Why yes, We are still in posting mode! RL got you all busy and stressed to the point where you might have missed these gems that posted? That’s okay because we’ve got your back with our recaps!
Paring: Tenth Doctor x Rose Tyler Chapter: 2/2 Rating: Explicit Word count: 2700 Tags: Temporary Disabalities, Borderline PWP, Fluff, Light Bondage, Very NSFW
Second and last part of this story, for the @doctorroseprompts Hurt/Comfort!
Mind the tags, it really is NSFW!
Without a warning, he shuffled away and broke every kind of contact with her body. He remembered she had mentioned that fantasy she had, once. Not really a fantasy, merely a modest adventure she wanted to try and that they’d never embarked on - not for lack of opportunity, rather for lack of sufficient restraint on both their part. They just never resisted each other long enough to think about engaging into even a modicum of something different from either angry shagging against a wall. And when they took it slower, when they made love in front of the fireplace in the library or in their bed, they just never resisted the temptation to stare into each other’s eyes so they could share the words their moans forbade them to speak. But now. Now, he could.
Rose tensed when she heard him move away from the bed, then heard light ruffle of clothes, then felt the mattress dip slightly on her left side. She knew where he wanted to go with this, and while part of her was still a bit miffed at his carelessness, she couldn’t help the thrilled shiver that ran down her spine. She was almost tempted to reach out for him, to touch him, to fill the gap her blindness had carved in the wall of her perceptions, but then the tip of his tongue dragged along the shell of her ear and she gave up on the idea. He sucked her lobe in his mouth, and he was gone again.
The only thing she could do was to guess where he would touch her next. She had never felt so much erotic tension before. His finger drew a line on the patch of skin showing between the hem of her tee-shirt and her belt, and he was gone again. He pressed a kiss in the crook of her elbow, and he was gone again. He bit her lip, and he was gone again. He didn’t reappear for a full minute. The silence was only broken by her heavy breath, and his - he probably didn’t realize how hard he was breathing, almot ragged already, almost too deep and too loud. A minute was all it took for her body to steadily tense, muscles pulled taut, teeth grinding, gooseflesh spreading like wildfire over her skin everywhere she thought his hands were hovering. Everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
More sounds, more movements she could imagine happening around her without really knowing what he was doing. And suddenly, his large hand picked up both her wrists, pulled them up above her head, and the cold silk of his was tied around them, locking them around the headboard. He kissed both her palms, caressed her forearms, and he was gone again. Not for long. Just long enough for her heartbeat to turn erratic and a fire to burn its way down her loins. She had never been more powerless than in that moment. She couldn’t see, couldn’t touch. She could speak, but he wouldn’t hear. She couldn’t hear, but he wouldn’t speak. He could read her lips, but he could just as well pretend he wasn’t and she’d have no way of knowing. It was oddly… Satisfying. To let him possess to the last shred of control. To let him decide what to do. Liberating, in a way.
His spikes of hair tickled the underside of her jaw, and a groan was ripped from her throat when his mouth wrapped around her nipple over the layers of clothes. Not a direct contact, but enough to feel the moist heat of his tongue, enough for pleasure to spark and shoot down to fuel the heat of her arousal. When the fabric grew damp, he switched to the other, his thumb replacing his mouth to keep its attention awake. Her chest rose from the bed to seek more contact, a sigh of pleasure breaking free, but he wasn’t pleased by her eagerness. He bit her soft flesh in reprisal, and he was gone again. Really gone, the mattress taking back its original shape, his weight vanished, his heat replaced by a wisp of cold air. She still heard him, walk about the room, another quiet ruffle of clothes, a low rumble followed by a sharp metallic click. She wasn’t sure she liked this sound.
Soon, maybe too soon, she sensed him straddling her hips, and if she wasn’t mistaking what she was feeling against her skin above the line of her jeans, the ruffle she had heard was the one of his boxers falling to the carpet. Her hands unconsciously pulled on their bind, the desire to touch, to make sure with her own fingers, to feel, turning into a consuming need. If there was one sound he was still capable of, it was tutting. And he did. Just before he slipped a hand under her tee-shirt, splayed fingers on her stomach, and the awkward clicking sound reached her ears again. The fabric was pulled high, a swish of breeze rolling up her skin to the underside of her breast, and the same sound was heard. Scissors. Cutting through her tee-shirt, the back of his hand resting protectively under the blades should she be tempted to push her chest up. But now she knew. She nestled deeper into the cover and remained perfectly still, hoping he would get the message. He did. His hand disappeared and she could almost see his lips drawing into a grin. Her abdomen rippled slightly, the cold blade finally meeting her skin, and she had been right. She loved it. The cold against the hot, the hard against the soft, the not-quite danger against the weak, the sharp sound against the silence. The mere minute it took for the garment to curtain out on her sides, the sleeves having suffered the same fate, and expose the bra still covering her breast managed to fan her arousal better than a whole ten minutes of their usual foreplay. And then, with three meticulous snap of his scissors, he cut the two straps and the middle of the lacy piece. She felt like a flower whose petals were slowly picked off.
He raked his nails over her sternum, down, down, swiping off the tatters of the bra that joined the remnants of her tee-shirt. Her breath hitched in her throat when he bent forward to capture a nipple between his teeth again, caught the other between his knuckles, and teased them with his tongue, his lips, his breath, until they stood almost painfully erect atop her mouds of pale flesh. By the time he decided that was enough, she was almost ashamed by the wetness that had gathered in her knickers. Thankfully, he silently agreed to remedy the situation.
She released a breath, heavy, shaky, his hands drawing snakes down her stomach until they reached the buckle of her belt and deftly undid it. The two buttons followed, then the fly, and he shuffled down her legs all while pulling at the garment, along with her knickers. She heard the way he clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth, heard the deep inhale he took and almost heard his tongue run over his lips.
“Oh, God, fuck.”
She knew it was useless, but given how he suddenly wrapped his hands behind her knees and pushed them up, spread them out, she couldn’t help that curse. She didn’t think he had ever exposed her like that. She didn’t mind, if the throb between her legs and the renewed wetness she felt trickling down her opening were any clues. No, what she minded was the complete lack of stimulation. He did nothing, for a long moment. Almost too long. She grew too impatient, her nerves turning to scorching ashes, and she rolled her hips. She cursed again, loud and desperate, when what she believed to be the tip of his cock slid between her folds and bumped against her clit - and God, if it was, it seemed he was enjoying the ride, too. She felt his weight shift - he probably shuffled back on his knees so she wouldn’t try to seek for contact again - and she could only wait. His breath caressed her skin, first, somewhere on the inside of her left thigh. She felt the same on her right. Then a poke of his tongue on the left again, that he repeated on the right. Then his tongue ran along the dip between her folds and the juncture of her leg, and it did the same to the right. She knew he could tease, and she usually loved it, but the sensations were so much more powerful and consuming in that moment that she was starting to hate it. Her breath probably betrayed her, or the quiver of her muscles, or maybe the almost pained frown on her features. He finally licked his way up from her opening to her clit, and that about did it. About. Oh, it didn’t take much more, because he knew her by heart. He knew what she wanted, and he knew what she needed. He plunged his index deep into her, and sucked her clit into his mouth, hard, the taut tip of his tongue circling the bud over the bud, once, his fingertip pressing against the rougher patch of her heat, twice. Her arousal peaked and the headboard cracked in protest, her hands pulling on the tie to anchor her body, arching away from the bed, only supported by her feet and her her shoulders.
He didn’t hear her shout his name, but he felt her inner muscles squeeze his finger in, saw her body thrash, tasted the juices that flowed from her when he withdrew his finger. He loved it, to see her surrender to him, bound to their bed, at his mercy. He loved it even more to know she trusted him enough to indulge in that kind of fantasy that had left him indifferent at first, but that he was seriously starting to consider doing again, very soon, very often. His cock twitched hard at the sight of her flushed body, the heavy rise and fall of her chest, her white knuckles firmly grasping his favourite tie. She was beautiful. He was disappointed he couldn’t voice his affection and his love, but he believed she knew anyway. So, he shifted up her body, up to her chest, careful not to crush her with his weight, and he slipped two of his fingers into her mouth after giving it a full kiss. He let her twirl her tongue around them for a moment, enjoying the rumble of her moan that echoed in his bones. And then, he used those fingers to draw a question mark on her warm and reddened sternum. He hoped she would understand. She nodded forcefully. She did.
In a sudden surge of possessive behaviour, strength heightened by his arousal, he pulled on the knot of the tie to help her higher up against the headboard. His lungs constricted painfully in his chest and his hand squeezed his leaking cock, once, twice, dragged its tip up her chin, and he filled her awaiting mouth with a quick thrust. He didn’t even want to imagine what kind of sound he would have made if he could use his voice. His fingers tangled into her hair, his thumb pressed against her temples, palms cinching her cheeks to push her jaw down as low as he could - though he made sure to watch for any sign of pain or too extreme discomfort, he refused to hurt her. Her tongue worked fast against his underside, her lips thick around his cock, her mouth hot and wet and tight. She suddenly moaned around him, loud, or so the rippling echoes that pulsed down to his balls had him think. A single moan, that sliced a dent in the already tight coil of his arousal snaking in his loins. It felt too good. He wouldn’t last. He thrust hard into her mouth, once more, twice more, and he hurried to slip his cock out of her mouth before what thin thread of his control was left would break. He fumbled around to find the pair of scissors he had discarded to the side, feverish hands cutting through the silk of his tie above the knot until she was set half-free.
He flipped her around, rolled an arm around her waist to huddle her up to her knees, and slammed his hips against her rear to bury himself to the hilt in her wet heat. His fingers found her clit to rub it in tight circles, the chopped rhythm and the despair of his thrusts making it quite clear he wouldn’t last much longer. She fell on her arms, curved her back, squeezed her muscles around him. He threw his head back, biting his lower lip hard in the vain hope to keep his orgasm at bay just a while longer, just long enough so she would come before him, but it was no use. He didn’t want to fight it, not when this was bound to be the best orgasm he had ever experienced. So he let it sweep him away. His hips jerked against her bum and his fingers scratched through the coarse hair at the apex of her sex, his breath coming out in choked puffs as his cock throbbed and pulsed its long and powerful release in her dripping wetness. It lasted, seconds, how many he didn’t know because he hadn’t enough brain left to count, but he knew it lasted.
He wanted nothing more than to let himself fall over her and try to survive the intensity of his release, but she hadn’t come. He needed her to come. He found the strength to withdraw his softening cock from her and replaced it with two fingers he hurried to pump, fast and hard, in and out, his quivering thumb brushing random pattern against her clit. Thankfully, she was close, and it didn’t take long before the small of her back arched up, before she pressed back against his fingers and came around them, and he had to sigh in relief at the feel of her own release.
He snatched the tatters of the tee-shirt before she could fall down on them, pressed a kiss to the swell of her bum, made a quick job of wiping the heavy combination of fluids dripping on the inside of her thighs. With his shaking hands, he managed fetch the scissors and cut through the knot of the tie to free her of her bindings.
He winced at the sight of the bruises spreading from her wrists to the base of her thumbs - nothing he couldn’t fix later, but still, he was scared he might have gone too hard on her. He apologized with a trail of soft kisses he sowed over each dark colour spreading over pale skin, fleeting caresses all over her body, butterfly kisses peppered on her face. He wanted nothing more than to have his voice back and tell her he was sorry. Nothing more than tell her how much he loved her.
Her blind eyes looked at him as she snuggled to his side, and a smile tugged on her lips. She cupped his face again, a gentle hold, and articulated a few words again.
“I know. I’m fine. I love you, too.”
He smiled, too, even though she couldn’t see him yet. He cupped her left breast in his palm, and pressed his lips hard against the back of his hand. He hoped she could feel it. He knew she did, when she mirrored his actions over his right heart.
“Slip it off,” she mouthed, just before she kissed his lips again and buried her face in the crook of his neck.
He toed the plaid at the foot of the bed and caught it to throw it over they bodies, entwined in a warm and comfortable embrace. He would sleep it off. And when they both woke up, he would make sure to apologize. Twice again.
Started this work for the Hurt/Comfort prompt, from @doctorroseprompts! Second chapter should be uploaded very soon!
The panic he saw on her face made his stomach heave, and he rushed to her side to wrap a solid arm around her waist. Her eyes were wide open, trying to look everywhere at once without ever landing on anything, not even on him. A fleeting gaze, unfocused irises that had lost their lively whiskey colour and were now almost as pale as the white that surrounded them. She was blind. Momentarily, thank the Heavens, but she was blind. And he was deaf. And mute. Communication was bound to be a problem. A very big, very annoying problem. Especially since Rose was talking to him, or so her jaw and mouth proved, but he hadn’t been focused enough to read her words.
He winced when she clutched the lapels of his jacket and shook him forcefully, her panic turning to anger, tears falling from her eyes, mouth feverishly speaking words he couldn’t decipher. He hurried to press a finger across her lips to stop her, brought two of her fingers to his own lips, then to his ear, before he clasped her hands around his face and shook his head forcefully. He could only hope she would understand. I can’t hear. I can’t speak.
The way her shoulders sagged, almost imperceptibly, was enough to reassure him she had, but the anger and the terror written on her face did nothing to assuage his guilt. He knew this wouldn’t last for more than a few hours, but she didn’t. She was stuck in the dark, and he had no way to soothe her fears. The faster they’d get back to the Tardis, the sooner he’d be able to explain. Not that he expected her to forgive him for his awful blunder, but at least she’d know this wasn’t permanent. He could only hold her hand, like he always did when he wanted to comfort her, gentle and soft, hoping his calm and composure would induce her own.
He looked around for a while, taking in the forest of tall trees drawing a maze of narrow corridors, the spongy grass from which large roots sprouted, the many potholes and clods of wet earth. They had managed to dodge them on their way inside the forest, but he doubted Rose would be able to walk back safely on her own. He couldn’t risk a sprained ankle, or any other injury for that matter, so he did what he thought was best. He scooped her up in his arms and secured a tight hold behind her knees and shoulders. She seemed to understand, thankfully didn’t protest, and locked her hands behind his neck. The Tardis wasn’t very far, and he walked briskly through the rows of trees, huddling her close to his chest so he wouldn’t lose his balance or inadvertently let her legs knock on the trunks. Mere minutes later, he was kicking the door of his ship open and carefully set her down on a jumpseat before he went to a computer on the console. He flicked a switch on, reached for a keyboard and quickly typed a few words he deemed to be the most important.
“It’s temporary,” a metallic voice echoed in the console room - and he risked a glance at her to see her body visibly sag on the seat. “Sense paralysis. There was a plant I thought this planet didn’t have. Released spores that locked the senses we were using the most. I was talking and listening to your hum. You must have been staring at something. It will only last a couple of hours.”
He looked at her over his shoulder again, and a sketch of a smile ghosted over his lips when she lifted a thumb towards him.
“Sorry,” he typed on his machine - and she threw a dismissive hand at him, as if she didn’t really hold it against him. “We should sleep it off.”
He saw her nod and he went to her to gently take her hand and pull her back to her feet. He kept her close as they made their way to their bedroom, lest she’d trip over her own feet or walk into a wall - he knew just how hard it was to lose such an important sense and he noticed in the way she unconsciously leant against his side that she needed him. He helped sit her down on the side of the mattress, unlaced his shoes and toed them off along with his socks, shed his jacket and threw it on the desk chair, loosened his tie and slid it off his neck. He expected to already be in bed when he turned around, but she was angrily pulling at her own laces she always insisted should be tied into a double knot - she refused to risk stepping onto an undone shoelace should they have to run for their lives, which wasn’t necessarily a pointless thing. He quickly knelt before her and she jumped slightly when he wrapped his fingers around her feverish one, stopping her frantic attempts at untying laces that only made it worse.
He could imagine her annoyed sigh all too well, and he grinned as she let her body fall back on the mattress. He took his time to untie the laces of her hiking shoes, the right first, then the left, then tugged on her socks. She playfully nudged his shoulder with her toes and he laughed soundlessly before he planted a kiss on the sole of her foot and rose to crash next to her. He was pleasantly surprised when she rolled on her side to face him - approximately face him, her eyes only level with his mouth. She found out soon enough when she tried to kiss him and the bridge of her nose met the tip of his chin. He helped her shuffle up and smiled against her kiss, until she spoke against his lips, her voice echoing through his flesh and her hot breath rolling on his skin. Surely, she hadn’t forgotten he couldn’t hear her already. He pulled back a little, and she understood. Her fingers groped around his face to clasp his cheeks, and she made sure to articulate the word, syllable by syllable, and he read it on her lips.
“Apologize.”
He would have moaned deep in his throat if he had been able to. She drew him into a kiss - a snog- and grabbed a fistful of his hair at the back of his neck, tongue slipping into his mouth and teeth biting into his lip. Well, that certainly was an interesting alternative to sleeping it off. And who was he to refuse an apology she deserved, anyway?
We’re interrupting cute modern AU time from something completely different.
Emet/Wol
Summary: Watching the Warrior of Light sleep peacefully stirs some dark desires in the Ascian obsessing about her.
E-rated, please mind the warnings.
cw: masturbation, somnophilia, dub-con, and all the dark stuff you can imagine when thinking about an unhinged, obsessed, and vengeful Ascian.
She looks so small when she lets her guard down. Unassuming, normal, almost helpless as she lies in a small room in Il Mheg, resting after a taxing battle, rejuvenating for the journey back to the Crystarium.
He has had an eye on her and her companions from the moment she started making waves after she arrived in Lakeland. It took one look for him to see, after all. To look behind the woman’s feeble mortal form and see the shimmering, glittering light of her soul.
It’s not blinding, radiating like it used to be. On the contrary, its dim glow is almost pitiful in comparison with what it once was. But compared to the souls around her, it is a beacon of light. Quite literal, by now, Emet-Selch muses as he watches the soul in question wither and sir, struggling against the overwhelming intrusion of light.
She struck down not one light warden but two. An impressive feat for a mortal, if, ultimately, inconsequential. He can see clearly, how much her soul strains under the light of these creatures. There are several more around; she will break under the strain if she takes all of them on.
Not for the first time, he thinks about introducing himself to her and her merry band of followers. So far, he has been content to watch them from, well, not the shadows in this world, but from a distance. The temptation is there. Each time he sees her - feels the frayed edges of her soul whisper on the wind - his heart yearns. And then he looks closer, and the yearning turns into anger, into disappointment.
Her soul is but an echo of what he has lost. She is not even close to what he wants her to be, what he needs her to be, yet she is like a thorn in his side. Insistent, burying herself deeper with every step he takes, painfully reminding him again and again that she is there. He goes from feeling a spark of joy at the fact she is there at all to hating her for it and back by the hour. If he just walks up and talks to her tomorrow, there is no way he can keep his distance.
Then again, he seems incapable of doing it now already. Naught else could explain how he wound up in her bedroom in the middle of the night, watching her sleep. Standing next to her bed, he looks down at her and frowns. The light is raging, attacking her soul with tiny barbs; like razors, it leaves small sharp cuts on the shimmering surface. To watch it is fascinating. She doesn’t feel it yet; he knows. She won’t for a while, but it will catch up with her, and he finds himself looking forward to watching that, too.
Emet-Selch doesn’t care much anymore. Over the millennia, he has learned not to. He has emptied himself out, by circumstance and necessity, yet whenever he stumbles across her, it stirs something. Surrounded by emptiness and no purchase in sight, he feels. Whenever he looks at her, joy and anger sing together, and in the endless vacuum of his existence, they are somehow one and the same.
Even in his anger, he still wants her. The broken form, the sundered soul - merely looking at her makes him want to do unspeakable things, and he doesn’t feel remorse for any of them. But it doesn’t matter in the end; he can hardly break her any further.
Her soft hair lies spread out around her like a messy halo, framing her peaceful face on the pillow. Like this, she looks almost holy if he manages to ignore the broken bits of aether around her. He can only assume a pleasant dream is on her mind if he goes by the soft smile gracing her face. For a moment, he feels only warmth at the peaceful look before it scatters into the emptiness in his chest. How dare she to be at peace? This broken remainder of literal paradise, hurting him with her mere existence - how is it that she gets to sleep peacefully, in quiet reprieve, oblivious to the agony inherent to the entire world’s existence while he has to see it all, every hour of every single day?
His fingers twitch with the sudden urge to wrap around her exposed neck. How easy it would be to make her feel at least a fraction of his own pain and by his own hands at that. He could have her by the throat and make her life flash before her eyes ere she could even think about defending herself. He could carve his grief into her flesh with her own weapon and until she would beg him for forgiveness. He could restore her after, to her unblemished state and do it all over again until maybe, somehow, someday, he would feel a fraction of relief.
But all of this could wait. There were things in motion, here in the first, plans painfully orchestrated, and he would see them through. And for that, a more friendly approach would be preferable. For that, she can never know the depths of his gruesome affection for her. Not yet, at least. Maybe once she starts to succumb to the light inside her, when she slowly grows more monstrous day by day, when it starts changing her from within, and he will be the only one who can offer her salvation - then he will have ample opportunity to give in to his every whim.
He is about to take his leave when she moves. Her head rolls to the side and her night shift moves along with her, revealing only the slightest glimpse at the swell of her breast to his eyes and his need for her surges. This body she is in is new to him. Not too different from the ones she had before, but different enough, and he finds himself stepping closer. With a subtle wave of his hand, he lets the blanket slip off her, and as a draft of air hits her body, she stirs. With a frown, Emet-Selh allows his aether to flow. He deepens her sleep until she calms again. It wouldn’t do either of them any good if she woke and found him with her, after all.
Without the blanket covering her, she looks even more fragile. Her shift is thin and clings to her skin, hugging her form in a way that looks terribly inviting and restricting at the same time. He snaps his fingers once to get rid of it. After all, she is what he wants to see, not some garment hiding her from his view.
Like Hydaelyn hides her behind her blessing over and over again, obscuring her from his view, making it hard to find her in every single lifetime.
He will have none of that here, nothing obscuring that which he wants to lay his eyes upon. Her ample breasts move slightly up and down with each deep breath she takes, and under the fresh, somewhat chilled air from the open window, their peaks perk up. He is tempted to take off one of his gloves and run his fingers across them, to tease and take those hardened nubs and twist them. Tempted and appalled at the same time. That he would deign to lower himself and touch such imperfection, and with his bare hands? He sneers at the thought, and yet a part of him stirs in evident arousal.
His eyes wander lower, over the supple curve of her hips. He can almost imagine how her thighs would feel under his touch, how his fingers would press into her flesh, denting her skin with the harshness of his grip. Or maybe he would be soft for a while, fingertips grazing lightly along her stomach and down between her thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He knows that it wouldn’t take him much effort to make her body sing regardless of what approach he’d take. It never does. Once he’d pry those thighs apart, he would be greeted by inviting wetness.
Emet-Selch lets his magic do the menial work for him, turning her gently onto her back and spreading her legs apart so he can see. There is no tell-tale glittering sign of arousal shimmering at her folds now. Of course, there isn’t. He has not done anything to her. Well, not anything worthy of note, at least. She would probably see it differently were she to awaken now. For a brief moment, he finds himself tempted to forget all decorum and take her like this. Unprepared and unaware as she is, he could soothe his own need at little cost. Both, the need to have her and the one to hurt her. If he were especially cruel, he’d let her wake up, only for a moment. Let her take in all he is doing to her before sending her back to sleep, leaving her with the uncertainty in the morning if she had dreamed or not. Then again, she didn’t even know him yet. It would hardly have the same impact now than it would have later.
Still, the thought alone has him painfully hard by now. He keeps letting his eyes wander, as his hand does too. With a quick move, he undoes his robe in the front and takes out his aching cock. The tip is leaking already, the mere idea of her having worked him up into a tension that makes the thought of leaving now impossible. Emet-Selch makes his right glove disappear, and then he takes himself in hand, a blissful sigh escaping his lips at the touch.
He keeps his eyes on her, though. The Warrior of Light, the hero of the source, Hydaelyn’s chosen. She is light of his life and bane of his existence alike, and Emet-Selch wishes he knew how to quit her, how to stop feeling that last little spark that only burns in her vicinity. He knows he can’t. Knows that, however broken, their souls are entwined. He hates her for it, and she is everything to him. A knowledge that burns through him as he strokes his on length with a quick and efficient touch. He rarely bothers with striving for physical release, but her vicinity is a potent drug.
She lies there, so innocently, still peacefully asleep, and he finds himself raging with need. The desire to take her, to claim her, to ruin her surges through his veins as he watches her eyes flutter from whatever pleasant thought is gracing her dream. The urge to do something, anything, to her is nearly unbearable, and he leans closer, his gloved hand reaching for her face. Still stroking himself, he holds her chin, thumb running over her plush lower lip and dragging it down, pulling her mouth open just the slightest bit before he smears the dripping head of his cock over her lips.
The desire to simply take her mouth is burning through his veins, but Emet-Selch is nothing but patient. His time with her would come; it always did when the circumstances were ripe for the taking. For now, he holds himself in check. His hand speeds up, and he feels himself nearing the brink. With a leering look at her exposed and still sleeping form, he aims himself, and then a deep groan leaves his mouth as he spends his release all over her breasts and stomach.
It does not bring relief.
The physical sensation is there, small aftershocks of his orgasm still run through his body, but all in all, it’s a hollow sensation. He tugs himself back into his robes, not letting his touch linger. His eyes do, though, still glued to her form. And where the physical release had barely been noteworthy, the sight in front of him definitely is. Her face still looks peaceful, but the rest of her is no longer innocent. He watches his seed drip down her skin, marking her as his without her knowledge. She looks debauched like this, messed up, and it sends a deep shiver of satisfaction through him. He drinks in the sight for a moment before he snaps his fingers once.
He is not going to leave her like this, after all. Not when waking up and finding herself in this state would confuse her more than anything. No, if he will leave evidence behind that he can get to her where she is most vulnerable, he will do so when it has much more impact. When she can connect the dots, and the thought of letting her guard down to sleep becomes terrifying to her. Or enticing, perhaps. He never quite knows how she will react. One thing all over her shards have in common is the unpredictability of their source, after all. Sometimes she is coy, sometimes she is righteous, and sometimes she welcomes him into her bed with open arms. At times she likes his gentler side; at others, she wants his anger. Time will tell what this version of her does.
For now, all traces of his disgraceful act are gone again. Almost all, that is. He has cleaned her up and put her clothes and her blanket back in place, but there is one part he leaves out. It makes him smile, the thought that she will wake with the taste of him lingering on her lips. Enough to make her frown with unease yet not enough to send her into an outright panic yet. He is already looking forward to observing her come morning. Maybe, if her reaction amuses her, he will return the next night.
Or maybe he will finally introduce himself first once she returns to her new, temporary home. Raise the stakes, so to speak, for both her and for him. Let her get a good look at him before he starts invading her nights more thoroughly. Gain her trust by day only to shatter it by night. The thought brings more pleasure than the entire physical act he had just performed did, and it makes him smile to himself.
She would be his once again, ere this tale would be over. And if not by choice, then in pieces.
