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There’s a game Marcille likes to play these days. The thing with Chilchuck is: he really does like teasing her, flustering her way too much, and while she doesn’t actually mind all that much—part of her probably likes it way too much, all things considered, not that she’d tell him that; but given the way his eyes sparkle when he grins at her in those moments, he probably knows that already, anyway—a girl has to get her revenge, sometimes.
So, there’s a game Marcille likes to play these days. It had taken a long while to build up the courage, but she’s always been a direct person, and there’s nothing she likes more than the way he ducks his head when he’s embarrassed, the way he grits his teeth, the way his ears go red. The way he goes harder on her, rougher, when she’s riled him up. That glint in his eyes, hungry, starved.
The tavern is lively tonight, and she’s not drunk, but she’s a little buzzed, and there’s a ball of heat tightening in her belly as she watches Chilchuck across the room at the bar, laughing with some of the other people there while he’s getting their snacks. It’s the perfect moment; no one’s even looking at her. Marcille crosses her legs, uncrosses them and crosses them the other way. Wets her lips. Her heart is racing, and even though she hasn’t even done anything yet—even though he hasn’t touched her all evening, at least not like that—she can already feel it thrumming between her legs.
“Chilchuck,” she whispers. Even across the room, she can see his reaction, can see how he twitches a little, knows he can hear her, knows he’s the only one who can hear her. “I miss your cock.”
(This is what the game is about: her Chilchuck’s hearing is incredibly good. Outside, she can whisper dirty things, and he’s the only one who hears them; gets all flustered and embarrassed and riled up about them every time. Cute, cute, cute, cute.)
And that’s when she knows she’s miscalculated—that’s when she falls out of her slight buzz, sobering up in seconds—because Chilchuck’s isn’t the only head that snaps around to look at her, because a handful of others around him look at her, too. Chilchuck’s ears are red, red, red, and Marcille’s own face is suddenly burning so much it’s unbearable.
Oh. There’s other halflings here tonight. Oh, they’re standing around him at the bar. Oh, Chilchuck isn’t the only person in the world who can hear so well. Oh, she forgot about that. Oh, oh, oh, they’re all staring at her.
One of the other halflings snickers and elbows Chilchuck in the side, saying something inaudible through the chatter and laughter of the tavern (though she assumes he’s not even saying it in the common tongue, anyway) and Marcille buries her face in her hands, embarrassment wiggling through every last cell of her body, mortified. Oh no, she’s embarrassed him. Oh no, she’s so stupid. She should have—should have checked to make sure nobody else could hear her!
When she peeks through her fingers, Chilchuck’s face is an even darker shade of red, and he’s jabbing his finger into the other halfling’s—the one who’d said something to Chilchuck, but they’d all laughed—face, seemingly cussing him out or something similar. Because Marcille embarrassed him.
Then Chilchuck turns on his heel, abandoning their snacks—boo, but she probably deserves that, all things considered— to walk up to their table in brisk steps, and with every step closer, Marcille’s face seems to be burning a shade darker, until she feels like there’s truly steam coming out of her ears, or something of the like.
“I’m sorry,” she starts, a whine in her voice she can’t quite bite back, “I didn’t think to check—”
“Come with me,” he interrupts her, and before she can say anything back, before her brain can catch up to what’s happening, his hand is closing around her wrist and he’s turning around to leave, tugging at her. “Come on.”
Dumbfounded, Marcille gets up. Follows behind Chilchuck—passing the other halflings on the way, who are still snickering, even when the one Chilchuck yelled at is pointedly looking in another direction now—and it takes until then that she realizes they’re not actually headed for the exit, because she ruined the night, or something. No, they’re headed for… for the back.
Where is he taking her? And… for what? For an unhinged moment she contemplates if he’s going to lock her in the back so he can still have his fun without her embarrassing him, and she giggles quietly. She doesn’t need his good hearing to hear the way he clicks his tongue, the way he grumbles under his breath, though she can’t make out the words; couldn’t, even if she did speak his language.
“Are… Are we even allowed to go here?” she asks when he opens a door and nudges her through.
“It’s fine,” Chilchuck says, sounding strangely strained. Is he truly that pissed off at her…? She better apologize properly once they’ve arrived… well, wherever he’s headed. She’d follow him anywhere, anyway. “I know the owner.”
She bites back how she doesn’t think that means they can just walk around in the back like they own the place, but that’s when he opens another door, ushering Marcille inside, that’s when he stops walking, lets go of her wrist, and closes the door behind them. Uh-oh.
Glancing around nervously, she can tell they’re in some sort of storage room. There’s big wooden kegs covered in thin sheens of dust lined up and stacked at the walls, most likely filled with alcohol. Is he… planning to get real drunk back here… for some reason…? No, that doesn’t make any sense. So what…?
“Get on your knees.”
It feels like a bucket of ice over her head; in the sense that it shakes her out of it completely, out of the faint guilt and the very much not faint embarrassment, out of the sheepishness, out of the warm feeling still coiling inside of her despite it all, that it wakes her up, that it zeroes her into the moment completely. She stares at him, blinks once, twice.
“Wuh—what?”
Chilchuck rolls his eyes, leans back against one of the kegs with his arms crossed, and despite everything, it manages to rush down Marcille’s spine deliciously hot. Manages to make her shiver; and now that she’s actually looking at him without the overwhelming sense of embarrassment and worry that he’s mad at her, she can see the heat in his eyes. Can feel it spread from her own face to the rest of her body, blooming in her chest until she can barely breathe anymore, her face still burning.
“You said you missed my cock,” he says, slowly and dangerously calm in a way that makes Marcille swallow heavily. “So get on your damn knees.”
Without further questions—without further thought, in fact, her body reacting on instinct, obeying him—she does. Sinks down on her knees in front of him, scoots closer, closer, closer until he can brush his hands into her hair, her face burning in embarrassment and excitement, mouth dry, fingers twitching. Heart racing so fast she can hear it beat in her ears, feel it in her fingertips, between her legs, and she knows he’ll yank at her hair before he does so.
It still rips a breathless, shaky gasp from her throat, makes her lurch forward until she has to catch herself on her hands, until her cheek presses to his crotch at last. Makes sharp pain spread on her scalp for just a split-second, until she’s dizzy.
“You’re very eager,” Chilchuck comments, tone flat, but somehow still mocking. It sends electric pinpricks across her skin until she’s tingling everywhere, until she’s panting, and he’s still only touching her hair; slowly, tenderly—a stark contrast to how he yanked at it just now—running his fingers through it. Thoroughly messing up the careful braiding and styling he’s done just this morning.
“Chilchuck—”
“Quiet.”
Marcille’s jaw snaps shut, and he hums in appreciation, blooming warmly in her chest. Makes her nuzzle her cheek against him in desperation, makes her head go white-hot and empty, and his hands in her hair feel so nice. This is… nice. So, okay, sure, they’re in the back of a tavern and they’re probably definitely not supposed to be here, much less fool around back here, but this is… this is nice. It’s too nice for her to protest in any serious capacity.
(Though part of her almost wants to—just to have Chilchuck mock her for how much she wants it despite saying that. Or something along those lines. God, God, God, she needs him.)
“What do I do with you?” he continues with a sigh, and a dull knock that she’d guess is him leaning his head back into the keg, too, but she’s trying to be good, so she’s not going to try to look at him right now. Instead, she squeezes her eyes shut, bites back a desperate noise, leans closer, still. Under her cheek, she can feel him slowly growing hard. It’s exhilarating.
For the next few moments, the only thing she can hear is her own heartbeat. Going so fast it seems to be echoing off the walls, seems to be thrumming in her ribcage, rattling her bones. The floor—stone—is cold under her hands and knees, she thinks faintly, but she’s too out of it to really register it. Too… pulled into the way he moves his hands, the way he keeps threading his fingers through the strands of her hair, fingertips brushing over her scalp gently, rubbing into it in little circles.
Finally, Marcille moans, goes slack against him. This is nice. This is so, so nice. Nice, nice, nice, nice. Right now, she’d do anything to keep him touching her like this.
“Elven whore,” he says, suddenly, way too casually for the words he’s forming, and he grins at her when she startles, when she blinks up at him, dumbfounded and almost a little insulted; though mostly, her blood is just boiling in her veins, mostly, it’s rushing through her like liquid gold, mostly, it turns her on. Not that he needs to know about that. “That’s what that guy called you just now, you know? In our language. Get your elven whore under control.”
She’s speechless, staring up at him with wide eyes, mouth dry. Heart beat, beat, beating, galloping so fast she thinks she’ll pass out, and she’s trying her best not to squirm. Her voice is breathless when she speaks.
“That’s so mean.”
Chilchuck is still grinning, but there’s an edge to it now; something angry, almost. Something that makes her shiver, something that makes her press closer, closer, closer to his clothed cock.
“Yeah, it is,” he agrees, hand still moving through strands of Marcille’s hair, messing it up thoroughly, so gentle, so nice. “Which is why I told him to fuck off with that and that they’d have a problem with me if any of them call you that again. But I knew you’d like it.”
And that’s the thing: she does. She does, she does, she does, she does like it, she does like it when he says that, with that grin on his face, with that glimmer in his eyes. With his hands in her hair and her on her hands and knees, she does like it. Likes, likes, likes it so much she’s throbbing in need, that another moan slips out of her, even when he’s still just touching her hair.
Get your elven whore under control. And… and that’s precisely what he’s doing, isn’t it?
“Chilchuck—”
“Quiet.”
Again, her jaw snaps shut, this time so fast her teeth click together audibly. Chilchuck snickers, tugging at her hair almost playfully. “Attagirl.”
It’s terrible, truly: every little thing he does runs through Marcille’s whole body hotly, scalding, boiling. Makes her tingle until she’s dizzy, makes her so needy she thinks she’ll die. Of course she has to play games like these under these circumstances, it’s hardly her fault. Part of her wants to tell him that, wants to complain and pout, wants to demand he continues petting her hair like this, but she knows damn well—from experience, that is—that she’s not getting what she wants unless she plays along, so she stays quiet.
Satisfied, Chilchuck hums, and with how her cheek is pressed to his cock, she can feel the noise vibrate into her, tingling in her bones. Somehow, it manages to make her blush even further. Somehow, even next to all the other stuff, it really gets to her.
“Alright,” he huffs, using his grip on her hair to tug her away from his crotch, pointedly ignoring her whine. It aches all over her scalp, but she leans into his touch anyway, refuses to keep her balance by herself.
Somehow—and she’s watching his fingers work, clever little fingers, and she’s always thinking about them and her mouth is watering a little now, actually—he manages to unbuckle his belt with one hand, to shove his pants down, and his smallclothes, too.
Marcille only gets a small glimpse of his cock—already more than half-hard, the tip pink even in the dim light, and though she’s seen it frequently, she doesn’t think she’ll ever get enough of it—before he lets go of her hair, before he shoves his thumb into her mouth, prying her jaw apart, wedging itself between her molars to keep it like that.
“Open your mouth.”
She loves him. She loves, loves, loves him, and somehow, it washes over her right now as she blinks up at him, as she opens her mouth. As she lets him brush his thumb over her tongue, pressing it down, before returning it between her teeth. As she watches him fist his other hand around his cock and guide it towards her, as she lets him push it into her mouth until her nose presses into his stomach.
“There we go,” Chilchuck grunts, suddenly breathless, and she tenses, trying her best not to gag with the tip of his cock shoved down her throat. Her vision is blurring before he lets her move back until she can breathe again, and she’s panting, but she doesn’t choke. He pats her head for it, threading his fingers back into her hair, slipping his thumb out of her mouth, and warmth spreads through her body until she tingles all over. “There we go.”
He tastes good. Heady and faintly salty on her tongue, and she bats her lashes at him, swirling her tongue around the head of his cock, watching how the edge of his mouth twitches. His grip on her hair—with both hands, by now—is slack, seemingly content to let her play around for now, and well, Marcille’s not going to let an opportunity like this go to waste.
Slowly, she lifts one of her hands off the floor and wraps it around the base of Chilchuck’s cock, squeezing—reveling in the sharp intake of breath above her—before pulling off him. Before he can complain, before he can tell her to take him back into her mouth, she drags her tongue up his shaft, once, twice, three times. Blinks up at him as she nuzzles her mouth into his cock in an open-mouthed kiss.
His face is flushed, his pupils blown out. He’s beautiful. “God,” he groans, grip on her hair tightening. “You really do love sucking dick, don’t you.”
Marcille’s heart sings in embarrassment and excitement, that very same combination she loves so, so much. That always makes her squirm, that makes her shift where she’s sitting, right now, that makes her squeeze her thighs together, makes her heartbeat throb in her clit. Yes, she thinks, yes, yes, yes, but her mouth is occupied, so she can’t say it out loud; though she thinks he gets the message with how she groans, with how she continues to mouth at his cock.
It doesn’t take all that long—though her mind is a little blurry in this delicious haze, and fun things tend to be over much quicker than dreadful ones, so perhaps it’s just that—until Chilchuck gets impatient, however; she can tell by how his grip tightens, how he claws into her hair, how he grits his teeth, how his hips go all tense like he’s trying not to buck them against her face, like he’s trying to keep himself under control.
It’s hot. Of course it’s hot, so she glances up at him with the most innocent look she can manage, pressing her tongue to his cock flat, letting it rest on her face, and waits until he gets too pissed off to wait for her to get to it.
Doesn’t take long, naturally. No, he uses his grip on her hair to yank her head back, tipping her chin up, up, up until she has to go on her fingertips of the hand still on the floor, neck muscles straining.
“Open your mouth,” Chilchuck says again, but by now, his voice is hoarse, breathless, breaks a little in the middle of his sentence, shivers through Marcille’s entire being. “Open—open your mouth. Take it whole, come on, you little—”
And she’d love to hear how he’d finish that sentence—though even now she can’t quite bite back amusement at him calling her little anything—but that’s when she opens her mouth and takes his cock back inside and he cuts himself off with a strangled noise, so there’s that. For a few bobs of Marcille’s head, he gives her free reign, but then he seems to grow too impatient for that, too, tugs her closer by her hair, nudging her to go faster, to take him deeper.
It makes her dizzy. Always makes her feel like she’s floating, especially when he pushes a thumb into her mouth again, between her teeth, gripping her jaw tight with the rest of his fingers to fuck her on his cock, especially when he takes over and she doesn’t have to move by herself, doesn’t have to think by herself, just has to hold still and take it. Especially when her nose bumps into his stomach, his hair there tickling her, soft and nice, nice, nice. It’s a bit hard to coordinate her breathing when she’s so horny, when he’s throbbing in her mouth, his hands warm on her skin, when he’s cursing under his breath in a language she doesn’t understand, but otherwise, this is…
“Fuuuck,” he groans, head knocking back into the keg, and she struggles to look up at him because she wants to see him, always, always, always wants to look at him; but it’s hard to on all fours, hard when the light is so dim, hard when he’s leaning back his head, when she can only make out his jawline. He’s panting, chest heaving with it, Adam’s apple bobbing, however, and it makes her head spin. She’s doing this. She’s doing this to him, and he’s the one ruining her right now.
Get your elven whore under control, echoes helpfully in Marcille’s head, her cunt clenching down around nothing, making her squirm on the stone floor. God, God, God.
“You’re such a fucking slut,” Chilchuck gasps like he’s read her mind, and for a moment, she’s threatening to choke, but she gets it under control quickly; even when it still draws a moan out of him, even when it causes him to pick up his pace. The edges of her vision are starting to get fuzzy again. “Throwing yourself at me like this in public. Couldn’t have wai—fuck—waited for us to get home, could you…? Of course they—of course they think you’re my whore when you’re acting like that. What were you thinking?”
I am your whore, she feels the impulse to say, but his cock is still shoved down her throat, so she sort of can’t. Probably for the better. Or maybe not; maybe it’d make him come on the spot. Marcille shivers imagining it. The way he’d curse under his breath, how rough his voice would go, his grip on her jaw, how he’d lose control of his thrusts and grow sloppy.
She doesn’t have to wait much longer anyway, however, because he continues cursing unintelligibly under his breath, thrusting into her mouth until he grunts, until his cock throbs against her tongue pressed against it, until he grinds his hips closer, closer, closer so much so she doesn’t even taste him when he comes down her throat. It’s just the warmth flooding her, making her dizzy, leaving her desperate and shaky.
Then he pulls out, tugging her back gently, and she suddenly feels horribly empty, coughing, gasping in big breaths of air. Her head would drop down, down, down, but Chilchuck’s still holding her jaw, and he manages to hold her upright, somehow, catching his breath, too. For a moment, all that’s filling the room is the sound of their pants. It manages to be strangely romantic—catching their breaths in unison, his hand holding her up, her cheek leaned against him, his cock slowly growing soft.
“You okay?” he asks, then, voice still hoarse, brushing his fingers into her hair gently to push it out of her face, fingernails scraping over her scalp. Marcille shivers, lifts her head, and nods, because her throat still feels a little too raw for talking.
Which doesn’t matter, apparently, because he continues, “Can you stand? Come on, get up.”
Slowly, she does. She has to swallow a few times to get the weird feeling in her throat away as much as she can, her jaw and knees aching faintly (from cock and from the hard, cold floor), her legs shaky, but her blood is still running hot, so she manages, and with a breath, she leans against the kegs next to him, still a bit dizzy. Watches from the corner of her eyes how Chilchuck tucks his cock back into his smallclothes, fastens his belt again. She does always love to watch his fingers work. Always, always, always. Perhaps that was the very first thing that attracted her to him, now that she thinks about it.
“Jeez,” he grumbles under his breath, looking her up and down, and Marcille’s face flushes again; she must look a mess, with her hair sticking out in all directions, her dress crumpled. Quickly, he moves so he’s standing in front of her, moving in closer, closer, closer, leaning on one hand next to her elbow against the keg, caging her in. Her heart starts racing again.
Then he leans down, and pats at the fabric of her dress over her knees, still cursing. Ah, she thinks, faintly disappointed, a pout forming on her lips. Dust.
She sucks in a sharp, surprised breath when his hand brushes under the skirt of her dress, pushing it up, up, up, exposing her leg to the air. Shivers at the way his rough palm brushes over the skin of her thigh, and with a sigh, her head knocks back, too. Okay. Okay, okay, okay, good. Good, good, good.
“Greedy thing,” he mutters, more to himself than to her, she thinks, as his hand wanders closer and closer to her underwear, but it rushes through her, anyway. “Don’t do that again.”
“Mhm-hm,” she hums, even when they both know she’s lying. There’s nothing in the world that could keep her from doing something that makes him react like this.
Glaring at her, Chilchuck runs his thumb up the seam of her underwear, a clear path to her clit, even like this, even over cloth. Gasping, Marcille shifts her legs apart wider, wider, wider to give him more space, to get closer to him. “Please—”
“Shut up,” he hisses, grinding his thumb over her clit pointedly, making her mouth fall open in a silent gasp. “I can’t believe you, honestly. Can’t believe me.”
Everything inside of Marcille is once again going bright-hot-white and cotton-candy soft, her body going slack against the kegs, her legs shaking underneath her when he brushes his fingers over her again, when he palms at the whole of her clothed pussy. For a moment, she feels the urge to ask him what he means, because her brain can’t really make any sense of his words, but she doesn’t manage to, only manages to whine, to roll her hips against his touch. To silently beg him for more.
“You know,” he says, almost conversationally, almost a little angry in that way that makes her knees weak, and it sends her mind reeling, “I used to be worried you wouldn’t be attracted to me; that I’m too small for you. Isn’t that funny? When you can barely keep your hands off me? When you’re always gagging for my cock? When you love it so much?”
Her mind is blurring into useless mush, her hips desperately bucking into his touch, and that’s when he pulls his hand away, the disappointment almost painful all over her skin.
“Chilchuuuck,” she whines, and Chilchuck curses under his breath, finally slips his hand into her underwear. “Oh—oh, yes, yes, yes—”
“No patience,” he hisses, and faintly, Marcille thinks that if she were naked, he’d be biting at her breasts right now like he does so often, and she feels herself throbbing for it, wishes they were at home, wishes she could have him like this for eternity. “No manners. You’re that obsessed with me? I really can’t take you anywhere, slut.”
Before she can say anything—perhaps defend herself, as absurd as that sounds even to her—he pushes three fingers at once inside of her, and embarrassingly enough, the slide goes easy, smooth, because she’s so wet, because she’s absolutely soaking through her underwear. He curses under his breath, flexes his hand inside of the confines of her underwear, and she watches him wet his lips with his tongue, thinking again about how beautiful he is. Staring at the way his brows draw together, but then her vision blurs again, because he’s grinding the heel of his palm over her clit, because he’s thrusting his fingers into her.
“Chilchuck, Chilchuck, please, please, please—”
“Quiet,” he hisses, but he wraps his free arm around her waist, anyway, pressing his front to hers, leaning his head against her. Like this, with her legs spread, his cheek is pressed to her shoulder instead of her chest, and it almost bothers her. “You are aware we’re still in public, right? Or is there nothing left in that brain of yours anymore?”
He’s so mean. She loves, loves, loves it, breathing ragged, hips bucking into his touch, legs shaking. He’s so mean, and she moans, high-pitched and needy, pushes and pushes and pushes against him, his body warm pressed against hers like this.
“You’re mine,” he continues, so quietly she can barely hear it with how her head is spinning. His palm grinds against her clit again, over and over and over, and she loves how his fingers curl inside of her, how he always knows how to touch her, how to make her melt against him. “Mine, mine, mine. All mine.”
“Uh-huh,” Marcille agrees, mindlessly, desperately. She’s so close. She’s so close. She’s so, so, so close, feels it coursing through her veins and coil up between her legs, right inside of her, tight and hot and needy, clenching down around him, desperate, desperate, desperate. Part of her wants to beg some more, but her throat is still a little raw and he told her to shut up.
Everything blurs together. There’s just his fingers thrusting inside of her, his hot breath on her collarbone, the heel of his palm pressing to her clit. There’s just their shared heat between them, the way she throbs, the way her lungs burn with every ragged breath. There’s just the furrow in his brow and the way he bites down on his bottom lip.
“I love you,” manages to slip out of her, anyway, tumbling out of her mouth like clumsy chunks of diamond, and her mind zeroes in on the way his hand feels on her pussy, the way his brows knit together further, the way he grits his teeth, the way his face and his ears flush red. Chilchuck, Chilchuck, Chilchuck. “I—I love you, I love you, I love—”
Marcille’s orgasm feels close to a brick to the face; hitting her suddenly and almost violently, rushing and tingling through her whole body until she feels almost numb, warm and deliciously honey-sticky in her veins. Her breath goes ragged as she whines under it, hips bucking and flexing into his touch, eyes squeezing shut, and the way he curses sends electric pinpricks down her spine. She thinks she’s whining his name, but she can’t quite tell.
She’s still breathless, dizzy, her mind slowly coming back to her when Chilchuck eases her through it with the grinds of his palm growing gentle, until it’s barely ghosting over her, fingers stilling inside of her. Everything is sparkling. She loves, loves, loves him.
Slowly, he eases her fingers out of her, slips his hand out of her underwear, and despite everything, Marcille pouts. Despite everything, she feels just a little too empty for a moment, wants to ask for more, more, more, for him to never stop touching her.
Then her insides settle and warmth spreads inside of her ribcage when Chilchuck goes on his tiptoes to press a kiss to the hollow of her throat. He’s wiping his hand on his pants before brushing down the skirt of her dress until he’s satisfied, then he looks up at her with furrowed brows, and she can’t help but smile at him. He’s still warm against her.
“Um,” she says, suddenly feeling the warmth of pleasant sheepishness creeping back up on her, the reason they got back here crashing over her. Embarrassing, embarrassing, embarrassing. “Thank you.”
He rolls his eyes, but he still cups her face with both hands when she leans down, down, down to kiss him, his lips warm and firm against hers. Still fusses over her hair until she looks halfway presentable again, still takes her hand when they slip back into the front of the tavern.