NOVEL WEB Chapter 11: This World Isn’t As Godless As You Think. (18+)
A few soldiers helped her carry Soril to one of the nearby residential houses. They had to leave immediately afterwards to clean up the Estalian stragglers on the wall. The ravens are sent to another nearby campaign, but the medics wouldn’t arrive until dusk the following day. She’s standing by Soril’s bedside. Hardly breathing as he is, he won’t hold out that long with this severe injury. It’s morbid. A gaping hole in his stomach bleeding him out. His pulse is getting weaker each passing moment. Steeling her voice, she tries again,
“Bathory, please... I need my powers back.”
It’s whatever. If he dies, he dies.
“How could you say that! He got injured because he was protecting us.”
He was performing his duty.
“Didn’t you want to sleep with him?”
He’s not the only hot guy in the whole of Astoran. Come to think of it, that red hair brute is pretty attractive too. He called me a clever little missy. That’s kinda cute. It’s hopeless. She grits her teeth. She won’t get through her this way. Bathory’s completely stonehearted. Instead, she changes up her tactics,
“If I fuck a hot guy, you’ll give me my powers back?”
Yes.
“What do you define fucking as? Penetrative sex?”
Well. No shit.
“And you’ll definitely keep your promise if I fulfil your criteria?”
Yes.
“Do you still find Soril attractive?”
He was stabbed in the gut, not on the face. Wait hold up, where are you going with this- She isn’t listening to her anymore. Instead, she’s removing her underwear, climbing on the bed to straddle across his thighs. She’s being careful to lean her weight on her knees as she undoes his pants gently as she can. Pulling him out.
You sick fuck. I told you I wanted to fuck hot guys, not reenact a snuff scene.
The blood on her hands is enough lubricant for her to shove him inside after some finessing despite he’s completely flaccid,
“There I did it.” but even that seems to hurt him, she’s holding her tears back, “Return my powers.” Bathory pauses.
You’re weak. She sighs,
You care that much about him huh. Mark my words, useless angel, gouge your heart out for a man and he’ll only trample it to the ground.
“Don’t change the topic. Keep your promise.”
Whatever. You owe me one.
Bathory has gone silent after that. A few moments later, a warm golden glow began surging through her veins. The incessant stinging from all her cuts numbs out. Her body gradually feels light again, like she’s on an energy high. She examines her arms; the lacerations that’re coloring her purple and vibrant begin to seam. Disappearing with a white light sewing everything shut. The gaping hole in her shoulder and face, like ivy vines, crawls to a close. Angel’s blood heals mortal wounds. She’s gotten her rapid recovery back.
Without wasting a further moment, she swipes one of Soril’s daggers off his belt. Repeatedly digging it into her wrist, clenching her fist to force the blood out onto his abdomen. Sizzling like hot water on a pan when it hits him. It’s repairing the flesh on his back where the blade exited, then his shredded intestines, he’s getting his breaths back. She twists the weapon into her arteries, bites down on her lips to stifle the pain, keeping the cut gory and open to increase the drainage, until finally, his wound is completely healed and he’s rasping for air. She tosses the blade aside, leaning over to sweep his fringe that’s matted with sweat from his face,
“Soril!” He’s flinching, but his pulse is finding its rigor as he’s stabilizing. Throttling down his jugular each time he inhales. Slowly, his eyes flutter open, the focus sharpening with each blink,
“Lu-meria?” He sounds confused. Flickering down, he examines himself,
“I was stabbed.” The nasty wound is gone, then he lifts a finger to perplexedly poke at her cheek,
“Your face... How did you-” The wash of relief compels her to interrupt him. Throwing herself onto him with the tightest hug she’s able to muster,
“I’m so glad you’re okay!” she squeezes him with all her might. His heartbeats feel normal now, she repeats,
“Thank God, you didn’t die. You had me so worried there.”
He’s completely still for a few moments. Blinking at the ceiling as if he hasn’t fully registered what happened before he absently runs his fingers through her hair. Muttering as if unintentional,
“You weren’t just a crazy lady spouting nonsense this whole time.” yeah, he’s fine. He’s definitely fine if the first thing he does right after waking up is to mock her. At that, she finally calms herself, finding her composure to snarl,
“Told you I’m an angel.” as she straightens.
“And the Estelians?” he’s trying to get up, but she holds him down with a palm to the center of his chest,
“You should rest more. They’re retreating now. We won. Your soldiers are cleaning things up.”
“Right. You crumbled the entire mountain with that last shot.” he exhales sinking into the bed,
“An angel huh.” he sighs covering his eyes with an arm, “It’s still difficult to believe. Or am I already dead?”
"This world isn’t as Godless as you think it is. I tried hard to hold you here, so don’t undermine me like that.”
He flicks his gaze down to his hips, “I can see that.” nudging her up. It makes her remember, he’s still inside her. She hastily stutters,
“Wait. I’m sorry. I can explain, I had to otherwise Bathory wouldn’t give in to me. I sincerely apologize for touching you without your conse-” he interrupts her,
“It’s fine.” chuckling a little, “I presume. You got your powers back?”
“I just healed you with it.”
“Are you still healing me? Is this a part of the ritual?”
“What? No. There are no such kinky rituals in Heaven. It’s my blood.” she lifts to show him her wrist where the dagger scars are gradually disappearing, “See?”
“That means, you’re sitting on me because you want to?” shit. He’s right. She should probably unmount him first. But the moment she tries to move, he immediately deadpans,
“I think my wounds are opening again.” she freezes,
“Really? Is it the cuts? I didn’t have time to go through them yet. Where does it hurt?”
“I don’t know. Everywhere. Keep healing me.” Scanning across the floor for the dagger that she’s thrown before it registers to her. He’s being sarcastic. In fact, he’s so energetic he’s getting hard. Huh. Does this mean... she mutters,
“You could’ve simply said you wanted to have sex with me.” wait. Why did she even mention that. There are no merits in it now. She already got her powers back. But before she can even amend her statement, she’s abruptly flipped on her back.
He’s pinning over her. Dead silent for a moment. There’s this sudden heaviness to the air. The mood is changing. Fading, is the fear, anxiety, playfulness and relief. It’s replaced by something else. Something coaxing, like a lullaby, but less serene, a ballad, but more provocative. She can’t quite place a finger on it yet. The white noises have gone unnervingly still. Or perhaps it’s the situation that’s demanding her to tune it out.
He briefly opens his mouth. Searching his words before it loses him again, so instead, he’s just holding her gaze. There’s that wavering look in his pupils. Catching sharp in the light with the intensity of a blizzard. But it’s warmer than that, hazier than that. Shrouding whatever thoughts that were rampantly running through her mind in prior when he reaffirms,
“Can I?” and for once, she thinks. He sounds sultry when he asks. It’s hypnotizing. He really does have pretty eyes.
“Why all of the sudden?”
“Remuneration.” That’s sly. She can’t be certain she’s still rational when she’s serenaded into justifying,
“Sure.” He’s already in her and she instigated this anyway. But he isn’t moving. He’s closing their gaps, mapping her mouth open with a kiss. It’s slow and patient. Excruciating, like a lingering kill bleeding out. He sticks with blood and salt to her lips; he tastes like it too. But underneath all that, where the ice, thorns and daggers cannot corrupt, is a syrupy warmth. Sickening sweet and intoxicating as a siren’s whisper. The song. It’s taunting her to chase it.
She tries to. Pulling him nearer. He draws back. But when she retreats too, he’ll slant against her to press his tongue deeper. Remind her that he’s so close within her reach, don’t give up. Feathering his fingers past her waist, her ribs. His touch burns. A fire sparkling up her veins. Yet the moment she persists, pushing back, he’ll slip beyond her grasp again, just so easily. Just like that. Aiming to keep her foolishly yearning like a donkey after a carrot on a stick. He’s a tease.
It’s strange how easily that makes her shudder. And it’s scary how dizzily her head’s spinning. The exhilarating thrill of wondering what happens if she does catch him. Will she be able to see beneath his skin of all the faces he tries to hide? Or perhaps, it’s her own desires that will unravel first. And she’s unravelling quick with each tender gesture they exchange. He skirts the maid dress up to her breasts, tucking it into the collar. She slips her hands beneath his top, urging him to remove it too. He finally breaks away. She props herself up on her elbows to watch him say,
“Hold on.” kneeling between her legs. He pulls his shirt over his head. And she lost. She immediately lost. Now she’s entranced by the shadows seeping into his muscles. It paints him more alluring than the boldest reveries. Paving down his abs with pristine perfection of a seasoned sculptor. He’s choosing to leave his pants the way they are. Undone at the belt. Half sheathed into her. He’s fully engorged now. Streaking with veins, throbbing with blood. It stirs anticipation in her gut. She swallows hard.
He’s frighteningly beautiful. A little breathless, a little disheveled. His lips glossed red from her endeavors. He briefly darts his tongue across it. She can still feel him in her mouth. And it almost kills her when he seizes her gaze and irks,
“Are you that hungry?” He’s being extremely deliberate. Wielding seduction like a knife to her throat, she can’t even lie,
“Famished.” She’s more than happy to get cut. But it’s only when he averts her eyes that she’s able to recognize, the kind of hold she has on him too,
“Don’t be so honest.” he mutters, “Pervert.” That’s cute. She’s capable of making him flustered. But he won’t give her the time to relish that discovery. Prying her leg over his elbow. Cautiously pushing himself in. It’s completely different from before. He’s bigger than she anticipated. She can feel him stretch her out. The friction sears a hiss from her lips. Her arms give out. She collapses back onto the pillow. He immediately stops,
“Sorry. Did that hurt?” searching her face with such a concerned expression she can’t help but to giggle,
“In this scenario, you should distract me from the pain.” she’s expecting a kiss, but instead, he’s slipping a finger to her clit,
“Like this?” She just got played again. This guy knows exactly what he’s doing, and he’s being unnervingly intentional. It almost frustrates her to learn how good he is at this game. Because he’s quick at figuring her out. Catching every time her breaths hitch, flinches, an echoing rasp, louder than usual, to pinpoint him what makes her tick. Now he’s driving her insane with his hand and she’s twisting into the sheets, pushing herself onto him, waspily demanding,
“Soril. Move.” and he starts, skeptical, gentle, he’s afraid he’ll hurt her. Screw that. It’s not pain she’s feeling anymore,
“No. Harder.” He delivers. Harsh, rough and abrupt. It shocks her straight to her gut. A rupturing shudder trailing to the pit of her stomach, igniting like a pyre,
“Like that. That feels good.” and he continues pouring fuel. Relentlessly pounding into her with that same deadly aggression. She’s losing her breath. He encourages her. Biting her calve. She stifles a moan. His fangs are sharp. Threatening to puncture skin. Deliberately half lidding his gaze. Hiding the greed lurking within it, catching the feeblest of lights in ice crystals and blue. And he’s only satisfied once he’s left teeth marks to run his tongue until the redness fades. It makes her shiver.
He’s chillingly bewitching. A hauntingly beautiful tempest that she’s caught amidst. In all its blistering, implacable frost. Compelling her to cave a little more. Wanting to take a little more. He enjoys driving her insane. She gives up. Rasps for air. Breaks her voice lose. She lets him drive her insane. And she doesn’t know what frightens her more.
The fact that she’s getting reduced to a quivering mess by a guy, centuries younger or she might have perhaps fallen in love with a mortal. Because she’s playing straight into his palm. She knows she isn’t supposed to. The realization annoys her more than she thought it would. She shoves it to the back of her mind. She doesn’t want to address it now. Instead, she’s yanking on his arm to make him collapse on an elbow above her to crash her lips against him.
His heartbeats betray him that he is unfazed and in control. It’s different from moments ago where he’s restrained, calculating and meticulous, armed to chip away her defenses. This time he easily abides her; heavy, desperate with tongue, spit and sharp breaths. A messy symphony of her behest. She feels his pulse beneath her ribs. It’s quick, erratic. And hers eerily measures. Disturbingly intimate that of forlorn lovers.
It’s scaring her. But she’s only dragging him closer, holding him tighter. She likes his scent. Of wintry pines and campfire. Likes the sounds. The way he hisses and flinches when she scratches at his shoulder blades. The touch. His muscles tensing like a bow string, pulled taut, beneath her fingers. The quiver down his spine when she clenches shut against him, strangling him inside until he’s breathlessly pulling away to grunt to her,
“Too tight, Lumeria. You’re going to make me cum like this.” those words twist straight into her gut. She’s no longer ministering anything voluntarily. She wants him to, and it takes all her effort just to rasp her replies,
“It’s okay.” through the electricity frying her senses and scrambling her thoughts,
“I’m close too.” He spurs her on. Slamming into her faster, harder, stronger, making quick work of her with his hand at the same time. He’s so forceful. His cock’s so fucking thick. Her mind’s going numb. Fuck the metaphors. It’s raw and crude. She isn’t so certain if it’s still pleasure that she’s feeling when she desperately claws at his back, devastated for air. Arching off the sheets. He’s biting at her neck, stifling his moans into her. Tormented and breathless, close to the growl of a ravenous animal. But she likes this, she likes this, she likes this. Or is this Bathory’s body that likes this? She can’t tell. She doesn’t care. The pressure is threatening to collapse against her,
“A bit more, a bit more.” it swiftly does. Not with butterflies and rainbows but flames and violence. It feels like ice and fire. Wild and voracious. Burning every nerve. Freezing every muscle. Clamping down tight and crumpling her up. She’s desperately clinging onto him for dear life. Until the staggering adrenaline wears off in tides and she’s swollen and sensitive and she isn’t certain why she’s wheezing,
“Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.” She sounds horribly hoarse, “That was the most intense orgasm I’ve experienced in decades.” She didn’t need to admit that. Her brain probably got short-circuited. But he’s being extremely considerate, stopping for her to inquire,
“Are you okay?” Lifting from her to catch his breath through his rising and dipping chest. Despite the thirst bleeds through his gaze in a harsh white glow. She feels how hard he’s throbbing. How much he’s leaking. Still, he’s so tender towards her it makes her melt, and she is seeing flowers and stars.
She’s fucked, isn’t she? She definitely did fall in love with a mortal.
And now she must pretend, it’s all just carnal. Finding her energy, she flips him on his back, forces a cheeky smile,
“Let me return the favor.” She staddles across his hips. Seizing tight as she can as she thrashes down against him. He doesn’t try to resist her. He’s letting her break his composure too. Snapping his hands around her waist, guiding her to the pace he likes. Slower. More intent. Deeper. She feels him in her gut, though it’s his face she’s searching. He looks so pretty when he rasps through spit-webbed lips. The flush stains him like fresh petals on white snow. A brazen winter lily mid bloom in defiance and she wants it.
She wants him. She pushes that thought away.
It’s something she must never confess with her words. She cannot covet his heart. So, she distracts herself with lust. Kisses him the way she likes to kiss.
Clumsy, inelegant, greedily knocking with teeth and tongue and she can dream, perhaps. Perhaps she’s able to convey these feelings with actions. So, she’s desperate to leave him bruises. Down his jugular, on his collar bones. She licks a wound. Tastes her blood, in his veins. Will it map him to her should she be gone? Can she claim him if she marks him enough? Because he’s only singing it back. Yanking her chin up to demand her mouth. Pushing the back of her head, her nape, to press her closer. Until she’s unable to differentiate, is that still her moans in her throat? Or is it theirs? She doesn’t want to differentiate it. He’s nudging against her, picking up the rhythm, thrusting into her. His breaths are thinning, increasingly stuttered,
“I’m close.” he sounds suffocated, “where?”
“Outside.” Angels can’t procreate. But this is Bathory’s body. Perching up, she wants to watch. He immediately pulls out. Crushes his eyes shut, pinching into her bones, gaspingly uttering for air. She feels him against her clit. Frots him until he almost whimpers. Hot, hard and throbbing. Gushing against his chest and stomach in stringing splatters, flinching him each time. She’s still spellbound when he finds himself looking at her again, panting into each other. His expression mellows into something soft, something doting, something resembling... endearme- she dares not acknowledge it. She prays she’s mistaken. She prays he didn’t hear her. She avoids his glance.
For a few moments, there’s a weighted silence in the air that none of them is addressing. Once they stop hyperventilating, he tries to start, but she immediately breaks herself out of her trance. Sliding off to the ledge of the bed,
“I’ll find a towel to clean up.” It’s strange she only feels awkward now. Is she afraid of what he’s going to say? Or does she just want to escape her own mind? She isn’t entirely sure anymore. He is no more to her than a stranger she’s met less than a week prior. Good. She should think of it as so. Perhaps that’s why it hurts so much when he pulls on her wrist to stop her from leaving,
“Stay.” he sluggishly mumbles, abruptly dragging her back to throw his arms around her, pressing her right into his cum. She winces away, tries to run, puts on her best upbeat voice,
“Ew. That’s so gross.” but he only holds her closer
“You wrung it out of me, reap what you sow.” It cuts her when he’s being so playful and enamoring. She doesn’t have the heart to push him away. Neither does she have the courage to confront the torrent of emotions overwhelming her. It stings like venom when he presses a fleeting kiss to the top of her head,
“You could at least wait until morning before you start building walls.” He’s scarily perceptive. Cradling her into an embrace, drowsily mimicking her words prior,
“In this scenario, you should let me cuddle you.” The same warmth and gentleness that melted her now gouges her like thorns in her lungs. He’s so sly. She quietly whispers,
“You shouldn’t be so affectionate towards me...” He isn’t responding anymore. His breathing has slowed. Slipping away further and further. She peeks at his face. He appears so calm and peaceful. Precious and asleep. She reaches forward to brush a stray fringe from his cheek, weakly, she impels herself to finish the sentence,
“If an angel falls in love with a mortal, she will only curse him to a quick demise.” he doesn’t hear her. She can’t hug him back. Yet, she won’t stop herself from wishing. If she’s able to cast her heart in ice, then perhaps, will she be allowed to be a little more indulgent? Can she stay with him for a bit longer?
