30 smutfics

021. Alone Time, or, "When I Think About You, I Touch Myself"





Emil’s hormones are raging. He feels a bit silly to be so bothered by it, but to be honest and blunt, these are the facts:



Firstly, he is now traveling with one teenage girl who dresses in skirts and fights in all spins and twirls, who throws herself all over him day in and day out, and who insists on sharing a hotel room.



Secondly, he’s also being accompanied by Tenebrae, and while that’s much less like tempting torture, it puts just as much of a damper on that whole masturbation thing.



Thirdly, he is a teenage boy. Identity issues and multiple personality disorder be damned, Emil is seventeen years old.



Really, the only time he gets release is showers - and if Marta is feeling pushy that day, even then it’s iffy, because she might jump in with him at any moment, ready to molest. Which would be all fine and well, if he liked her like that.



But he’s Emil, and he’s kind of a romanticist when it comes down to it. In a way that makes half of him, the red-eyed, deep-voiced half that takes control when Marta jumps into his showers and climbs into his bed, say “Goddamn, you are a pussy,” Emil thinks he doesn’t want to do it with Marta.



Although he has. Well, his body has. Ratatosk has.



Fourth: Half of him is having sex and the other half isn’t. It seems really unfair, honestly.



He does his best to block out the memories, and Ratatosk does a good job of helping. In fact, Ratatosk probably puts more effort into not letting Emil see these memories than Emil does into not remembering them. Once or twice, mind desperately wandering desperately for more stimulation, he tried to remember. He heard a vague growl in the back of his mind and “Stay the hell out of those memories, they’re mine.”



The small flashes he gets of those times, the small glimpses - they do nothing for him. Soft, round thighs, smooth legs and hips, stomach, her shirt roughly unbuttoned and pushed up, skirt tugged down. Sometimes even her panties are just crudely pushed to the side. This does nothing for him. But just imagining Ratatosk fucking her, not remembering it, but just briefly thinking about it without meaning to. Imagining the broad, heavy shoulders over a smaller frame, imagining the writhing up into it - that makes him hard.



It’s not as though Ratatosk and Marta are painfully innocent, either - Ratatosk can’t block out everything. And sometimes? Can’t help bragging, can’t help to taunt Emil and torture him, and maybe even tease him, in more ways than one.



Emil knows the sensation of bending someone over, of biting their shoulder, through Ratatosk’s experiences. In fact, Ratatosk even tells him about it - what it’s like to push Marta down and pull her hair just hard enough, and hold her hips. And breathily, Ratatosk’s voice in his head can tell him about the way she writhes into him, the way she pushes back and tells him it’s so good, and so deep inside her, the way she can‘t help but moan with every thrust. Every push of his hips against her, hip bones against her ass and his breath hot on her neck, sometimes his chest pressed down against her back as she pleads for more of the heat inside her.



Ratatosk doesn’t stop talking - his voice is deep, so much deeper than Emil’s regular voice. “It’s always so tight inside,” he says, and seems to almost groan, even just in thought. “It’s always wet, and she likes to ride on top and push me down by the chest.”



Emil’s mind races, and his hand is pumping at his length in desperate, uneven jerks to the images his head is making. Images of being bent over, knees sore against the ground, a mouth licking and nipping and sucking at his ear. Of hot breath against his neck and long red hair spilling over his shoulder. Of deep, hard thrusts inside him, of strong, unseen hands holding his hips at first, then roaming, rubbing his chest smoothly in time with the pounding. Trying to see, but bent over so his face is in his wrists on a pillow, only hearing the heavy breaths and biting down moans.



“I always rub her legs. Her thighs are sensitive, she always comes so much faster if I do that,” Ratatosk says, and this time there’s an audible moan afterwards. When he hears it echoing off the bathroom’s tile walls, Emil realizes it was him moaning. “Mm, and she always moans my name, she always likes to hear me say her name. She loves to hear me talk.”



Emil’s legs are going weak as he squeezes himself, and his face feels hotter than it ever has before. His mind provides him images; the one before, of being pushed into from behind, pushing back into it. Imagines hearing the panting in his ear and the wet, desperate kisses. Imagines tugging on the red hair that falls over his shoulder in time with the sharp thrusts, pulling the hair hard and being bit hard in return.



Ratatosk is saying hotly, “You like it rough, don‘t you?”



Then a new image, of riding on top, grinding down and rolling his hips while taking in all he can, deep and thick, tan, dark-skinned hands rubbing at his thighs from underneath him. Those same big, strong hands, jerking him off, and those dark lips parting softly to groan his name. He imagines the man beneath him trying to move his own hips, trying to sit up, and even though that feels good, so good, Emil imagines pushing hands on that smooth, hard chest to keep him still. Imagines the hands rough with calluses rubbing his hips roughly, rubbing them hard. It sends shivers up his spine.



Ratatosk asks “Feel good?”



Emil moans, “God, yes,” in his fantasy, moans and lets go of everything, imagines letting the man beneath him take control and thrust up inside him. He imagines putting his arms back behind him, holding on to the long, dark legs spread out behind him as he’s thrust into. Imagines throwing his head back from the pleasure for a moment, then looking back through half-lidded eyes, moaning, “More, p-please” as he looks down at the green-eyed man below him.



He imagines Richter moaning back between heavy breaths and desperate writhing, “Emil.”



“Fuck,” Ratatosk groans hotly, and Emil pumps his cock harder, faster, biting his lip, eyes almost watering. Ratatosk growls, “Come,” at the peak, when in his mind, Richter is giving him that final, deep-hitting thrust, telling him the same. In the shower, Emil can’t do anything but comply.



And when Emil has come, when the shower is washing the fluid off of him, when his legs are buckling, shaking underneath his weight, as he rests one hand on the wall in front of him and the other hand stays wrapped around himself - that’s when realization of what he just imagined hits him, between the shaky breaths.



The silence is only broken by the shower at first, then in his mind by Ratatosk’s voice as he just laughs sadistically. It turns to unmasked disgust when he says “Gross.”