And as Gwyn stared, still frozen with her hands over her mouth, another cheer rose to meet his. And then another, and another, until the entire room of fallen, wounded Bautul orcs had their fists raised, their deep voices shouting hoarse to the sky.
And amidst it all, Joarr finally, slowly, hoisted himself up. Pushing first onto his hands and knees, and then staggering to his feet. His face was scratched and bruised, his bent-looking nose streaking blood down his face — but his hands were rising above his head, his eyes bright and glittering as he tilted his face to the ceiling.
“For the goddess,” he repeated, his voice thick. “She blesses your Seer!”
Your Seer. An odd thrill hurtled up Gwyn’s back, sparking even sharper as the surrounding orcs bellowed their reply. As if they…agreed, somehow. As if this had been more than just a sparring-match, or a contest of strength. As if it had been a statement. Aclaim.
“Kalfr,” Joarr’s thick voice said, once the shouts had subsided. “You come to our garden on the morrow. I begin to teach you its ways. Ach?”
The look on Kalfr’s blood-streaked face was pure delight, and he instantly nodded, his fisted hand thumping against his heart. “Ach, Seer,” he replied. “I shall.”
Joarr nodded, his head still tilted back, his eyes fluttering closed. “And you, Eyolf and Iyolf,” he said. “Should you wish.”
Gods, Gwyn had nearly forgotten about them — but her searching eyes immediately found them, still in the corner of the room. However, they seemed to have been joined there by a number of other wounded orcs, and that was because Iyolf was… dragging an unconscious-looking orc over toward the rest, out of the way. And had perhaps been doing so the entire time? As Joarr had wished?
Iyolf’s hand had come to Eyolf’s shoulder, giving it a little shake, meeting his eyes — and then he looked back at Joarr, and jerked a curt nod. “Ach, Seer,” he replied, his voice soft and heavily accented, his fist also bumping against his chest. “We shall.”
Well. Gwyn suddenly felt like shouting, like doing a ridiculous victory dance right here on her stair. And when Joarr’s gaze finally shifted again, and somehow caught on hers, she found herself grinning back at him — and then even mimicking the orcs’ gesture, thegoddess’ gesture, her fist thumping against her heart.
And gods, Joarr’seyes. Dropping to that movement, watching it, holding it — and it was like something sparked between them, hot and bright and powerful. And when he abruptly strode toward the edge of the pit, towardher, it only seemed to flash brighter, unfurling stronger with each step, with every easy, graceful leap of his feet up the stairs.
And then, somehow, he was here. Whole, alive, standing tall on the stair before her. His nose far more crooked than it had been before, his face still streaming blood, his chest heaving with thick, dragging breaths. His body marred with multiple new scratches and bruises, and dripping with sweat, and still slightly twitching from the exertion.
But his eyes were steady, sharp, blazing on hers. Wanting, needing, piercing into Gwyn’s belly, into her groin. Into her own eyes dropping downwards from his, trailing over his sweaty, banged-up, blood-streaked chest, his rippled abdomen, until she found —
That. The swollen, pulsing ridge of him, bulging out strong and shameless against his pulled-taut trousers. Speaking to her, shouting at her, with another sustained, visible shudder, a slowly growing spot of wetness at the tip…
And as Gwyn stared, that dark spot kept growing, the heft beneath twitching and swelling. While the sweet scent of him began curling into the air between them, blunting the thick smell of sweat and blood with its rising, swirling hunger.
Gwyn could feel her breath catching, her eyelids fluttering, her tongue brushing brief against her lips. Waiting, ensnared,enthralled, as Joarr reached his bloody, still-twitchy hand down into his trousers —
And then he drew himself out, slow, purposeful. His long smooth heft dipping down toward her, its wetness visibly leaking, as his clawed hand slid down to cup his heavy bollocks, caressing them,displayingthem for her blinking eyes.
Gwyn’s moan escaped on its own, loud and betraying, and in return that hand reached for her hair, fingers carding deep. And then giving her the slightest nudge forward, toward that dripping-white sweetness, the scent of him flooding her thoughts, her breath…
There was a distant, shouting voice at the back of Gwyn’s skull, making very valid protests — but her eyes had angled back up to Joarr’s face, to his glittering gaze holding so intent upon her. Wanting her.Needingher.
And Gwyn wanted to help. Wanted to return the kindness he’d shown her. And she felt herself nodding, again and again, quick, furtive, true.
Saying,Yes.Whatever you need.
In return, Joarr rasped a sound that might have been a laugh, or a groan. And in one smooth, fluid movement, he tightened his grip on her hair, drawing her closer — and then he slid his full, pulsing, dripping length between her parted lips, and deep into her throat.
Gwyn gasped and choked around it, dragging in air, fighting to breathe against the onslaught — but oh hell, he was already easing out again, bobbing fully free of her mouth. Showing the orcs — theorcs?— the long, shimmering string of wetness, stretching from her lips to his slit.
Gwyn froze in place, her mouth still half-open, her dazed eyes darting sideways. To where, indeed, several of the less-injured orcs — including Kalfr — had clearly dragged themselves up out of the pit, in order to — towatch?
Joarr’s hand in her hair clutched even tighter — oh hell, hisclaws— and Gwyn’s heated, humiliated gaze snapped back up to his eyes. To where he was watching her with unnerving, commanding intensity, as he deliberately slid himself back into her mouth, stretching her open around him, settling into her throat.
Gwyn’s face was burning, her breaths dragging through her nose, her chagrined eyes again flicking to the watching orcs — but Joarr’s pulsing, invading heft nudged even deeper into her throat, his fingers now gently tugging on their generous handful of her hair.
“You no look at them,” he hissed, his voice sparking hot tremors beneath her skin. “You look at me, whilst I fill your mouth.”
Gods. Gwyn moaned against him, gulping down the sweet liquid pooling in her throat, and somehow felt herself nodding, her eyes wide and earnest on his. Saying, again,Yes. And again he actuallylaughed, his head tilting back, the blood still streaming down his face.
“Good little witch,” he purred, as he again dragged himself fully out of her mouth, twitching wet and dripping before her. “You wish for yet more of my seed inside you. Ach?”
Shedid, oh hell, and she even tried to thrust forward, to catch him back between her lips — but his hand in her hair held her off, its grip almost painful, his laugh now full-throated mirth, brimming with hunger and lust and sheer breathtakinggreed.
