Hexed in Hoelbrak

The air was alive with the sounds of chatter and crunching snow, the work of countless visitors who’d taken up the invitation to this gargantuan city. Away from the busy streets, a man loitered at the end of a corridor between buildings, deliberating. With all the activity still set to go another three weeks, his wandering wouldn’t seem out of the ordinary to any locals, if any cared to be sober long enough to notice. 

His newest problem was getting through the next pair of doors. By all means, the outside seemed to be an inn or alehouse, but the objects and people that came flying out every so often made the place seem like a fighting ring. The latter, moreso: they simply sprang to their feet like nothing happened, and rushed their hulking selves through the door with more vigor than before.

The entire display basically amounted to the idea that getting in might itself be a game of luck. Characteristically Norn, from top to bottom: a lifestyle that’d spell death ten times over for him was just their usual leisure, and with an appearance similar to humans in all but size. Kids here easily reached a grown man’s shoulder before adolescence, and probably had good odds of pulling one of their arms out of socket at that age too. That, alongside their shapeshifting abilities, were better left outside his personal experience.

Drunk, bipedal bears sounded like the most death on wheels that flesh and blood could ever produce. At least Charr, with their feline bodies, didn’t have a second higher-murder evolution at will. If his eyes caught even a sliver of those ‘spirit’ forms, something else would have to be figured out. Getting to the festival was one thing, slinking through the crowds another, but one of those would be an absolute dealbreaker.

The waiting game seemed to pay off, though, as the stretches between the chaos inside escaping got longer. When it seemed long enough to for him to feel confident, the man approached. As he’d hoped, crossing the threshold was uneventful, and better yet, no heads inside were particularly turned to watch the new entry.

Inside sat, stood and caroused a crowd that was majorly norn, though there was a decent smattering of charr, and even a few asura nestled away in a booth along the left wall. He studied them with a casual head turn only to understand what they were doing, then moved on to spot a place for himself among the tables.

The asura seemed like an oddity, being the least compatible with norn proportions, but they took it in stride well enough. They also had the advantage of being in a group. Comparatively, he wouldn’t have to stand on the benches, but a full mug absolutely needed both hands to lift. They at least had more manageable cups, but asking for the asura treatment himself seemed like a terrible way to settle in.

He looked over the rest of the bar. The charr’s beastlike forms lent them as much strength as the norn, given you had five or ten of them to take on one of the latter. What it meant, though, is that the scale and amenities of this city offered little to no discomfort, despite the heights inside ranging from around his own to being on par with the norn. They lugged full tankards easily in a single paw, a few even hoisting kegs in one arm. A match made in the underworld, perhaps.

Thinking back to the asura, the man turned his focus toward the booths on the opposite wall. There was at least one page he could take out of their playbook. His eyes found an empty booth not too long after, though with the used plates and mugs sitting on the tabletop, a better word might have been ‘unoccupied’. In any case, it would do. He traced a path around the crowds and sat, clearing table space to rest his arms on the wood. Of course, his arms sat a little higher than they were used to, but it was still usable.

Ten minutes later, the man was glad to find himself still alive, and the neighbourhood free of bear-norn. The tension he’d entered with finally started to drain. He needed another two to pass before he’d feel ready to flag down a waitress, but a tankard—standard norn size, of course—thunked its way onto his desk.

“Bash special,” droned a thick voice above him, and he looked up to nod his thanks to the norn woman, who wore no particular expression toward him. “Show your coin.”

He slid a small smattering of coins her way: 32 copper. Enough to cover the first two rounds in other places. She acknowledged it with a grunt, squirreling the coins away, then clearing the foodware to service somewhere else. He gave the handle a testing pull, finding it was filled to the brim, and brought his second hand on the outside.

With any luck, this would cut those two extra minutes he’d needed down to nothing. Dulled senses meant less nerves, or something like that. The liquid was tangy, bringing with it a frothiness that slid down the throat as easily as breathing air. He paused, sighing through his nose into the mug. His grip was already losing some of its tautness, feeling more firm—more natural. This was good stuff.

Even that ever-present hiss-booming of fireworks in the air felt a little duller. It gave him a little space to find his own thoughts amid his ever-changing list of priorities. The Dragon Bash festival was, in a word, overstimulating. Sounds and lights and games and challenges for just about every Tyrian who remembered the menace of the elder dragons, held in Hoelbrak, the city whose people loved fight and song more than anyone else.

There was so much to take in, in fact, that it’d be easy for anyone to miss a bit of fun here and there in the noise, or something of their own. Even someone, if they were forgettable enough. He took another sip, looking out from his booth, feeling more relaxed by the minute.

A norn and charr were standing around a table, locked in a chug contest in front of a jeering crowd. For a moment, an amusing idea of joining in himself came to mind. He hadn’t planned to keep watching, but the idea was lingering beyond what he’d thought to entertain. 

Again, the norn clearly made good ale. To his chagrin, he didn’t spot any of the asura in that crowd of onlookers, but there was something that kept cropping up among the crowd. It was strange, a rich orange that faded to red, appearing either once or in pairs. It wasn’t too unlike sitting at a fireside, watching the dying embers. 

Why would there be loose embers? 

He blinked again, focusing specifically where he’d last seen the color, then did a double-take. That wasn’t some elementalist’s drunken antics, but a pair of eyes, set into a fur-covered head with a snout and four horns—he pulled his eyes off the charr and into his tankard. There was a lot of information getting absorbed on the tail end of that. The man thought then to check whether or not she had one, then stopped himself mid-return at how stupid the idea sounded.

It was a great stroke of luck that their commotion was closer to the left side of the building. She might’ve noticed otherwise. The booze had loosened him up, but clearly not enough to keep the stress from escaping him in weird ways. Fixing that was just a matter of treading the line. He splashed a bit more liquor down.

Those eyes looked more like someone took the sky at sunset and pressed it into her skull, but they were also just embers. Weren’t they just embers? Things were clearly skewing in the wrong direction this time, and his mind was filling in blanks. It was probably a simple color, spruced up by something or another about the place he was drinking in. Maybe the booze, but he didn’t feel that far gone yet, just looser. More balanced.

One last look, just to know once and for all, like with the asura earlier.

He stared into the liquid, hesitant. If all that did turn out to be her natural color, then this stuff might do him very little favors. A loud, building crash decided for him, and he looked over in time to catch the last bits of the competing charr and norn’s crash to the floor. Both were blackout drunk. It might’ve been a tie.

She crouched on one knee near the norn’s head, lightly slapping at his cheek with a paw. It was a perfect pose for him to get a once-over of her athletic physique, but not of her eyes. Fur let charr take any number of options for ‘civilian’ wear, which is to say that most bothered with very little beyond some form of bottomwear. Little more than sturdy-looking leather straps crisscrossed her chest, affixing pauldrons of the same material. That left the pattern of dark stripes free to trace across her body: from paw to arms, across the shoulder, down the chest. A simple pair of form-fitting shorts adorned her legs, looking bunched as her legs flexed.

Something in his head ticked again, recognizing this pattern from earlier; she was also going to look up any moment now, after which he could finally put this dilemma to rest. How could pupils like those make their way onto a gray-furred charr anyways? 

He just also had to make it look like he hadn’t been staring the entire time, though her attention was more likely to be on the crowd than him. The norn was still unresponsive. The charr kept tapping until he made a few stirring moves, then half-turned to give a thumbs-up to the onlookers.

The resulting chorus of whoops rocked either the table or his eardrums. He wasn’t sure which. She sported a whole heap of hair-fur between the horns, rolling down her neck like a mohawk. He’d also gotten distracted again, and got to dragging his eyes back to where they needed to be. It suddenly felt like a larger task.

From his vantage point, her head was turned side-on, yet the singular pupil he found was already aimed his way. The shock flushed enough tipsiness from him to avoid spilling his drink, but he couldn’t stop the reflexive jerk of his arms in time. In an effort to save face, he drank from the cup anyways, turning back to face the empty side of his own booth.

He’d been caught. Also, those colors were real. More importantly, he’d been seen verifying how real they were. His tongue was too relaxed to carry the litany of swears bubbling in his throat, which was probably for the better. He hoped it’d pass for drunken antics, even for the only human in the place. Who was also drinking alone.

He slid the mug away, wagering on the option to wait it out. This wasn’t even why he’d come in the first place. The mug in his grip now felt about half-full, which meant he’d have no problems lifting it one-handed now. The norn booze tolerance was absurd, but it had to be. This was worth taking a bottle home, even if the thought of finishing the other half made him pause. Leaving it behind would be a waste, though.

He pulled it toward himself, but found that the mug staunchly resisted, suddenly stuck in place. Even with more strength put into his arm, the thing refused to budge.

“Huh?”

To his bewilderment, the cup pulled itself to the limit of his reach, sliding across the table toward the opposite booth. The image of an empty space cracked and shattered, revealing the culprit: a gray paw resting snug over the top of his mug. It was quite obvious who was attached.

“You gonna finish this?” asked the charr he’d been staring at. Her tone seemed amicable, at least.

He raised his head, meaning to respond in kind, and found it even better to see up close. The gradient playing out across her irises was vibrant. He looked back at her paw, noting the way her grip was just so placed to avoid catching any part of him with her claws. He would’ve noticed otherwise. 

“Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind,” he replied, like he hadn’t gotten carried away once more. 

His new table partner squinted suspiciously at him, then grunted. “I don’t think I believe you. Unless you’re some new breed that drinks through here.” She pointed at her eye, and jostled the mug back and forth. “Awful long time to hold off on downing one of these, too.”

He sighed. Dealing with this needed more liquor, ironically. This charr seemed more familiar than he was. “Awful long time to be spying.”

“Hah!” she guffawed, sending a wave of booze-breath his way, “You first! I’m in the middle of the rowdiest flesh-and-fleabags I know—well, tonight—and suddenly my fur’s standing on end.” The charr sank an elbow to the table, encroaching on his personal space. “You’re not subtle enough to try being that clever, grunt.”

He heard her words, and certainly filed away some part of it as a good comeback. Her expression, either annoyed or amused, also took up space somewhere, but it didn’t seem like a threat. What seized the most, though, was the single pair she’d brought up close and personal. Coupled with her hot breath, it almost felt a little like…

“Southsun,” he murmured.

The charr studied the man, then studied him some more, rising intrigue belied by a few flicks of her tail. It looked like he was daydreaming, and the odds of someone else being the cause were rather low. And Southsun? Her fur or claws weren’t exactly beach-colored, but it was quite the compliment. More than she was expecting, actually.

She glanced down to make sure her free paw hadn’t moved from where she’d placed it, and found that it had eased a little closer to him. Carefully, she slid it back to herself. There’d be no guarantee on how he’d take that: evasiveness was second-nature, as far as they were concerned. 

It’d be best to get a straight answer out before anything else happened.

“Hey!” Her voice came out a little louder than intended, prompting the charr to lean away and glance at the nearby tables. Of all the ways to find trouble tonight, being seen as the drunk menacing a paying customer wouldn’t fly if there was only one of them—which he was. It might even hit the desk of someone she *didn’t * need to see. No heads were turned her way…but his, which tracked her face as she rose to her full height.

Her tail lashed a little more fervently. Maybe she could push this further. 

To an observer outside of their booth, the charr palmed her face, pulled out a tankard, and took a seat on the opposite bench. Inside, she gave her increasingly restless paws what they wanted: to slide their way across the table toward him, though she was quick to hook her claws over the edge to keep them from advancing any further. Just to be sure, the charr shimmied her legs back at the same time, lowering her body into a feline faux-stretch. It just so happened to put the wealth of her back on display right in front of him. 

A show like this normally would get a response, guaranteed, though only charr usually caught the real meaning on the first go. He seemed to catch none of it, save the single characteristic she’d already caught him for. Not a single word from him. 

A smile crept up her maw. Using the grip on the table, she pulled herself forward, propping up on her elbows to get much closer to his face.

The charr chose her next tone with care—choosing to be just loud enough to be heard, but not enough to disrupt. “You listening?” She already knew the answer to this but asked it in favor of keeping herself still, curling her tail around one leg to do the same for it. The rising self-satisfaction widened her smile, kept one tick below manic. 

Beyond their table, the bar continued as usual: her latest drinking buddies cavorted around the blacked-out contestants, heedless of the sudden one-charr vacancy. Another boon of alcohol. Servers didn’t have that privilege on the clock, so they instead dodged the chaos, taking natural, efficient paths that avoided people, furniture, and this booth. Even a particularly bored patron wouldn’t find anything in her corner of the world worth looking at. And why would they?.

There was practically nothing here, after all.

The charr looked over her shoulder with a sense of pride. Even in the least likely places, a bit of solitude was still possible. Seeing this magic work never got old. Lifting a paw, she slipped a finger under the man’s chin, giving the underside of his jaw a few strokes. He lacked the ruggedness of the usual clientele, but one could only tell if they got about this close. It was a good choice of outfit. Too good, even.

“Who brought you here?” she mused aloud, retracting herself to slide into the opposing bench. She knew all her speech would be rhetorical, but it’d at least offset the physical distance. One of his hands was still wrapped around the simple iron handle of his mug. She slid an upturned paw underneath, and gently unpried each finger until the hand fell under its own weight, landing in her paw.

The impact sent a jolt through her body, and she repressed the urge demanding she immediately encase it with her own. Instead, she seized his half-full container for herself, fixing out a lazy gaze to scan over the occupants. Patience was key. As time passed, she gradually acquiesced to the need, and her paw inched shut.

After about half of the current patrons cycled, the two remaining possibilities were that he’d either come alone, or that he’d been abandoned by whoever wanted him here. The latter would’ve just gained a replacement if so, which sent a rush of excitement through her system. She took care to keep it from reaching the paw holding his hand. The former was fine too. 

Facing him, she worked through a small mental shortlist. No one so far looked like they’d misplaced a person, and the few that came in gave no special notice of her alcove. It looked like either was on the money, which meant little chance of any interruptions.

She tapped her chin with a claw. Human courtship rituals were usually filled with annoyances that boiled down to dancing around each other in a long game of charades. Her skillset certainly left her more inclined than most charr, save an Ash spy, to understand that perspective, but only as far as she found it useful. Anything that’d make her get cold feet in front of a good prize just felt plain wrong, like a mouthful of sand down the throat. 

A quick swig washed away that memory, but humans, including this one, acted that way voluntarily. Was it really so hard to say ‘nice eyes’? 

She chuckled, knowing that to be an understatement of where she currently stood, and where she thought this human might be with his true intentions. There was only an inkling, but she quite liked the hints of what was hiding under there. Or the inhibitions that weren’t. He would’ve avoided her net otherwise.

Speaking of, he was currently staring off into nothingness, which made her brow raise. In a moment, they corrected their way to her, but it was still a sign that she’d dallied long enough. Her gut told her this next act wouldn’t be necessary, but she still leaned over the table, raising his hand to her nose. In a few whiffs, she had a bead on him among all the other fragrances in the air. Mesmers worked best with more insurance.

Noise faded back into the man’s hearing until his brain couldn’t mistake the surrounding chaos for the street noise outside his own bedroom, and given the uncomfortable smush of his cheek on hard wood, he was nowhere near there either. Where would he willingly choose a table to sleep on?

A raucous voice, too close for a stranger, spoke. “Gahaha! Were you tryin’ to beat that norn over there?”

He jerked upright, coming face to face with a charr smiling in glee. An nagging sense rose up that her look held something more, but then a wave of booze-breath hit, and the thought vanished. The lack itself would’ve taken his attention too, if not for a sudden itch on his cheek.

One hand felt warmer than the other, too, though that seemed less important than handling the itch. His knuckles rapped something along the way to his face. His vision settled on a wooden mug, staring for a few seconds before parsing that it could be his. Half-full shouldn’t feel this light.

Polishing off would explain how he was currently feeling, but also, that thing held a lot of liquor. 

He looked back to this booth’s other occupant. “Did I…?”

“Uh oh.” The grin on her face betrayed the concerned tone she spoke with. “I already did my doctorin’ for the night—you saw! Don’t stay all fuzzy-headed on me now!”

He had little more than her words to believe at the moment. Some part of that rang true. He did see something, over a body that he was pretty sure wasn’t his own. One of the norn?

The charr, seeming impatient, suddenly brought a paw in front of his face and snapped her fingers. “Alton! Up, you!” It was loud, and the spike of discomfort reshuffled a lot of his thoughts toward annoyance. 

“Fuck! What’s your deal, Riona?” The name rolled off his tongue, which made him pause. That felt new, but it came with all the familiarity of interacting before.

The charr made an appraising face at hearing her name, followed by a sage nod. “Good to see the swill didn’t drown all your…uh, ‘brain-shells’? Whatever those asura call it..”

“Brainsells?” he offered. For one reason or another, words came easy, despite feeling like he was rising out of the dregs. Strange, but if he could still talk, this probably wasn’t the worst he’d ever been. Riona, wherever she’d blown in from, seemed pleasant enough to believe. He just had more questions. “How’d we get here?”

She raised an eyebrow, taking on a more real expression of concern. “It’s Dragon Bash?”

He looked pointedly at the table, then to himself and back to her. 

“Oh, you mean here-here,” she tapped the tabletop with a claw. “I picked the spot. You’re welcome, by the way. Then I nabbed a sip ortwo off ya while you were slamming.”

He blanched, blinked, then settled for squinting at her. “Wait, ‘slamming’? How many?”

She snickered. “Don’t worry, Al!. It’s rowdy here because the booze is cheap. You didn’t get anywhere beyond some silvers.” 

Alton squinted at her, only having just caught the first half of what she said.  “You’ll be covering your end too, right?”

Riona straightened her back, her face morphing into a mask of calm. “Actually, about that…”

The rage suddenly coursing through him broke right past any usual sensibility. The booze must’ve still been in his system. It turned out that the only thing keeping his explosion at bay was the slight glimmers of mirth returning to her eyes. If she’d predicted that would happen, he wouldn’t give her the chance to see it, and squashed the anger under a bigger surge of pettiness.  “So, what?” he countered. “Don’t tell me you have nothing to chip in with!”

“I do have something,” she replied, and Alton breathed a sigh of relief.  “No coins, though.”

He was just about ready to try strangling a charr, but the sudden image of sailing through those doors came to mind. Thinking better, Alton made to stand and leave. Unfortunately, a wall of fur moved over to block his end of the bench, preventing his tactic.

Riona put up a pair of pleading paws. “Hey Alton, buddy, uh…pal. Lighten up a bit?”

The anger was starting to win out again. “Lighten my bill first, maybe. With money. Which you owe!”

“It’s barely a few…hundred copper! Can’t we let this go for later?”

Alton sneered. Odds were that he’d have a quaggan’s chance in the desolation of finding a ‘Riona’ after this. “Later, huh? That’s a long time off. If it makes you feel better, just give me something on your person.” 

She didn’t budge. 

“Let’s get this over with,”  he seethed.

Riona had gone still above him, probably because he’d finally opened up for whatever scan she had in store.  “You sure?” she asked.

“Anything! Literally anything is fine,” he groaned. This was clearly going to be a shitty paper IOU, or something in equal quality, and she was dragging it out.

“Nice.” She produced nothing from her pockets, instead motioning for him to make space. 

Confused, he decided to humor the charr, and watched her heavier frame slide in next to him. Riona suddenly looked like she was staring through the table.  “Nice,” she murmured again.

His brow furrowed. “What is?” It was weird enough to blindside a good bit of his rage, but the blood in his ears was still audibly pumping.

“Little touch-and-go there, but you come around pretty nicely,” she rambled, glancing over at him, then draping an arm over his shoulder.

“Are you…dragging this out?” he asked warily. Alton realized he’d never had the chance to hear a charr bloviate, and now wanted to keep that at zero. “Look, we’re all good now,”  he offered, “you don’t need to play up gratitude for me or anything…”

Riona tuned him out, making a quick check of her surroundings—the spell seemed stable enough. She wordlessly reinforced it for good measure, then returned her attention to a bunch of dead air. Alton was giving her a look that was either blank or expectant. What did he ask again?

“Drag this out? Nah.” She slipped her free paw down to her leggings, pulling and unfastening, and her leggings suddenly got very loose. Alton was glancing between her and that paw, eyebrows raised so high they threatened to float off his skull. She stared at him until he realized she was watching, then amended herself. “Yes. Sort of.”

Alton, understandably, was freaking out. What the fuck was she fiddling down there for? Some part of himself knew and was promptly shut out, except his mind couldn’t get a grip on the door, so the thought ran uncontrolled. 

This certainly fit the bill of a teen fantasy he might’ve had back in the day, save the fact that the propositioner wasn’t one and a half times his size nor an entirely different species. The arm over his shoulder hadn’t put any strength into holding or trapping him there, which only added to the absurdity. Did she actually expect him to be up for that kind of repayment? Was this normal for charr?

Her larger body at least served to hide them well from the rest of the bar, given how he heard no audible reaction in the surroundings to his crumbling composure, or the casual fiddling of her paw around her waist. She was warm, too, warding off the Hoelbrak cold in a way he felt he shouldn’t currently be appreciating, given what the charr was enticing him to do.

Alton couldn’t muster the confidence to look outside their booth. That was absolutely why he tracked Riona’s claws like they were an airship mid-crash: the way it dipped beneath her waistline and pulled, revealing a little more stripes along the fur. That was why he couldn’t know how deep they ran—

“Thefuckareyoudoing?” he squeaked. Riona, foregoing a response, moved the arm over his shoulder to settle a digit over his crotch. The light press she gave drew a hiss from his lips, pleasing an erection that wasn’t supposed to be there.

Riona started rolling her knuckle, massaging the area with rhythmic presses. “Looks like you.” 

The paw in his crotch started to make a very strong argument in her favor, because for all of the charr’s hugeness, none of that strength happened to be crushing his dick. That meant well for sex. An equal, and falling, part of him still wanted a handle on why he was maybe minutes to seconds away from banging a charr capable of doing these things.

“Rio-nnna,” he fought to make steadiness return to his voice, “can we just…slow down?”

The word Alton was aiming for was ‘stop’, but the rhythm coaxing his body to relax felt a little too nice under the buzz. He could still think with slow. The memory of her own liquor-tinged breath resurfaced in that moment, and bobbed around long enough for the rest of his brain to drag up some points to connect. 

She was maybe, probably, not too far off from how shitfaced he was.

She dropped a second finger into his crotch, trying to seize his erection between the two, but slowly, as he’d requested. Her inexorable wiggling against his clothes earned a weak thrust against her paw. Alton groaned again, tossing his head back, and caught a stare so sharp it felt like he was the only living thing in the room. Instincts bid him to freeze, and a familiar off feeling started bubbling through…and then two knuckles squeezed him through the clothes, and he couldn’t help himself sagging into her. 

Her attention was starting to carry a thrill of excitement in his mind.

Odds were that Riona was a frisky-drunk. If that were true, he’d only realized after they were well launched on their slippery slope, and well after he’d lost the balance to walk himself back. He squinted in pleasure as Riona stroked his shaft through the clothes. Though the image wouldn’t focus in his head, there were vanishingly few ways this tangle could end. Alton pressed his forehead into her chest, and groaned. “Fuck.”

He felt her heartbeat increase, and the fingers groping his dick pulled away to cup his face. Riona was…panting? His head started getting blasted with periodic warm air. Her paw shifted, aiming his focus between her legs, and the other paw that had been busy bulging the fabric inside them. With his focus, they now sank to a telltale depth between her legs and stayed, undulating visibly beneath the fabric.

Riona flicked her tongue against the tip of his ear. “Sure, Al’.” 

She lifted her hips a little, taking Alton along for the ride as a pair of translucent paws appeared, yanking the leggings down her hips and under the table. Thanks to the view, he got to fully intake the damp spot on the fabric, unusually large for someone with undergarments. A glance down showed only more grey fur, the stripe pattern continuing unabated down to her bits, which he hadn’t gotten an eyeful of yet.

Riona basked in the moment. Alton’s head stayed aimed between her thighs.  He was already stalling too long to feign disinterest, though they were long past that point in the first place. Her body was itching to have something, the scent of his sweat was strong—but she kept herself at bay. This was a male: the longer he stared, the rancier his thoughts would get, and the better her finish could be.

“I guess it gets stuffy down there, huh?” Alton asked weakly.

An attempt to dodge the real question, given the new hint of pheromones he hadn’t been wafting before this point. Alton hadn’t even shifted around to face her before he spoke. She licked her lips, feeling quite charmed, and brought a claw to pull his gaze up to hers.

“You’re not all that subtle, you know,” she purred, enjoying the shiver that raced across him. Few non-charr got to experience the sensation, how well it vibrated through air and flesh alike. At that, she spared a furtive glance out at the tavern, the charr inside unaware as usual. Her spells still held. Good. She turned back to Alton, catching a slight dilation in his pupils when her focus returned.

One dose of this was starting to feel like too little.

“You like these colors, don’t you?” she teased, getting herself back on track. She was aware of how humans kissed, and also knew they didn’t have charr tongues. It was tempting. If he didn’t speak, she was going to fill this dead space with her tongue. 

“Stripes look good on grey.”

“Hm, you’re right,”—she hugged him closer with an arm—“but they could use a few white ones, too.”

Alton looked like he was teetering on the edge of decision. 

She rubbed her thighs together in glee, and motioned around them at the bar. “Look at us! A pair getting handsy in this backwater, and no one cares! It’s like we have this place all to ourselves.”

Alton did spare a look at his surroundings, finding her words true, though he wouldn’t know the reason. He spared her a glance, then her cunt a longer one. 

Riona had seen all she needed to see. “Let’s fuck, Al’,” she growled.

That was near immediately answered by his hand clapping onto her cunt. “Ffff…yes!” she cried, hips giving a pump that was ultimately useless against his hand. Alton raised an eyebrow: he hadn’t kept any technique in mind for this foray in new territory, simply smushing her labia in a more careless manner than she’d worked over him. The enthusiastic response meant she could handle him being rough, and more than that, clearly seemed to want it. Juxtaposing that, the furry lips soaking his palm were obscenely soft, and he couldn’t tell the heat down there apart from the rest of her furnace body.

He obliged the unspoken request, pulling and kneading at the outside like it was a mound of dough. For all his intents it was, complete with a flexing mass of muscle underneath attached that was braying at his mercy. He timed his motions against her thrusts, massaging as a reward whenever one of her thrusts lingered too long. Riona’s muzzle was aimed at the ceiling, breath coming in gasps, and he couldn’t decide which part of her he liked seeing more.

Still, he started to notice raised tufts of fur appearing along her torso, spaced out in regular intervals. Curiosity piqued, he slowed down his ministrations enough to time a descent to one along one of her motions. Riona gasped as a tongue warmer than the air caressed one of her nipples, then snarled as it was caught between two rows of teeth. She hadn’t wagered on Alton finding them.

“Y-You! M-ah!” It was already too much effort for her to breathe and speak. He responded nonetheless by slipping two fingers between her lips, threading them up to grind relentlessly at the top of her labia. The charr’s thighs clamped at once, trying to catch his hand, but the natural gap in her thighs left just enough space for him to continue unabated. It left her no other options but to shudder and jerk as he drove her over the edge.

Riona sagged when his hands finally pulled away, most of her mind a comfortable haze and her body loose from the prolonged afterglow those digits had driven her through. Alton gave her a few pats on the stomach. 

“That looked like you’ll be owing me a good 20 kegs now.”

The charr blinked, then grinned, remembering that there was indeed a premise, which also meant that they weren’t done. She cocked her head at Alton, making no effort to hide her dopey afterglow expression. “Oi. You wanna make this a contest?”

“No, You’d only try to—” Two pairs of illusory paws appearing over his pants cut the denial short, as they made quick work of his pants. Riona caught his cheek with a paw before he could turn to look. She was certainly going to give a proper introduction to her tongue now.

“My turn,” she quipped, diving her muzzle to his lips. Normally, a lick over the outside meant a request for entrance for them. Riona forewent this by rolling her tongue to sweep his lower jaw. Charr had no real need to tie their spiny tongues, but their privates were used to the sensation. After a first round like that, she wouldn’t tolerate any backing out of her jaw.

Eventually, Alton’s tongue slipped out to meet hers—and they began a careful dance, trialing where to venture, how to tangle. They breathed each other’s air, the kiss intensifying as he slowly rose in boldness. Her tongue was far too large to fit in his mouth, and his tongue too short to reach any depth in hers, but the awkwardness was lost on the pair while their muscles met in the middle.

Unbeknownst to the man, one of the illusory paws had been gaining form under the table the entire time, and now kneeled under the table as a perfect clone of Riona aimed perfectly between his legs. At a wordless command, it hooked its paws under both his pants and underwear, pulling them under the table in a steady motion. Riona hummed in delight at his cock springing free, then made a silent adjustment to her clone’s tongue. Best to save the full experience for the real thing.

Moments later, her clone widened his legs, and slipped his full length up her maw. Alton moaned against her as his head popped in, then broke the kiss to pant when the clone ran out of shaft and pressed itself hungrily into his base. Around his shaft felt floaty, warm, and textured, but it held him just as strongly as her paw.  How was she doing this with only one of herself? The answer seemed just barely out of reach.

Riona pressed her forehead to his, glad her horns were the type that grew backward. “You think that’s good? Just wait,” she whispered. Pulling away for a brief moment, she dipped her muzzle to his neck, cleaning the sweat there with a swipe of her tongue.

The clone rolled its own to prop his shaft against the ridges at the top of her mouth, then started nursing on the shaft with strong pulls. The suction smushed and rolled his mushroom over the area, beaming hard sensation up his pelvis. Alton jerked, hands moving to reach out and grab at the muzzle between his legs, but Riona slid her forearm over his stomach to lock him in place.

She nuzzled his cheek, taking every noise and word her clone coaxed from his lips. Looking approvingly at her copy. The best thing about magical constructs was their infinite stamina. Second was the fact they didn’t need to breathe. Both could be used to quite extensive effect.

“You handle our tongues pretty well, Alton.” She huffed. “Let’s see if that holds up for our pace.”

“Haa?” Alton drawled. He was steadily on the way to climax already. What else did she have?

Riona’s eyes gained a twinkle. “Actually, I’ll throw in something a little extra. On my ‘tab’, like you said.” She leaned away, looking straight ahead at the replica forming in the air in front of her—none other than the cock her clone was busy sampling. She dipped her head toward the tip and flicked it with her tongue,, grinning at the new spasming she felt under her paw. “Nice cock,” she quipped.

The clone made good on her earlier promise, ramping up to a fluid cycle of bobs along his shaft like it wasn’t also sucking for all it was worth with every moment. The real Riona lapped at her projection like it was a popsicle, giving the tip a few extra rolls every time.

Alton made noises that were barely audible, but they sounded like music to the sharp hearing of their four ears. The writhing under her arm was desperate, Alton helpless against the combo that burned through his stamina like oil, while the cloned cock in her mouth pulsed in time with the real thing. He was about to burst any moment. Riona sealed her lips around the tip, holding still as his cock pulsed in short, violent jerks.

The lack of flavors across her tastebuds reminded Riona of her clone, which was collecting his bounty on her behalf. It’d do well enough at holding his cum until it lost its form., but she didn’t care to wait that long. Linking the space between their mouths, Riona got to sampling his rivulets of semen.

When his tap ran dry, she released his chest and turned to take in the sight: Alton, sitting limp and speechless, with a grey muzzle nestled between his legs. “She looks good on you,” Riona purred.

He flopped onto the table, seeking a breather, but the randy charr would give no respite, leaning to put her muzzle next to his ear. “Well,” she hummed, “I’d compare bills, but…has ol’ gluefoot showed up?”

Alton scraped his nails against the table, hoping that the noise would annoy her.  “How do you, of all people, know that?”

“Good booze makes for loose lips.” The venue gave her the perfect alibi, though it couldn’t be farther from the truth. Ignorance had been bliss between them so far. Riona shimmied out from the bench, turning around to present her nethers with a raised leg on the bench. She’d milk this to the very last drop. 

“So, “ she began, fielding one of Alton’s moans as her clone slid off his prick, “wanna know what else I know? Or did you finally learn not to keep a gal hanging?”

“Shut up.” Alton dreaded to think of how much he could’ve said. 

Riona watched him excitedly, knowing she just had to push a little further. “Guess not. So how’s about that ‘tengu oil’, eh? 50 gold? I’m not even half that pricey!”

He scrunched his eyes, fighting himself.

“Honestly, it’s a real feat you got lead on so long.”

Anton popped a vein, getting off the table to whirl at her. Riona curled her tail around her leg again, but the end still made a few flicks. 

“Don’t gab about my younger years like you know, mouthy runt! Last I checked, we’re fucking because because you can’t even fill your damn paws wi—”

The bench, being made for norn, easily handled the weight of a charr stepping onto it. Riona wordlessly flopped her torso onto the table, pulling her tail free to hike it in the air, and cast a bored look at Alton. 

Are we fucking? I don’t feel anything.”

Her hips were a little ways in from the table’s edge, which made just enough space for him to slot between her legs with both feet planted on the bench. She’d cut him off. He was seconds away from pouncing on her. Riona didn’t miss the enraged trembling.

“...Need a raincheck, gluefoot?”

“Fuck you.”

Alton stomped his way behind her in seconds and aimed his rage-revived cock for the first tinge of pink he saw. Riona’s toe claws extended as she felt Alton’s first plunge ram into her sphincter, then started scoring the table underside with her claws at the rapid thudding pace he set. His hands gripped her waist like handles, yanking despite their inability to move her larger frame. Thanks to the sheer deluge she’d been leaking over herself the entire time, his cock was well-lubed, which nullified every attempt she made to keep his length there and prolong the exquisite burn he was working into her rear.

Even enraged, Alton still found himself impressed with the sturdiness of her body. It made him want to do more, if only just to silence her attempts to ruin his pride. Even with the ample coating of her own juices, the walls around him still tugged threateningly at his length, but he wasn’t in any mood to lose. Riona had grown breathy, grunting every time he hilted his shaft. Her hips started rocking to meet his own, but too slow for the pace he’d set. It pissed him off.

Alton leaned over the table to grab a pair of her horns, punctuating each word of his next sentence with a thrust so hard that the claps of flesh threatened to overpower her dampening fur. “Keep. Fucking. Still. Runt!”

Riona snarled, instinct slipping through as she let her hips be rammed back into place like a spike under a relentless sledgehammer. This was the stuff. Her eyes rolled, cunt clenching on nothing as she rode out her second orgasm of the night. She’d hit the jackpot with this one. As his grunting above grew heavier, she redoubled her efforts to seize his shaft, not trusting her tongue to do the job she needed. Alton faltered, Alton rammed himself home one last time, grinding urgently against her as his cock dumped seed in cycles.

She shivered at the slimy sensation oozing up her walls, content to lay there until she felt his member leave her body. “Not bad,” she panted, turning onto her back, “you could pass for a charr with a performance like that.”

Alton pinched his brow. “Could?” He wasn’t even sure why he was playing into this.

“Yeah,” she continued, hooking furry arms around her legs, and pulling them against her torso. “There’s still a couple places to check.”

He looked up to see Riona folding herself on the table—making the bottom half of a mating press—and traced his way up her torso, eventually meeting her gaze. His cock instantly surged like he hadn’t just finished inside her a few minutes ago, and he staggered as his nose suddently caught the thick smell wafting off her nether lips. With it returned the memory of how pliable her flesh had been under his palm. 

Alton tabled any further thought on the matter. clambering his way up onto the table now, ignoring the clear vantage point it gave to the entire building in favor of the body being served on a silver platter. Crouching to meet her, his tip brushed her outer folds, and the man found himself unprepared for the taste of soft, warm clouds greeting the most sensitive part of his body. His legs buckled, unceremoniously dropping his hips onto hers with a wet smack, and digging the full length of his shaft into her starved canal.

Riona’s legs closed over his back, both holding him steady, and locking him in place—though her vagina was more than enough to keep him there on her own. Her inner walls were nearly as soft as the gates of her entrance, but roiled against him in powerful contractions, each trying to coax him deeper into her massive body. Going balls-deep meant a rest against her overly comfortable mound outside, which sank in a way that enticed him to thrust deeper. 

With firsthand experience with Riona was packing down here, he could easily see himself dropping his pants for more of this in just about any place. He ground himself into her, breathing hard, feeling more of the depth her physique almost promised to give. “G…nngh!”

“That’s it. Feel it out. Let’s fuck a mark into this table, Al’.”

The rising need in her voice sent shivers through his body, and strength to his legs, but he felt himself craving more of that first experience. Riona’s legs readily fell away as his hips rose, pulling almost out of her folds until only the head remained inside, and then let gravity bring himself crashing all the way back in. Her assault came just as strong as before, and he blew air to keep himself steady on top of her. Alton was understanding why she was being so pushy—this was a sleeve he didn’t want to leave. Her body flexed and seized on his cock like it hadn’t already cum twice, and it was gradually getting won over by the effort.

A grin was plastered over Riona’s face, weakened by huffs every so often. Alton’s first plunge in charr pussy, and he was absolutely drowning. She thumped his back with her tail, and felt a thrill when he turned out to be too occupied to notice: everything a good rut needed. His hips rose again, ready to stamp another moment of getting mushed on the outside and fucked on the inside. Riona slapped his back with her tail after every drop, egging him to go faster. He seemed to get the message, whether through his own impatience or sensing hers. The thrusts started favoring his muscles over gravity, earning bigger splats of her fluids as they met faster, and with more force.

Riona was enraptured once more by the storm of desperate slamming he’d moved into. She’d almost entirely coated the front of his hips with her slick by now, and that fact only only seemed to spur him on, his rhythm breaking into urgent grinds when it grew erratic, then starting again. He pulled on her like he was trying to flatten her muff under his own strength. Whether or not he’d manage it, his efforts brought in friction by the boatload, and she wasn’t about to rob either of them of that anytime soon.

Awash in pleasure, Alton was fighting on two fronts: the urge to really bottom out had taken deep root in his head, but she felt too good for him to think he could hold off climax long enough to get there.  The thought of pulling out appeared, and was quickly discarded when her furnace-hot charr depths ground around his shaft yet again. He would’ve tiptoed if it rooted him the tiniest bit further into her pillowy mound, Balthazar be damned. He couldn’t physically lift Riona to pull her any closer, but if he worked into her hips hard enough…

Riona’s thick legs snapped shut behind him, crushing in with an unrelenting pressure that shape-fit their pelvises together—but above the discomfort, his hips met with the definitive firmness of muscle, and his shaft split apart a new crevice within her, greeting a rougher, bumpier surface. She’d done it. 

Riona grimaced for all of two seconds, eyes squinting shut, then arched her back as the second climax of her night tore through. Alton discovered why her body made this so hard to reach, as this new texture wrung him just as viciously as the tunnel he’d been stuck inside. He stiffened, head turning to the ceiling as his cock swelled the most he’d ever felt that night, before dumping whatever it had left into her depths. The volume he felt leaving would’ve left his thighs trembling, if they could move.

More time passed before either was able to speak again, sprawled on the table as they were. Riona scanned around again, finding the hints of eyes starting to stray their way. A small warning sounded in her head, but she paid it no mind—after a fuck like that, any soldier who could hold their magic deserved to be imperator. As for her, though…

“Riona…was it?” murmured the man lying on her chest. “I think it’s you I’m looking for.”

“Oh?” A clone grabbed their discarded clothes, tossing both onto her face while it crumbled like a broken pane of glass. “And who’s asking?"

“Alton. Ring a bell?” Riona began the workings of a portal. She could absolutely work with this.

“Maybe,” she murmured. “Best get somewhere more discreet.”

The pair fell through her portal. A moment after, the tavern paused at the sudden appearance of a sex stench that also seemed to have always been permeating the place.

Strange.

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Pub: 09 May 2026 23:53 UTC

Edit: 09 May 2026 23:55 UTC

Views: 297