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It hurts, of course it hurts, but really, if Marcille’s honest, she barely feels it right now. No, no, no, she feels like she’s floating; feels like her insides are swollen, but in a nice way, in a way that makes her feel full, so full like she’s never been before. Bursting at the seams.
The thing is, she didn’t really grow up among elves except for her mother, right? She might be one (or half-elf, rather; and in places like these it’s much easier to pass as an elf than a tallman, because there’s no other elves around to see through her, are there?), but she’s much more used to tallmen. And gnomes, but mostly tallmen.
But, right now, she’s not an elf, half or not. Right now, she’s a halfling, and Chilchuck is a tallman, and one of his hands spans almost around the entirety of her waist. And as she’s said, she’s used to tallmen, but she’s not used to this: Chilchuck with an angular, sharp face, Chilchuck with deep set eyes with dark circles, Chilchuck with prickly stubble and long, gangly limbs, Chilchuck with a deep, scratchy voice.
Chilchuck who’s so much bigger than her, now. She’s used to tallmen, but she’s not used to him, and she’s not used to being this small, either.
There’s his hand on—around—Marcille’s waist, holding her steady, fingertips calloused, digging into her skin, rushing through her like little electric shocks, and there’s his hand underneath her, wrapped around the base of his cock she’s sitting on, so she doesn’t take too much of it (his words, not hers, and honestly, after she’s seen the size of him she wasn’t all that inclined to argue with him anymore), her own hands clasped over her mouth to hide all the squeaky noises slipping out of her that make him grit his teeth.
He’s gritting his teeth all the time, she thinks, head spinning. She can hear all of it. Every little noise—the squelching sounds her pussy makes around him when she shifts even the tiniest but, even when it’s stuffed so full, the way his teeth click together, the way he sucks in a sharp breath, his heartbeat and her own, all of it, all of it, all of it.
Maybe that’s why the pain—the sheer stretch of it all, because she’s, like, half his size, isn’t she, and his penis is… not small, that much she can tell even with her limited experience—doesn’t really arrive in her brain, why she feels like she’s floating: she’s already overloaded with everything. Too much.
“Marcille,” Chilchuck rasps, and she almost jumps where she’s sitting on top of him, stretched, full, too hot all over, sweating. Looks at him with bleary eyes, reaches out with one hand to pat around, to find his chest—prickly with chest hair—and press her palm to it, his heart thundering underneath it. “C’mon, stay with me. It’s okay.”
She hates how nice he is, sometimes. How caring, even when he’s always so defensive about it, even when he tries to hide it all the time. It makes her feel weird, wriggles around in her insides hotly, and it does so even now, even though she’s already all full.
Marcille has to take her other hand off her mouth to suck in a big breath. Her lungs feel like they won’t fully expand anymore, but he can’t be that deep in, right? He’s holding the base of his cock. He’s only about halfway in, probably less. He can’t be that deep in.
“Marcille.”
And his voice.
“I’m here,” she gasps, in a higher-pitch than usual, and she can feel the way he shivers. He does every time she speaks. Did he do that, before, too? When she wasn’t able to hear him do it?
Chilchuck lifts his brows like he doesn’t quite believe her, hand brushing over her skin, adjusting his grip so he can… so he can reach up, palm spreading over her chest—over both of her breasts and the patch of soft, fur-like hair between them that runs down her stomach (something that did make her wonder if he’s that hairy too as a halfling, something that makes her feel even hotter where she’s sitting on top of him; something that also makes her feel quite weird in her own skin, and she tried to hide it when he first peeled her clothes off her because it’s not normal for a woman to be this hairy, is it, but Chilchuck hadn’t mentioned it, and even now touches it so casually like it’s what he expected, like he likes it, too, and it knots up in her stomach in conflict, excitement and discomfort melting together), calloused skin rubbing over her nipples, making her gasp again. The small growl that comes from the back of his throat is something she wouldn’t be able to hear if she wasn’t a halfling right now, she’s sure of it.
But she wishes he’d talk again. She’s never really thought about his voice before—much, that is, Chilchuck is Chilchuck is Chilchuck, she’s used to his presence, it’s normal, comfortable (and usually, he’s cute, too), even when she thought his voice was nice before already, it’s not like that ever really meant anything—but like this, sitting on top of him, his cock lodged inside of her, like this, with him as a tallman and her as a halfling, it vibrates into her bones, makes something throb, throb, throb inside of her.
So, yes, Marcille wishes he’d talk again, but he’s knitting his brows together and pinching her nipple—making her squeak again, making her jump, which only makes a moan slip out of her because it makes his cock move inside of her, and he’s twitching, sharp inhale of breath raking over her bones and she’s losing her mind—seemingly at a loss for words now that she’s actually sitting on him. Even when he was so talkative before that.
Even when, once they settled down to take a break, to set up camp, he kept touching her, with that grin on his face. Kept ruffling her hair and tugging at her ears and pinching her cheeks and lifting her up only to set her back down somewhere else. He even pulled her into his lap one time when no one else was looking.
And then, then, when she finally complained about it—because it makes her feel weird, alright, because suddenly Chilchuck is tall and looks… old, with wrinkles and that tired look in his eyes and the gray hairs at his temples, because suddenly he looks…—that grin widened, and Marcille felt like she walked straight into a trap.
Oh, he’d cooed, making shivers raking down her back, making the first of those hot coils in her belly appear, suddenly this isn’t okay anymore, hm? Suddenly you don’t want to touch me like that anymore, Marcille? Had taken all of her breath away. She’s still thinking about it, about the tone of his voice, about the tilt of his head, about how big his hands are right now. All of a sudden ignoring the other’s personal space isn’t a thing we do anymore, is it? What, because I’m not cute anymore? Think about that before you try cuddling me or something next time without even considering if I’d mind, will you.
I’m a man, Marcille. I’m a man.
And he is. He was before, and he is now, and she has to bite down on her bottom lip even behind the hand clasped back over her mouth to keep her moan quiet when his hand brushes back down, thumb brushing into the hair leading to her pussy, until it’s nudging at her swollen, over-eager clit. His fingers are still a little slick from where he used them to fuck her open in the first place—and he’s her first and she’s not sure if she should be telling him that, and is that why he feels so big, or is he just big?—and she’s sure his other hand isn’t faring better, clutched around his cock as it is. Even like this, she feels like he’s spearing her.
“Marcille,” he says again, voice hoarse, strained, breathing heavy. He grunts when she shifts a little, squeezing his eyes shut, and she can hear it all, all, all. Makes her dizzy. “Are you—fuck, you getting used to it any time soon?”
Ah. Ah, ah, ah, Chilchuck is getting impatient, and for some reason, that thought flushes through her so hotly it makes her clench down on him. Makes his teeth click together again, and for a moment, she wishes she was taller, because she couldn’t even reach him to kiss him right now, even if she tried.
“Uhm—”
He clicks his tongue. “No, I’m sorry. Just—fuck—just take your time. Holy shit.”
He looks as if he’s in discomfort, if she’s honest. Then again, Marcille herself feels like she’s floating, would probably keel over or sway from side to side if he wasn’t holding her steady, and God, what is she even supposed to do now? She’d been so confident—if embarrassed, too, especially with how he’s towering over her, especially with that grin on his face she’s seen so, so many times that just looks different now—and now she has no clue what comes next.
Okay, well, logically, she does. Lifting herself up and crashing back down. Um, riding him. His cock, that is. But somehow, like this, with him half-sitting, half-lying down underneath her, gritting his teeth, groaning ever so softly every time she shifts where she’s still feeling so burningly, achingly swollen (and is that ever going to fade away, anyway? Is she ever going to get used to it, to him?), with him so much bigger than her, his hips so much wider than her that she can’t really reach the ground like this, anyway, it seems impossible a task.
Her whole body feels like it’s burning, in something like shame, in something like excitement, both. Maybe it was wrong how she treated Chilchuck all this time, it probably was, it definitely was. Even his own clothes that he had to lend her—the ones that are lying in a pile next to them, together with Laios’ that Laios lent Chilchuck—are way too big on her body like this. Chilchuck is… a man.
“Chilchuck,” she gasps, distracted and scatter-brained by how much she hears, how much she feels, by his thumb on her clit and the rest of his fingers brushing through her happy trail, which makes scalding jolts of something rush through her. She likes the touch, it feels nice. But, at the same time, all that hair on her body, it’s… “I—Chilchuck, um, I don’t really know… how to move like, like this.”
He blinks at her slowly with those tired eyes and it makes another wave of sparks rush through her belly, makes her thighs twitch. He’s so—
His hand is so big. His hand is so big on Marcille, and her thighs and pussy are starting to ache with how long she’s stalling. Slowly, his gaze rakes over her body, up and down, expression flat despite how his brows twitch together a little, despite how blown out his pupils are, and it makes her whine, makes her squirm on top of him, and she’s so full, so full, so full, and his thumb on her clit is so unbearably big. She’s losing her mind.
“Chilchuck—”
“Right,” he drawls, slowly, voice a little tight, like he has to hold back. Like he has to hold back, and he does have to, doesn’t he, because his other hand is still clutched around the base of his cock, because she’s still sitting on it, and for a moment, Marcille imagines Chilchuck grabbing her around the waist with both hands and just… using her the way he wants to, and her clit throbs against where he presses his thumb over it, making another moan spill out of her.
She sees how his nostrils flare as he sucks in a sharp breath. Her head is spinning, her eyes wandering aimlessly over his face—the stubble that had been so prickly to the touch when he kissed her earlier, rubbing at the skin of her face until it was burning a little, and she wishes he’d kiss her again; the sharp line of his nose and his cheekbones; his cleft chin; the tired, burning, hungry eyes—and his chest—with the just as prickly hair, and for a moment she imagines soft hair instead, like the one on her own body, because he’s treating it like it’s a given, so she can’t be a freak for it, right, even when she is usually much more hairy than elves tend to be; with the ribs she can count through his skin, with the happy trail leading down his navel to where his cock is buried inside of her, and it gives a twitch that has her jerking on top of him, tongue lolling out of her mouth for just a moment, and she’s so full, so full, so full.
“Right,” he repeats, eyes as unfocused as her own feel, flitting back and forth from her tits, her face, and between her legs where he’s disappearing inside of her cunt. Oh, God, Marcille is starting to feel feverish. She’s not going to be sick, is she?
Chilchuck sucks in a breath, pulls his hand away from her waist—making her whine at the loss of contact of his thumb on her clit—and she’s glad for a moment her hand is already on his chest, because otherwise, she’s sure she’d have lost her balance. Every inch of her skin is prickling as she watches how he jerks his hand this way and that, apparently trying to figure out… something; teeth catching her bottom lip to bite back another noise. She always does forget she has to be quiet. Ish.
“Right,” he says for the third time, and this time, instead of splaying his hand back over her stomach—covering it in its entirety, covering the hair on there, too, and like this she can see it, blonde and fur-like and part of her wishes he was a halfling like he usually is just so she could touch him all over, see where he has hair, if he has hair (and halflings are a little less cute than she thought they were, aren’t they), if it’s soft, too, just so she could bury her face in it—he puts it on her waist.
Well, waist; Chilchuck’s hand is big enough (or is she small enough? Truly, from this standpoint, it’s hard to tell what’s normal anymore) it reaches up to Marcille’s ribcage, and down to her hips. Big enough he can still brush his thumb down through her happy trail and pubic hair to press it back over her clit, grinding into it in tiny little circles that have her seeing stars.
“Okay,” he says, voice so hoarse it vibrates into her, echoes around in her ribs and throbs in her clit in tune with her heartbeat, coiling right above where she’s so, so, full, and since when is he so talkative again, anyway, especially now that her own head feels stuffed full of cotton, empty, empty, empty, almost blissfully so? “Okay. Okay, um…”
His fingertips dig into her skin, making her squeak, and when she manages to open her eyes again from the assault on her senses, he’s looking at her almost… warily with those dark eyes. He’s holding back. He’s holding back this whole time and she’s still sitting on his hand wrapped around the base of his cock.
Suddenly, her stomach feels like it’s dropping, vertigo gripping her body, and it takes Marcille a moment or two to realize he’s lifting her. Can see it on his arm where his bicep flexes, can feel it where his cock drags along her insides when she gets pulled off it just so, just a little. Oh, God, she thinks, slapping her free hand back over her mouth to muffle the moan that spills out on her, her vision sparking, but even then, she can’t pry her eyes off him. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
“This okay, Marcille? Doesn’t hurt, does it?”
She shakes her head and his shoulders drop just a little in what looks like relief.
There’s no way she could form words right now, she thinks, not with how her head is spinning, not with how much she feels, crashing over her in brutal waves, keeping her down, down, down, and his thumb is still pressing over her clit when he slowly guides her back down until her hips are flush with his fist again, before pulling her back up all over again.
“Fuuuck…” he groans, head tipping back, giving her a full view of his jawline and the way his Adam’s apple bobs, and he’s so, so, so…
He’s too big. He’s too big inside of her, she can feel it with every time she sinks down on him again, can feel it with how his fingers dig, dig, dig into her flesh to fight against gravity, to make the slide easier for her. He’s too big, she’s too full, and it feels mind-numbing with how good it is. She’s so wet. God, there’s no way she can come from this, even when he does rub her clit so nicely, making her feel like her head is stuffed full of cotton candy, it’s just too much.
God, she loves it.
“You’re so—so damn tiny,” he grunts, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. He’s beautiful, Marcille thinks. Chilchuck is beautiful, and she wants to kiss him again, and she thinks she’ll die if she doesn’t. “So fucking—young.”
Something about that pulls her back into the moment—something about that makes the fog in her mind clear just the tiniest bit.
“Wha—”
That’s when he shifts his weight; When he sits up fully, careful not to move her around too much, when he curves his spine so he can rest his forehead against hers. Like this, she’s almost cradled in his lap, like this, she can feel every burst of his hot breath fan over her face. Everything is too warm. His fingers grow slick where they still dig into her flesh, and part of Marcille wishes, hopes they’ll leave bruises.
“I didn’t realize before,” he pants, and she goes cross-eyed when she tries to look at him through her bangs and his, can see how his eyes are still squeezed shut, his jaw tense. His cock twitches when he lifts her again, and she sucks in a whiny noise, his breath shuddering over her face. “How—how young you look. With, with you being an elf and all.”
Her head is spinning. Everything is warm and Chilchuck is too big or she is too small, and there is no way she’ll be able to come from this, but it’s still heaven. Feels so, so good.
Even then, what the hell is he talking about?
“I was—” he starts, cutting himself off with a grunt as he guides her down again, and Marcille feels like she’s floating, feels like she’s weightless with how effortlessly he moves her up and down his cock, with how she doesn’t really have to do anything at all. “I knew you were young, but this is… fuck.”
“I’m older than you,” she protests, and his dry laugh rattles through her so intensely she thinks she’s going insane for just a moment.
“C’mon, you’re not stupid, are you?” he continues, breath over her face, and for some reason, this makes her own breath catch, for some reason, this gets her, and her hips twitch in his grasp when he presses his thumb over her clit tighter, cotton rapidly stuffing itself back into her skull. “I’m—fuck—I’m an old man, Marcille. For a halfling, I’m…”
And she does know that, actually. She does know that, actually; she does know he’s a grown man. She does know that.
And… and right now, with him looking like that when she does know tallmen all too well, there’s no denying it. She did know that, but right now, right here, with his cock inside of her, it washes over her, sinks in at last.
“Oh.”
Chilchuck laughs again, making her squirm on his cock, making her pussy clench down around him with another whine when he nudges at her clit. God, this is so… All of this is so…
“And you’re young,” he says, breathless, like he’s making some kind of point. For some reason, her stomach feels almost a little queasy, like he’s being mean, but she’s too full to make anything of it. “For an elf. I knew that, but seeing you like this…”
Ah. Ah, ah, ah, that’s when Marcille realizes, and her face flushes red-hot with embarrassment at how long it took her to catch up. She’s a halfling right now. She’s a halfling right now, and Chilchuck is usually a halfling, which means he can tell how old she looks now just by looking at her, just like she can with him. She’s a halfling, and he’s one, too.
Young, he says, in that raspy tone, and her mouth is a little dry with it. Young, young, young. Is it really that much? Is the difference between them really so big? If—if she was a halfling, if she was really a halfling, how much younger than him would she be?
“You might be my daughters’ age,” he mumbles into her hair, slurring his words a little, moving her up and down his cock, answering her questions like he could see them in her mind, and even her chest is burning in shame now. In shame, and in excitement, too. In lust. She’s throbbing, throbbing, throbbing, doesn’t know up from down. “Holy shit, Marcille.”
It’s hot. For some reason, it’s really, really, really hot.
His daughters’ age. She might be his daughters’ age, or, well, the equivalent of it. Oh, oh, oh, she really treated him badly all this time, didn’t she, oh, oh, oh, she can’t really think about any of that right now, not with how much she’s burning, not with how tight everything inside of her feels.
Marcille thinks there’s no way she can come like this, but she needs to. Oh, God, she needs to come. She really, really, really needs to come, feels like she’ll die if she doesn’t.
“Fuck,” Chilchuck rasps, voice quiet and tired and breathless and slurred, cutting her down to the bone, prickling over every inch of exposed skin. “‘M not gonna last. Marcille, ‘m not… Marcille—Marcille, can I come inside?”
A moan spills out of her without her input. Inside. Inside, inside, inside, spinning around in her head until she’s clawing at his chest, until she’s nodding feverishly, hoping he’ll understand, because when she tries to speak, what comes out of her mouth is, “Kuh—kiss me. Please.”
He moans under his breath, too, she can hear it. Grits his teeth again, clicking and grinding together, muttering, “Please,” with a shake of his head like he’s making fun of her, but it sounds like he’s talking to himself more than anything. “Look at me.”
Right. Right. Right. Sucking in a breath, Marcille manages to tilt her head back, back, back, manages to keep enough tension in her body so it doesn’t just loll around uselessly, and like this, up close, Chilchuck’s head is so much bigger than hers. His beard brushes her chin when he leans closer—can’t be comfortable, she thinks from very far away, the way he’s all but curling around her, but she wouldn’t want it any other way, it just… wouldn’t feel as safe as this does, so, so safe—when he tilts his head to brush his lips over hers.
Warm, warm, warm. Even like this, even though he’s a tallman right now, he’s warm. Or maybe that’s just her. Maybe all of this is just her.
It’s still nice to kiss him, she thinks, especially when he nips at her bottom lip, when his hot tongue brushes hers, when he grunts impatiently. When his fingers dig into her hip—and her ribs and her waist—deeper, deeper, deeper, when the way he’s bouncing her on his cock starts to grow a little uncoordinated, a little sloppy, sending prickles of bright-spark stars through her veins, rushing, making her moan, swallowed up by his warm mouth.
He really is close, isn’t he…?
Chilchuck curses into her mouth in a language she doesn’t understand—and for just a moment, she thinks it’s funny that a tallman is speaking halfling and a halfling doesn’t understand it—pulling her closer, cock throbbing inside of her, and by now, her pussy feels like molten iron, or liquid chocolate, or something of the like. Hot, hot, hot. Liquid. Molten. Drives her crazy.
Please, Marcille wants to beg, please, please, please, hips bucking against him on their own accord—he groans, swallowed up between them—but his tongue is still nudging against hers, sending electric shocks through her entire system, so it’s not like she really can. Still, it’s burning right there in her belly, boiling, and she needs… needs, needs, needs…
His hand squeezes her, squeezes her in his palm, and his hand is so big and so warm and his thumb is so calloused over her clit, and all of it is so much, and there’s no way she can come from this, it’s too much, there’s no way she’ll come, but she does, anyway. She does come, somehow, and she only notices she’s coming once she’s already in it, once she’s already thrashing on top of him—Chilchuck’s hand flexing where he’s holding her up in an effort not to lose his grip on her—thighs twitching, once whiny little moans are already being pulled from her, and he still doesn’t stop kissing her, groans a hissy little noise, swallowing her up whole.
Everything goes red and white-hot, and it’s so much, it’s so, so, so much, crashing over her like tidal waves, again and again and again, her cunt throbbing so hard she can feel it all over. Marcille feels like she’s going crazy with it, feels unhinged, uhn-uhn-uhn noises spilling out of her with his tongue still against hers, drool dripping down her chin, and still, and still, and still Chilchuck fucks her up and down on his cock, friction and speed increasing with the urgency she can feel in his tight hand, in the way he pushes closer, closer, closer.
Then, so abruptly it pulls an almost wailing noise out of her—and she is sobbing, she notices now, her face wet from more than just the drool—his head snaps back up, tipping back, back, back, a low groan spilling out of him, gritting his teeth, Adam’s apple bobbing again; and he presses her close, close, close to his fist so tightly she’s afraid for a moment he’s going to pull it away and split her open, after all.
It feels like that’s what he’s doing; cock flexing inside of her, heat filling her until she feels like she’s going to explode, until she feels something warm leaking out of her, splattering over her trembling thighs.
“Fuuuck…!” Chilchuck curses, voice breaking with how hoarse it goes, and Marcille’s head is spinning so bad she thinks she’ll fall over, or die, or something. Her heart is racing faster than it ever has in her life before. “Yes, yes, yes, so fucking… so fucking tight, fuck, shit, fuck…”
He’s coming, she realizes, then, chest wracking with her desperate pants, lungs burning. He came. That’s what he… he came. She made him come, too.
His body sags back, cold air hitting her sweat-slick skin, but she barely notices that, because his hand suddenly lets go of her waist to catch himself, and she feels vertigo grab her; almost loses her balance, if it wasn’t for her hand on his chest, quickly joined by the other slapping next to it. He’s grumbling about it under his breath when the worst of the full-body dizziness disappears, when her heart starts beating again, but really, that’s what he gets for letting go of her so suddenly.
“You…!” she hisses, voice shrill, squirming on his cock. It’s softening, she thinks, at least, but it’s still so big that the pressure is overstimulating whatever she does. “Oh—”
Chilchuck clicks his tongue, moving his hand around the base of his cock—and for another moment, Marcille’s heart stops, vague fear rushing through her—cupping her ass instead, and he lifts her off him as easily as he’s moved her around the whole day. It makes her whine, the feeling of him slipping out. Such a strange sensation, one she’s never, ever felt in her life before, and now, her cunt feels strangely empty, throbbing and aching.
He sets her down on his stomach, and she’s chewing on her bottom lip again when she glances up at him from under her lashes. Suddenly, looking at him like this—handsome and tired, ears red—she feels shy again. What’s wrong with her, anyway? They just had… sex, so why does she feel so…?
Her whole body feels like it’s burning when his gaze drops down between her legs, and she can feel her heartbeat in her ears when she follows his eyes down, down, down. Almost flinches at the sight; his seed spilling out of her and onto his stomach, splattered on her thighs, mixed milky-clear with her own slick wetness. Hot, burning embarrassment fills her, making her squirm even as his hand comes down on her thigh, rubbing up and down in what she thinks is supposed to be reassuring.
And it is reassuring, but mostly, Marcille just feels wrung out like a rag. Feels… strange. There’s the phantom-feeling of his beard still prickling on her face and she thinks she never wants to let go of him again ever.
“Ah, shit,” Chilchuck says, heaving himself up to lean closer again, crowding her, towering over her. Oh, what is wrong with her, she wants him again, doesn’t she? “Got a lot to clean up, fuck.”
She nods, but when she leans closer to nuzzle into his chest, he lets her. Sighs and brushes his hand up her spine to press it to her back, over both her shoulder blades before brushing it into her hair, and God, God, God, why won’t her heart stop racing, anyway?
Chilchuck, she wants to say, for some reason. Chilchuck, Chilchuck, Chilchuck. Don’t let go of me yet. I know we need to go back, but don’t let go of me yet.
Instead, she says, “Um, that was. That was great.”
Chilchuck laughs. He doesn’t let go. “Yeah.”