Work Text:
So, he lied to you. This is very, very clearly not his first time—but then, it’s not as if you care. It’s not as if you can care, the way his lips move against you, the way his teeth tease the soft, touch-flushed skin of your lower lip. Nothing draws blood like that first nick, but you can feel, now and again, his tongue skating across the cut, warm pressure easing the sting away. Warm, wet, still with that odd blackberry taste. You wonder if it’s lipstick, or chapstick, or if the jades just snack on a lot of fresh produce down in the caverns.
There’s not much time to wonder before his weight against you is abruptly much harder to ignore, the sharp lines of his chest and pelvis intimately obvious against your skin. One of his hands strokes the back of your neck, down from your nape to a spot between your shoulder blades you never realized was sensitive before now, as the other splays slender fingers against you just above the small of your back.
He’s divested you of your cape at some point during your kiss, and the skimpy bra you’d fished from a dumpster is unfastened, resting only loosely on your chest, shifting precariously with your every heaving breath. You’re being pressed, or maybe very slowly pinned, to the floor.
In the very back of your head, unmoored on a sea of twinging nerves, you remember your other jadeblood friends. Specifically, how strong they are, how Bronya was fully capable of defenestrating you and Daraya suplexed that whole cafeteria table and Lynera had all those fucking knives. Lanque is evidently no different, because you couldn’t break free of his gradual, implacable embrace if you tried, and you feel in slow motion the shift of your bodies against each other until the both of you lie flush, you flat on your back on the floor, him on top of you.
No longer necessary to hold you, the hand at your back slides to your front once more, coming to rest lightly, cooler than a human but still so warm, on your stomach. You’ve never understood better how it feels to be a prey animal.
Finally, he releases you from the kiss, a smudge of gloss and blood across your lips in his wake. The feeling is a bit like surfacing from water: you’re scrambling for breath, disoriented, abruptly aware of how cold the empty air is on you. On your skin, rather, since under it your pulse is molten, heartbeat slamming through you so hard it’s no surprise you’re trembling in time with it. Gathering your scattered, hazy thoughts into something resembling a sapient consciousness takes some effort, and through it you watch him smirk down at you from miles inside yourself.
Up this close, trolls really don’t look human. Little details stand out wrong, noses or cheekbones or brow ridges, but more than that, the instinct in them is all different. Lanque looks at you like he’d be happy to tear you open and devour whatever he finds inside.
His red-crescent nails skim up a length of your spine, then flit under your chin. “You’re fascinating.” A tone seeps into his voice, one you’ve never heard from a troll even after all this time, a rumbling croon rising and falling in harmony with his speech proper. If an insect could purr, and if that insect was also fixing you with half-lidded, dark eyes, you imagine it would sound like this. “I want you, now. We’ve spent long enough on this song and dance, don’t you think?”
The last word is punctuated with a slow roll of his hips, and somehow up until now you hadn’t noticed the tent in his pants grinding against you. When you still involuntarily, it twitches.
All this time, you’ve done little besides holding on, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and making an attempt to kiss back, because it doesn’t take a rocket scientist (which you are abundantly not, if your premise is any indication) to realize the roles here. You’re the passive one; he’s the active one. He’s the decision-maker. However creepingly wrong that is, however creepingly wrong all of this is, there’s a blunt relief in that.
You’ve made your fair share of decisions and now it’s his turn, so all you do is nod. No words, no movement, just waiting for him to inevitably continue, though your heart still jumps into your dry throat the moment he does. Your skimpy bra’s matching underwear comes off with barely a tug, tossed aside somewhere in the room where it might as well not exist.
What’s under it, of course, would be left up to interpretation, but interpretation can only go so far. For convenience’s sake, once you’re laid bare, Lanque traces two fingertips along your wet folds, up to your swollen clit, with a remarkable lack of hesitation for someone who can’t have dealt with alien sexual configurations before.
He does, however, press slightly too hard on your clit, only abating when you groan a distinctly dissatisfied noise. It doesn’t seem to dissuade him and definitely doesn’t dissuade his smile. “More sensitive than the usual.” You wince at the second brush of the pads of his fingers, but only for an instant this time before lighter pressure has you sucking in a sharp breath, abdomen tensing, stomach twisting over itself. Either he’s a quick learner or you’re not picky after going for months with only your hand.
Doesn’t matter through the building, pulling heat in your gut. You’re digging your fingers into his back, taking fistfuls of his open button-up and probably soaking them with how clammy your palms are, as he’s circling manicured fingertips around your clit, other hand undoing the clasps of his pants in quiet clicks of delicate metal. The two of you are chest-to-chest, too close for you to see anything past gray skin and black hair and white fangs, but that doesn’t keep you from hearing the shift of fabric down to his knees or feeling the sudden slick warmth coiling against your thighs, the dizzying finality settling in.
His fingers stop, move to spread you open even while you catch your breath, aching, hips hitching minutely upwards. With his other hand, he holds them down, aligning himself with you. His tip slides against your entrance, dripping, and your breath stutters to a stop. Your thoughts, too, like a video frozen on a single frame. All you can think as Lanque pushes into you, tapered length thickening against your walls with each new inch, is that he might’ve stained you green.
Hilted in you, he moans low, indulgent, directly into your ear, hot breath washing over your neck. You make—some sort of sound in response. Something breathy and high and disbelieving, your hips canting against his, your spread legs arching against the ground for leverage. Every shift of his bulge inside you, trying to squirm its way deeper into you, makes you clench and shudder around it. There’s give to its unfamiliar texture, but all the same you’re so fucking full.
If gathering yourself earlier took some effort, now it takes a positively herculean amount. He’s already rocking his hips in a short, smooth back-and-forth without fully leaving you, and your toes curl in their fishnets at the idea alone of more. A squeeze at your thigh grounds you in time for him to speak again. “Good. You feel so fucking good like this.”
He does too, you want to say, if good is the right word for this feeling, but then he’s moving again and you swallow down the comment, gasping silently. Feet braced on the floorboards, you push up onto your toes as much as his bruising grasp on your hip allows, arch your back to angle his first full-fledged thrust against the right spot. You’ve been staring into the same patch of cerulean paint on the ceiling for minutes now, eyes unfocused, though the curve of his horns cuts a bobbing candy-corn path across your vision now that he’s beginning to fuck you in earnest.
You’d find it funny, were your overloaded nervous system capable of registering anything besides the slick, constant friction of his bulge stretching you and the smear of hot, heavy fluid across your thighs where they’re clamped against his waist. Dance music thumps in the distance as a backdrop to your panting, his panting, the wet noises of his hips meeting yours.
That heat in your gut keeps building, keeps pulling, until you’re so tight and hot around him it hurts, sweating and shivering and pushing your shoulders back into the floor purely for the cold, solid pressure on your spine, and he’s not so sinuous anymore, bottoming out in snaps of his hips you’ll be sore from minutes afterwards. Your eyes screw shut, a thin whine winding out of you. Your whole body throbs.
Buzzing sensation drowns the world out by the time you finish first, whole body curling and squeezing to grip him, face buried in his collarbone, hands straining the fabric of his shirt. The aftershocks are still jolting through your twitching form when, after a last, too-raw thrust, Lanque trills and even hotter, even heavier fluid overflows you, dripping lazily from your parted folds down your ass.