder; making a shiver run up Marcille’s spine, making goosebumps spread over her thighs.
“Chilchuck,” she pleads, high-pitched and choked, and the thing is, she’s not sure if she’s pleading for him to stop or for him to please, please, please continue.
(Yes, yes, yes, something echoes at the back of Marcille’s head. More, more, more.)
Just like she’s not sure if she should use her hands on his shoulders to push him off her — or try to, at least; evidently, right now, Chilchuck is stronger than her, and for some reason, the thought pulls a moan out of her — or to rip at his vest and then at his button-up, trying to get his bare skin under the flat of her palms.
Oh, oh, oh, she’s losing it. She’s losing it, staring up at Chilchuck and his hazy eyes and his handsome, cute round face and the way his brows are pinched together, the way he’s grinding his teeth. Oh, oh, oh, she’s losing it, and she catches herself fumbling with the clasps of his vest just as the tip of his co*ck brushes down her bare c*nt.
“Oh,” slips out of her, and she tries to squirm away, but that’s easier said than done when her fingers are still clawed into his clothes, adamantly refusing to let go. “Chilchuck, w-wait —”
He doesn’t wait, of course. Of course, he doesn’t wait. He doesn’t wait, of course.
Marcille’s hands are clawed around the clasps of Chilchuck’s vest in a white-knuckled grip that makes them dig, dig, dig into her palms, so deeply she feels like she’s being cut when he pushes inside of her.
Despite everything — despite how she’s clawing at him, trembling in endless excitement and this dread that flips her insides both, despite how she’s never, ever done this in her life before — it feels like an easy slide. Maybe because she’s so wet, throbbing already like her c*nt is much more impatient than she is. Maybe because of the spell. Maybe because he’s so much shorter than her, but it doesn’t hurt, only burns a little. Only feels… weird.
Unfamiliar, of course. So unfamiliar that all Marcille manages to do is hold on to him uselessly, fingers twitching, jerking underneath him when he immediately starts thrusting. Unfamiliar, and she feels vaguely swollen with it, feels so — so, so, so, and that’s probably the spell, right, it must be the spell, because it’s so good in a weird way, like it’s scratching an itch deep inside of her she’s never really been aware of in the first place — so full.
It’s perfect, in a way. For a moment, her head spinning, she stares up at the way sweat drips off Chilchuck’s brow, listening to his low grunt, watching how his thick brows draw together, and thinks she’ll never be hungry again like this. Thinks she’ll always be full, full, full, until the end of everything.
It should probably disturb her, how happy that thought makes her. How happy all of this makes her; even next to all the twisting dread in her body, even next to all of the conflicting thoughts and emotions, even with how much of a mess she is right now, with how bad she feels for getting him in this situation in the first place.
Maybe this is the wrong moment to be thinking about any of this, however — and she feels like she’s floating somewhere to the right of her body, not inside of it, or like she’s watching this from somewhere far above — because he’s still very much f*cking her.
Oh God, he’s f*cking her. And he still has so many clothes on, too!
Marcille bites out a whiny noise, returning back into her body so sharply it feels like another slap to the face, or another bucket of ice water over her head. By now, she’s drenched, drenched, drenched.
It still doesn’t exactly… hurt. Maybe her brain is too foggy for that, too cushioned in whatever this is, but it doesn’t hurt, even as the force of Chilchuck’s thrusts keeps rocking her body into the stone-tile floor of the dungeon. He’s… f*cking her. He’s grabbing her by the hips, fingertips digging into her flesh until it rushes through her veins headily, and he’s f*cking her, pupils still so blown out, mouth open and panting, expression so animalistic her puss* throbs around him.
Ah. Ah, ah, ah. Ah, she needs to — she needs to…
“Chil — chuck,” she whines, breathless, vision blurring. He’s not tall enough for her to easily lean up and kiss him, and for some reason, it makes her writhe underneath him in agony; for some reason, that’s what hurts, and not his sloppy, irregular thrusts or the way he’s grabbing her that’s sure to leave bruises.
It’s so much louder than she ever thought it would be, too: the noises of skin slapping against skin, hip hitting hip, and the — the obscene squelching noises her c*nt makes around him. It’s much louder than her books ever described, and for some reason, it makes Marcille’s face burn in embarrassment, her eyes burning, too.
One of the buckles of his vest snaps open from the sheer pressure she’s been putting on it, and for some reason, that’s what fully snaps her awake.
Well, as fully awake as someone who got hit with a sex curse can be; there’s still cotton stuffed in her head, of course, still gold coursing through her veins. Still, she can move again, still, there’s something bubbling up in the pit of her stomach, something euphoric like she’s never felt before, still, need burns inside of her so insistently it makes her ache all over, prickling violently over every inch of her skin.
She needs him. Marcille needs him, needs to feel his skin against hers, needs, needs, needs —
Chilchuck is panting, drooling a little, teeth shiny where she can see flashes of them, fingers digging into her hips so tightly she’s sure his fingertips and knuckles are white, white, white. Chilchuck is panting, rutting against her sloppily like he’ll die if he doesn’t, and it makes it hard to focus, because with each thrust, a rush of pleasure buzzes through her whole body, tingling in her fingertips where she’s now working to unclasp his vest entirely.
It’s surprisingly hard, really, to do something like that when he’s f*cking her — oh God, he’s f*cking her — when her fingers are shaking, too. When he already calls her clumsy all the time, anyway, and God, what’s that warm feeling that explodes in her chest just at the thought, anyway?
(Can affection really feel that big?)
With a frustrated noise from the back of her throat — and it feels dry, her head throbbing, her puss* throbbing, too, cold sweat dripping down her back where it’s rubbing against the cold dungeon floor — she rips at Chilchuck vest, and finally, finally, finally, it pops open, finally she’s getting it off him. Something that feels like scalding fever grips her chest and she tilts her hips up, moving to wrap her legs around his waist — and it feels like he’s been f*cking her for hours already, but that can’t be true, right; logically, Marcille knows it’s only been moments — to get him closer, closer, closer, to rip at his button-up shirt until the buttons go flying, until his chest is finally bare to the touch, bare for her to see.
“Chilchuck…!” slips out of her again, high-pitched like a choked moan, and he groans in response, eyes squeezing shut.
She can only make him out in flickers. He’s starting to pick up his pace, starting to push into her more roughly, and it spreads through her body like fireworks, like one of her explosion spells, making her throb, throb, throb around him, making her throw her head back and spill out noises she’s never thought possible; holding on to the tatters of his shirt that still hang off his shoulders for dear life. Her mind is blurring again, spinning around and around and around, and even as she lifts her head, she can only make him out in flickers.
The line of his nose. His thick brows. The grit teeth. How he has a cleft chin when she looks at him this up close; how he has grey hairs, too, and his chest with swirls of dark hair that looks too soft to be normal body hair — and she knows what that looks like; she’s seen tallmen (women, that is) naked before while bathing, not to mention has seen her father’s legs growing up — more like fur. She wants to touch it, wants to touch it bad, but there’s something building inside of her, growing tight, tight, tight like it’s about to snap, and it feels like she’ll fall and crash if she lets go of his shoulders for even a moment.
“f*ck,” he hisses, in a tone that scrapes over her bones, leans in — lunges in, rather — until she can feel his hot breath on the side of her neck, making her ears rush; until he can bite, teeth catching onto the fabric of her choker.
Until he can — until his hand slips between her legs and something presses over her cl*t hard, and that’s it, that’s it, that’s it. For a moment, Marcille is sure she passed out, or died, or something like that. For a moment, Marcille is sure that that’s it. The end. Black. Curtain falls. Not that bad a way to go, all things considered.
But she doesn’t have to ponder any of that any further, because just as she falls, weightless for just a moment, she’s already crashing. It feels like nothing she’s ever felt in her life before — and that’s something she seems to be thinking a lot today, she thinks almost hysterically, but it is what it is — so all-encompassing there are no words to describe it, and Marcille knows words. A lot of them, actually.
She’s read about this so much, but nothing has prepared her for the reality of this. This has to be the spell, right? This intensity, it has to be —
Something pops in Marcille’s ear, but it still takes a moment longer until she realizes the noises she hears — desperate whining, moaning and panting, like an animal in heat — come from her. Until she realizes that she’s throbbing all over, that her c*nt feels like molten iron and Chilchuck’s teeth are buried in the side of her neck, until she notices the way his hips are jerking against hers, the way he’s grunting, guttural, deep, until she realizes he’s coming inside of her, warmth flooding her.
Inside… of her. Inside of her, and though she’s well aware she’s infertile, it makes her blood rush, makes her heartbeat kick up another beat.
She just came, she did, right? It was so intense she must have, but now she’s aching all over again, still aching, now she’s throbbing still, writhing underneath him, tears burning in her eyes, her whole body prickling so much she doesn’t know how to deal with it.
“Oh,” she gasps, “oh, oh, please, Chil — chuck, pleashhh…!”
She needs to kiss him. Oh, she needs to kiss him so bad, needs him to continue f*cking her, but he already came, didn’t he? He already came inside of her, oh, oh, oh, and he’s so warm on top of her, radiating into her until she’s feverish, sweaty and dizzy, until she’s squirming underneath him. Oh, oh, oh, he’s so handsome and he feels so good and she feels like she’s melting underneath him, and he’s married.
It’s then that Marcille realizes Chilchuck is still very much hard inside of her. And she’s not totally sure about how these things work, alright, but isn’t it supposed to go soft or…?
He’s saying something, too, she thinks, cursing under his breath quietly, so hoarse that it tingles down her spine, in a language she thinks she wouldn’t understand even if he wasn’t still biting her, tugging at her choker with his teeth until she feels lightheaded, heart racing in her ears and her temples.
It’s okay; she wasn’t able to breathe right before this, anyway. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, because the heel of his palm (at least she’s pretty sure that’s what it is) is still pressing over her cl*t, because he’s still hard inside of her, whining when he slowly starts grinding against her again, because his other hand is still digging into her hip tight, tight, tightly, because he’s slumped against her, his weight on top of her, and Marcille wraps her arms around him, too, irritated by how she doesn’t feel his skin bare on hers.
Like he read his mind, he reels back — slipping out of her grasp, and she whines, vision flashing white, shivering without his heat pressing into her — and shoves her dress up, up, up her body with an impatient, strangled growl that raises the little hairs on her arms. His thumb slips — if by accident or on purpose, she cannot tell — under her bra, ripping the front open, the cool dungeon air hitting her bare chest so suddenly that her back arches off the floor, that she whines again, squirming and panting.
“Please,” Marcille repeats, and she has no idea what she’s begging for, only knows that Chilchuck is hard inside of her and that she still needs more, more, more. “Please, please, please —!”
He leans back in again, and she almost sobs in relief, even when he doesn’t go for her throat again, where her spit-soaked choker is clinging to her skin, directly to her pulse. Wet, sticky, like she feels all over, but still relief floods her even when he goes for her chest instead, especially when he goes for her chest, it turns out, because he sucks her nipple — and most of her breast, actually, f*ck — into his mouth and her spine jumps again, hips desperately angling against his.
“Chil — Chilchuck,” she whines, urgently, an almost panicked tone in her voice she barely recognizes when she feels the edge of his teeth on her nipple, sending sharp pin-pricks of pleasure through her veins, cutting her to the bone. All of this cuts to the bone.
Chilchuck is f*cking her again. He’s finally f*cking her again, in earnest, grunting into the skin of her breast, her nipple still in his mouth, hot tongue pressing against it in a way that makes her eyes roll back into her skull, hips rutting against hers, hot breath fanning over her chest, raising goosebumps in its wake. It knocks her into the floor again, over and over and over until she doesn’t know up from down, pulling him closer with her legs, grabbing at his shoulders.
It keeps washing over her in waves, alternating from scalding and icy: Chilchuck is f*cking her, he came inside of her once already and she did, too, and neither of them are done, and it feels good, it feels so good, and she needs, needs, needs it. There’s a spell, a curse on both of them that makes them act like this (it’s just that, right? It’s only that, right?), and it’s her fault, and Chilchuck is married, even when he hasn’t seen his wife in four years, because it’s not like that changes anything, as much as she wants it to.
(Does she want it to?)
But it feels so good and —
“—cille,” he’s panting, and it takes a while until his voice manages to get through the thick fog packed into her skull. “Marcille, Marcille, Marcille, Mar — Marcille…”
His cheek is pressed to her breast, hot breath hitting her spit-slick nipple in a way that makes her squirm, flushed all over, and he’s slumped against her, yet she wants him closer, closer, closer still. Wants to fuse to him, skin to skin, melting into each other, because then it truly wouldn’t matter that he’s married, or that he’ll die so much earlier than Marcille will.
(Does it really matter now that he’s married? Does it? Should it matter to her? It probably should, right? So why doesn’t it?)
Chilchuck starts biting again, this time at the sensitive flesh of her underboob, and the zap of pain makes her clench down on him, rushes through her even more headily than it did when he bit her neck. For some reason, she wants him to wrap his hands around her throat, wants him to push her down and hold her there again, to use her — though is he not doing exactly that? Is that not precisely what he’s doing already? — but that’s when the heel of his palm digs into her swollen, throbbing cl*t again and everything goes white.
She can feel it, feel her heartbeat race against his palm in her cl*t, and it makes her thighs twitch, makes a hoarse moan claw its way out of her throat, makes her dig her fingernails into his back through his button-up shirt. One hand slips up into his hair, nudging him closer, closer, closer against her boobs, his chest flush against her stomach, furry hair — and it is soft like fur, God, it’s breathtaking, God, she wants to run her fingers through it, God, God, God, for some reason, she wants his co*ck in her mouth so bad right now — brushing against her skin, the sensation so acute she wants to die. Wants to come again. Wants to black out.
Wants, wants, wants. So badly, even when she’s not sure what, but she’s itching everywhere, burning somewhere deep inside.
She’s close. Marcille is so close again already, with his hot breath on her body, his teeth and the way he sucks at her nipple again, his warm, calloused palm digging into her cl*t, body pressed against hers, hand pinned between them. With his soft hair and the low grunts and the way his hips rock so desperately against hers that it makes her ache, the way he’s grabbing, grabbing, grabbing her, the way she couldn’t shove him off her even if she tried.
She wants to know what’s in his head right now — if it’s just a sex spell induced wasteland. Wants to dig inside of him.
He likes blondes, she knows that, and she’s blonde, isn’t she? Does Chilchuck think she’s hot? Has he ever thought about her like this before? God, she thinks she’d die if he didn’t; whimpers at the mere thought.
In the end, he’s the one who comes first. She can see it, when she lifts her head, pressing her chin into her bunched up dress over her chest, uncomfortably warm and sticky on her body, can see how his eyes roll up, drool rolling down the curve of her breast, can feel how he’s throbbing inside of her again, hips jerking desperately, panting and grunting, arms trembling.
Oh, God, she thinks, tilting her hips with another whine, bucking them against his, against his limp hand pinned between them, mind blurring in a desperation that hurts like the edge of a knife scraping over her skin, a desperation that might just kill her if she doesn’t come right now. Oh God, oh God, please, no, please don’t let him stop, please don’t stop, please don’t let this be over, oh God we can’t do this can we oh God he’s so —
His hips press to hers so tightly bone grinds against bone, as if he wants to come inside of her as deep as he can go, and that’s the last bit it takes. Marcille is wailing when she comes this time, nails raking over his scalp, sure to leave bloody, aching lines she can’t bring herself to care about right now. Gosh, she can’t bring herself to care about anything but the way her c*nt throbs right now, nothing at all.
For just a moment, it’s pure bliss. For just a moment, it’s everything, everything, everything, for just a moment, they’re truly one and the same, Chilchuck-and-Marcille instead of two separate beings.
Then he pulls out of her so abruptly it snaps her back so sharply vertigo grabs her body. So sharply she claws at him, stomach lurching, fear gripping her so tightly she’s sure she’ll die.
She doesn’t, of course. She doesn’t die, just gets violently torn from him, and before she can do much about that — grab at him, try to yank him back, beg him even when he doesn’t seem physically able of understanding her right now, sob, maybe — he’s moving down her body, hot breath making her prickle all over until her vision whites out, freezing where she’s lying.
His lips are hot, too, that’s the first thing Marcille realizes. Pressing over her skin, kissing open-mouthed and hungry down the curve of her breasts, her belly, teeth grazing over her hip bone until her spine jumps, her head tipping back.
It’s good. It feels good. Chilchuck feels good; everything he is doing to her. If it’s just this until the end of the earth — if he doesn’t f*ck her again — she thinks it’d be fine, too, because there’s his hands brushing over her skin, calloused, groping her everywhere he can reach and he’s kissing her and it’s so nice it makes her eyes tear up (in pleasure, in guilt, in fondness, in affection, in this deep, deep, melancholy and fear, and) —
Chilchuck presses his mouth over her cl*t. It happens so suddenly — or it feels sudden, because Marcille’s head is still stuffed full of cotton, because he’s touching her so much and every bit of it makes her brain light up, because she can’t focus like this — that her hips jump against his, thighs squeezing around either side of his head; making him groan into her, and the vibration is enough to make her sob in overstimulation.
“Oh God…!”
Her hands jump to his hair on their own accord, clawing there, and she’s not sure if it’s to push him away or pull him closer, closer, closer. She’s not sure of anything right now.
There’s so much swirling around in her head — dungeon, the others, trap, curse, wife, Chilchuck, Chilchuck, Chilchuck, cold, sticky, warm, lovely, Chilchuck, the others, curse, failure, can’t, hot, Chilchuck — and none of it goes anywhere. It feels like all of it slips through her fingers, like she can’t keep any of it under control, and really, what does it matter anymore?
It doesn’t matter. It feels so good. His mouth is warm and wet where he’s mouthing and lapping at her c*nt like he’s starving, sucking at her cl*t until the rest of her brain leaks out of her ears, and it doesn’t matter, none of it does, only this, this, this.
It’s so good. It’s so good. She wants him inside of her again; inside of her mouth or her puss* or both, she doesn’t really care. It’s so good. His co*ck would taste like her right now, right? It’s so good. It’s so good.
Marcille’s mind and body melt into a puddle, mindlessly twitching against him, her hoarse moans unfamiliar to her own ears, Chilchuck’s fingers digging into her skin. It feels almost like a loss when she comes like this; when she squeals, bucking and thrashing under the waves of overstimulation, for part of her wants to float in that haze forever.
She gets to do exactly that after, however, so there’s nothing to complain, is there? It’s so good. Everything is warm and soft and she’s so desperate, so wet, and it’s so, so good. Chilchuck flips her over and she mindlessly helps him put her on her knees, spreading her thighs apart, moaning when he pushes her head down with his hand, when he keeps it there, when he starts f*cking her again, reckless and rough and fast, and it’s so good. All of this is so good.
“Chil — chuck,” she hiccups, f*cked out of her with every thrust, babbling into her hand her cheek is resting on, his still pressing her into the cold dungeon floor. “Chilchuck, Chilchuck, Chilchuuuck, Chilchuck…”
She’s not sure when she passes out, but it’s got to be somewhere around there. She’s not sure how long he continues f*cking her either, but it’s not like that matters, isn’t it? Chilchuck is —
good, and reliable, and she trusts him, and he’s so —
.
The first thing that hits her is pain. Throbbing all over, and then, when she’s done writhing at the initial intensity of it, concentrated in her skull and between her legs. Her mouth is dry.
When she tries to move, she feels sticky all over, cloth stuck to her skin and wrapped around her uncomfortably, restrictingly. What the hell…?
Then it hits her. The — the room. How they got… lost, separated from the other; Chilchuck by her side, cute and reliable and grumpy as always. His warm hands on her… no, that’s later. The room. The spell-circle, with the beautiful pink light. Marcille’s heart feels too big in her chest, uncomfortably beating and thumping and throbbing against her ribs.
She had sex with Chilchuck. She had sex with Chilchuck a lot, she can feel it all over, even when everything is a little fuzzy, even when she’s not quite sure when the film rips, when she lost consciousness. She had sex with Chilchuck, and it was her first time, and he’s…
He’s married.
…Where is Chilchuck?
Panic grips her, chasing all that other useless stuff away. Where is Chilchuck?!
Visions of the worst rushing through her head — some monster found them like this, took him with them, killed him, maybe, or something similarly horrible — Marcille pushes herself upright, despite the pain shooting up her spine at that, despite how her thighs are sticky and crusted with… with his sperm, right; wincing at it. Whips her head around to scan the room, panting already. Oh, she’s exhausted, oh, she’s aching down to her bones. Her head is spinning so much she feels vaguely nauseous.
It takes a moment of panicked glancing around until she realizes that it’s warm next to her; until her eyes drop to his body, curled up right by her side. The sight almost makes her flinch, despite the relief flooding her: his hair is a mess, his shirt torn, his vest discarded somewhere off to the side, his pants still open.
Somehow, that’s what truly makes everything sink in. Somehow, that’s what makes her get it.
“Chilchuck,” Marcille cries out, anyway. Lunges for him, fear still holding her ribcage in an iron grip, until her hand brushes into his hair, until she can feel the warmth of his skin. Until she fumbles for his pulse, and it’s there, and it’s steady.
She lets out a sigh of relief, head falling back with it, even when some of the worry continues to nag at her. Chilchuck is too warm against her palm, warmer even than he usually is; she knows by now halflings run hot. Feverish, almost, and when she rolls him around so his head is cradled in her lap — sending another sharp jolt of pain through her — his brows are ever so slightly furrowed, like he’s in pain, too.
Even like this, he’s beautiful. His lashes are long, and his big ears are cute, cute, cute.
Marcille bites down on her bottom lip, shaking her head, even when that makes it throb uncomfortably. No, that hardly matters right now. And anyhow, that’s just that curse speaking! Ah, when is that finally wearing off? It’s gotten better, yes, but…
With a sigh, she brushes her hand over his clammy forehead, pressing there, allowing her eyes to flutter shut — a bit of a bad idea, because it makes her dizzy for a moment, makes her feel like she’s losing her balance — muttering a few words under her breath as she casts a small healing spell. When she glances back down at him, pushing his bangs out of his face — he has less hair than she thought he would, she thinks idly, for some reason — his brows are more relaxed. Okay. Okay, okay, okay.
Sighing again, she gently nudges Chilchuck off her lap again, cold stone digging into her thighs and her ass. Neither of them are fully dressed — in fact, they probably look ridiculous with their clothes sticky and half-torn, and her face burns in embarrassment even when there’s no one around to see — a fact she’s painfully reminded of when she winces at the feeling of the floor underneath her. Okay, okay, okay.
Eyeing Chilchuck’s torn shirt, she presses her lips to a thin line, before reaching out to rip a piece of fabric from it. Her torn bloomers are out of the question for obvious reasons, and his shirt was already ripped, so it’s alright, right…?
Swallowing, she reaches for her pack to grab her waterskin, carefully soaking the rag of fabric just a little. Marcille moves to clean Chilchuck first; his face, and his co*ck, too, though she tries not to look at it too closely, then she dresses him as best she can, before moving on to herself.
It hurts. She knew that already, but it becomes apparent when she presses the cold rag to her puss*; it hurts, and she grits her teeth as she wipes at it, then at her thighs, to get most of her slick and his… seed off her. Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand before moving to dress herself; and that part is easier than it had been with him, because she knows where her clothes are, because she can grab one of her spare pairs of underwear and put that on in place of the ones Chilchuck ripped.
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
“Marcille…?”
Marcille jumps where she’s sitting, heat rolling over her so scalding she can’t tell if it’s shame or guilt or something else entirely. Chilchuck’s voice is hoarse, broken, tired, and it pools in the pit of her stomach in a way that makes her wish for just a beat that she could disappear; just vanish into thin air.
She can’t, of course, so she turns to where he’s rolled around to his other side to face her, brows furrowed in confusion, and her teeth catch her bottom lip so hard she thinks she’s going to split her skin any second now.
Then, in a way that would be funny in every other context, his eyes widen, and he looks at her in horror. Guilt washes over his face so palpably it feels like a punch to Marcille’s gut, seemingly pushes all air out of her lungs in one go, until she thinks she’ll pass out again.
“Oh, f*ck —”
“It’s okay!” she says quickly, a shrill tone in her voice that makes his eyes go wide again. “It’s — it wasn’t our fault! It’s not like we had a choice. Don’t — don’t worry about it, Chilchuck.”
For a moment, Chilchuck stares at her blankly, like she’s insane, and really, if she’s honest, she does feel a little insane right now. Her heartbeat is so rough it makes her want to die, makes her feel like she’s going to get knocked around by it, left to right, left to right, left to right.
“You,” he chokes out, pausing to wet his lips with his tongue, clawing his way to a seating position in a way that looks painful. “I — you, we… I — oh my God, Marcille, you dummy, I told you to — to run away, you —”
There’s something lodged in Marcille’s throat, something burning inside of her. She needs — needs, needs, needs, and he’s still looking at her like that, with horror and guilt that makes her ache. It’s not his fault. It’s not his fault.
“I liked it,” spills out of her before she can bite it back, before she can think, and she claps her hands over her mouth just as Chilchuck goes bright red.
“Wha —”
She needs —
It’s so cold here, she thinks. So cold, so cold, so cold, and his eyes widen when she crawls over to him, but he doesn’t flinch; just leans back, back, back like he’s trying to escape her again, until the back of his head hits the floor again, face red, eyes wide, staring up at where she’s straddling him. Oh God, she’s straddling him, but what better way to make her point than this?
Right?
“I liked it,” she repeats, quietly, face burning. There’s an insistent, dull throbbing between her legs again and part of her wants to cry because of it. Why is she still so…? “I liked it, so don’t feel bad. I’m sorry I got us into this situation.”
“It’s not your —” Chilchuck starts, brows furrowing, but he stops when her hand rubs over his chest, over the still-ripped — of course it is, what a silly thought — fabric of his shirt. Freezes, his ears flushing now, too, red, red, red. “You — Marcille, are, are you, um, are you still cursed…?”
There’s something clawing at the inside of Marcille’s ribcage, and when she leans down, down, down until his breath — fast and almost panicked — is fanning over her face, he closes his eyes, squeezes them shut, brows furrowed, like he’s waiting for her to…
To…
“I — Maybe I am.”
Maybe she is.
