Archive of Our Own ^beta

Freya’s desk is a mess of papers. Smeared with chalk, ink, and pencil, crumpled and stacked one on top of the other until she nearly has a stack of papers on the corner of her desk. The stack of papers sway as she moves, just begging to be pushed off. The clutter is a little overstimulating if she’s honest, but everything is very important.

It’s been an interesting sort of day, today. An irritating, unpleasant one that, despite annoying her to no end, has also been the most productive one she’s had in a while. She’s just been vaguely annoyed despite the day being rather lucky. For no discernible reason other than waking up wrong.

She’s scribbling quickly over her papers, teeth gritting at that awful scritch-scratch of her ball-point pen against loose-leaf, trying to get this done. As soon as she’s finished, she plans on mediating. A nearly-nightly thing that brings her closer to Blaire, her work partner, who she can freely bounce ideas off of.

Her thoughts unintentionally warm at the image of her godly coworker. She’s excited. As usual, nightly emotion when she starts setting up the room to see Blaire. Her inspiration, her sun, her Muse.

A new name she’s been secretly referring to the god as in off-moments, away from Blaire’s mind-reading powers. It feels like she’d cross some sort of line if she were to ever use the name.

It didn’t come exactly out of nowhere. It had been an idea she had been chewing on since she and Blaire met, but it just became solidified a few weeks ago, whilst she and Blaire were working together. When Blaire offered her some advice and snatched the non-physical chalk from her hand, taking to scrawling across a summoned chalkboard as she talked. She walked Freya through it, correcting her math in a rather humorous way, and Freya was left staring in wonderment.

It was the first time that had happened, where Blaire had inspired her in such a way, inspired her to do better, to always strive for the best version of herself. To build a portal worthy of Blaire’s presence.

She heard nothing her Muse was saying, staring at that golden glow that is reminiscent of the sun. Of a golden, searing light like a sign from a divine being that Blaire was The One. Just on the side of too bright. Freya was left amazed, feeling a drive bloom within her, spurred onwards by Blaire herself.

She started to look at the god in a new light by that point, flush with admiration and adoration. As though realizing that this being of heavenly light had come down to inspire her of all people. By that point came the nickname, coming to her like a stroke of genius and implanting itself resolutely in her skull.

Muse.

It felt right at home in the folds of her brain, in the fissures of her tongue. Taking its place like it was always meant to be the way she referred to Blaire, like it was inevitable. Like it was just waiting to be thought of.

Freya has not once brought it up with her Muse, of course. It’s oddly nerve-wracking, and Freya would prefer to keep her focus on the portal — on her and Blaire’s combined work. The important tasks. Not something so silly and inconsequential as a nickname.

She hangs onto this delusion, despite the fact Blaire has taken to calling her as many nicknames as she can possibly come up with.

The name sticks with her despite her best efforts. It takes up such a large amount of brain space that she ends up referring to Blaire as such in her mind, forced to dodge slip-ups whilst verbally talking. Once or twice it seamlessly starts to roll off of her tongue, and she has to turn it into a different word. Usually one that makes no sense in the context.

Blaire would always give her this skin-crawling look when that happened. Obviously not aware of what Freya was going to say, but also very aware that there’s something she’s not saying. It makes her feel like a rusted lock, prepared to break underneath the slightest pressure. Though Blaire never presses, just laughs at her slip-up, continuing onwards with their conversation without batting an eye.

And so this cursed word stays locked safely within Freya’s head, underneath her tongue. And she intends on keeping it that way.

There’s no telling how Blaire will feel about Freya taking it upon herself to come up with a nickname. For all she knows, nicknames are offensive for the godly being, though that thought has her wondering why she would give Freya such a wide variety if that’s true. Whatever the case, it’s simply safer to keep their working relationship as professional as possible.

She finishes the last scrawled math symbol on her paper and leans back, breathing out a long, tense sigh. She feels Fiddleford’s eyes on her, her other work partner who’s been set up at her own desk, working alongside each other. She’s taking a break from physically building the portal, just for the day, needing to workshop some of the structural choices after she nearly had an accident with a rather large metal panel.

Blaire only complained a little about the hold up, though workplace safety is of utmost concern to Freya, and losing Fiddleford would only put an even further chink in the plan. Blaire, very reluctantly, conceded.

“You alright there?” Fiddleford asks, her voice deafening in the silence. Freya feels a brief flash of annoyance at being addressed, and then, very quickly, replaces it with guilt. She’s just irritated, it’s nothing that Fiddleford did.

“I think I’m finished for the night, finally,” Freya mumbles back, rubbing at an aching, itchy eye. Yearning for sleep which she cannot yet supply.

“That’s rather early for you, ain’t it?” Fiddleford’s tone upturns — teasing. When Freya turns to look at her, she finds Fiddleford leaning back in her chair, teetering dangerously, already watching her.

Freya manages a tired smile, hoping it doesn’t resemble too much of a grimace. “Yes, well, I’ve been working sub-optimally lately, and I think more than three hours of sleep would perhaps do me some good.”

A lie. She’s been working just as well as usual. She thinks. Blaire has said nothing about the quality of her work, so she assumes she’s done pretty good despite the sleep-exhaustion she’s been subject to. She gets no rest whilst asleep, even if she does go unconscious.

Her Muse visits her in her sleep to resume their own work there, which means Freya’s brain is just as active while she’s asleep as it is when she’s awake. It’s a tiring process, but she would prefer to keep her and Blaire’s nightly workings, even if the bags under her eyes deepen by the hour.

“Well, goody for you, eh?” Fiddleford snorts, her chair rocking back down on four legs with a slam. She slings an arm around the back of it, turning her body slightly to better watch Freya begin to carefully neaten her workspace. At least just a little bit, so she knows what she needs to work on for tomorrow. “I have at least another hour of fun.”

“I thought you enjoyed working,” Freya hums back, carefully nudging the stack of papers to the opposite side of her desk. She pockets her pen in her breast pocket, and stands. “Isn’t working late part of the fun?”

Fiddleford scoffs at her, barely scowling. “I don’t know what yer idea of fun is, Freya, but we need to get ya out more.”

“Perhaps when we aren’t swamped with work,” Freya offers offhandedly, missing the way Fiddleford lights up slightly, pushing in her chair and giving a light stretch to her back. It pops and she hunches once more with a sigh. “Don’t work too late, Fidds. I need you in working order.”

Fiddleford hums back something, though whether it’s words or not is impossible to decipher.

Freya turns, deeming the conversation over. Fiddleford will leave when she’s ready, she trusts the woman to her own devices.

With everything in order, she makes it to the door frame before she’s stopped.

“Freya?” Fiddleford’s voice rings out. There’s a note of hesitancy there, wrung dry, like the utterance of Freya’s name had taken much strength. It sounds close to shattering, and Freya, of course, turns, her hand placed upon the doorframe.

Fiddleford is standing, facing her, on the other side of the room. She looks nervous, hunched a little more than usual so she appears closer to Freya’s height. Her right hand is behind her back, hidden from prying eyes.

“Yes, Fidds?” Freya says, trying not to sound too irritated.

Fiddleford stopping her isn’t exactly something she wants to deal with, but she swallows down the slight aggression threatening to tint her words, trying to look friendly.

Oddly, her friend isn’t quite looking at her. Her hands are fiddling together, eyes close enough to Freya’s that they could be mistaken for eye contact, but they’re just a little off the mark, peering off into the space beside Freya’s head instead. She’s so obvious in displaying whatever is worrying her that Freya doesn’t need to wonder about the reactions at all. There’s even a tint of colour along her cheeks, something that has Freya’s fingers tightening, newly worried about a possible sickness.

“You aren’t ill, are you?” Freya asks slowly, tentatively. Knowing she’s eyeing Fiddleford with blatant suspicion and wariness, but unable to reign herself back in.

Freya does not want to catch whatever Fiddleford is carrying. It’s never pleasant to work while sick, especially since taking breaks for such frivolous problems is out of the question. She shifts her weight a little, wondering if she’s far enough away from Fiddleford.

“Not at all!” Fiddleford shakes her head, which Freya attempts to take at face value. She allows the reassurance to relax her slightly, humming a short note of satisfaction.

“Alright, well, good. I would’ve sent you home on the spot,” Freya says with an attempt at teasing, but Fiddleford just looks askance. It’s rapidly irritating Freya. “What was it you needed then, Fiddleford?”

That, finally, shocks the woman into action. Lips twisting together like pulsing blood vessels, she manages to meet Freya’s eyes, taking a few shaky steps forward, her shoes slapping across the ground and echoing just slightly. Freya’s head slowly tilts backwards as Fiddleford approaches, her extra head of height requiring some adjusting to maintain eye contact.

The woman stops in front of her, and Freya tries not to step away, or lean back, even if Fiddleford herself is a little too close to her personal bubble. One she’s been trying to maintain today, as her irritation has made her a livewire, prepared to snap at the slightest of overstimulating contact.

Fiddleford does not touch her, hands grasped tightly together, holding something, and peering down at Freya with hard-set eyes.

“I have somethin’ fer you,” she says quietly, voice lowering with their proximity. “I know it ain’t exactly gift givin’ season, but I got an opportunity to make somethin’, and I couldn’t just pass ‘er up.”

She visibly shifts her weight side to side, then moves. Previously hidden behind her back, her hand jerks out with little to no warning

Freya tries not to jump at the aggressive shove in her direction, though when Fiddleford’s hand stops just in front of her, she can’t help sighing her slight relief. Not that she thinks her friend would pull anything, but sometimes a little extra care is needed.

She carefully inspects the item in her friend’s hand, eyes widening very slightly at the sight. It’s a candle. Sitting in Fiddleford’s palm, turned on its side and sporting a lovely crimson colour.

Paraffin wax, perhaps, or maybe even palm wax, must have been used in order to achieve that beautiful pink. It’s rather long, with a knobby little wick at the top, cut just a tad too short.

“You made this?” Freya asks curiously, a little quietly, even if the answer is obvious. She can see the shoddy craftsmanship, the uneven grooves, the off-shape of the circular base, the bumps and scrapes and the uneven wick. But Fiddleford made it, and that makes it worth its weight in gold.

Freya barely notices the flickering of the candles on Fiddleford’s desk, shadows and shapes cast along the lit wooden wall that logically shouldn’t be there, not matching the items that should be. Her fingers are too busy thumbing a clumsy groove along the side of the self-made, rosy pink candle, resting on Fiddleford’s hand. Made with care, with thought.

“To th’ best of my abilities,” Fiddleford admits, her gaze boring into the side of Freya’s face a little too intently. Freya avoids looking up. “D’ya like it?”

“It’s quite lovely, Fiddleford,” Freya says quietly, finally looking up. She retracts her hands, finally, from the burn of her friends’ touch, though the sensation remains. “Have you done this before? Made one?”

“Not in the slightest!” Fiddleford snorts, appearing less tense than just a moment ago with Freya’s positive reaction. “But I know you’ve been absolutely tearing through yer beeswax candles, so I figured you wouldn’t mind one extra. I know it ain’t a lot! But it’s somethin’, right?”

It’s not a lot at all. Freya goes through a full box, and sometimes even over that, nearly every night. One candle won’t make much of a difference, but Fiddleford doesn’t need to know that. Freya smiles, feeling lopsided and like she’s showing a few too many teeth, but Fiddleford just smiles back.

“Thank you, Fidds, I’ll certainly use this, it’s appreciated. I should probably get you something as well, I suppose,” she hums, carefully placing the rather large pink candle into her jacket pocket. Sizable enough that the candle itself is swallowed almost entirely by the deep opening.

“No, no, I don’t want a present you feel obligated to get me!” Fiddleford assures, and grabs for Freya’s hand again without warning. Freya’s eyes widen, looking down at her carefully kept hand, back up to the woman holding it. She’s peering down at her with this too-soft gaze that has her spine prickling in an uncomfortable way, though Freya can’t figure out why.

Fiddleford’s gap-teeth peek out from her curved, chapped lips, that damned smile carving lines into her face. Her amber eyes flay Freya’s body, almost-golden within the vitriolic flickering of the candles just behind her. Dancing on the walls.

Freya feels terribly out of place, all of a sudden. Like this shouldn’t be happening. The discomfort lodges in her throat, makes her feel like there are watchful eyes all over her body, peering at her from every single hidden and obvious effigy she has scattered throughout the shack.

Her palms clam up, and she hopes Fiddleford can’t feel it.

“You just have to do me a favour,” Fiddleford says, voice lowering enough that Freya has to strain to pick up the words. Her thumb drags across the back of Freya’s hand, blunt and curved nail catching on Freya’s skin.

“You’re not going to ask me to make you a candle too, are you?” Freya asks with the tiniest note of strain in her voice, trying to lighten the imaginary tension she’s sure only she is feeling. Her smile is cracked right down the middle, Winter-dry lips struggling not to split as she forces her lips into a smile.

She just cannot figure out why this interaction is making her sweat so badly, or why the way Fiddleford stares at her makes her want to crawl inside her own skin and shrivel up into something worse than she is now.

“Good lord, no!” Fiddleford snickers, her hand refusing to move from Freya’s own. Her warmth is practically burning at this point, and Freya debates on pulling away, on pressing closer, on washing her hands until that phantom press of Fiddleford’s touch is all but gone. “You’d make ‘em into nothin’ but a waxy mess!”

Freya snorts, feeling a little better with Fiddleford teasing her. So, yes, she’s the only one who’s feeling this odd mass of tension in the air.

“No, I just want you to make sure you think of me when you burn this candle, alright?” Fidds hums, voice softening once more.

This hits a pane of glass in Freya’s head just like a bird. Leaving a feathery imprint.

“Well, of course I will,” Freya replies matter-of-factly, completely missing the way Fiddleford’s eyes light up in wonderment. Right before Freya continues talking. “You’ll likely be a sort of passing thought of mine when I use the candle, Fiddleford. Mostly because you made it and my brain will associate the candle with you. You certainly don’t have to worry about that.”

Freya takes her hand back as she talks, ending that godawful burning sensation that had begun to infect her skin, burrowing deep just like a fever. Fiddleford’s hands remain raised, though Freya has already ducked her head to ensure the candle is still safely in her pocket.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Freya says a little too quickly, with a smile that might be a little too on the manic side this time. “I have something to attend to.”

She turns around, takes a step, then quickly pauses. Turning her chin to her shoulder, she says, “Get some rest, friend. You’ve been working hard, lately.”

And then she is gone, waving her hands stressfully at her sides, trying to shake off the leftovers of Fiddleford on her skin. She’s completely unaware of Fiddleford who lies in her wake, heart on her proverbial sleeve, and terribly disappointed.

The candles and lamps flicker, casting shadows on the walls that seem to almost smile

Freya retreats quickly to her worship room. A hastiness in her step, as though Fiddleford will try to chase her down. She intends to be locked inside her worship room before that happens. She’s jittering with badly kept anticipation that grows as she nears the locked door, her gifted candle clutched in a six-fingered palm.

She’s chewing over the idea of using it for summoning her partner. She remembers Blaire informing her that however much effort she puts into mediating and making the room fit for said mediation, the stronger their connection.

An extra candle can only do good, so Freya thinks she’ll use it. Even if the idea fills her with the slightest amount of dread. She figures it’s from doing something she hasn’t gotten explicit permission for, and brushes it off.

She unlocks the door, slipping inside the currently dark room, which she fixes by switching a nearby light switch. With the door soundly locked behind her, she gets to work.

She takes out her own candles, — handmade, actually, contrary to Fiddleford’s belief that they would come out mangled — beeswax and dyed a lovely purple, and begins setting them around the room. On cupboards, shelves, the floor, books — anywhere she can place a candle she puts one down.

Thoughtlessly, she places the candle right on the floorboards, nearby where the summoning circle will be painted. She lights it first, breathing a small sigh of relief when nothing happens.

She’s not sure what she was expecting, but nothing at all happening is certainly preferred. She’d like for things to go smoothly, and any hitch at all could have things going downhill. With the amount of relief she feels when Blaire doesn’t suddenly show, booming voice telling her to get rid of the disgraceful candle, maybe it would have been better to leave out the candle.

It is there now, and lit, and as nothing continues to happen, Freya deigns to keep an eye on it instead. Just in case it starts flickering a little too much, or goes out all on its own.

With the candles all in place and all lit, she turns off the bright overhead light, leaving the room shadowed and orange. Flickering with every sure-footed step she takes, displaced air making the flames dance, though never to the point of extinguishing. The mood shifts with the candles making up the only light in the room, and Freya feels her chest pulsing along with her heartbeats.

She goes over the numerous statues, effigies and tapestries, fixing them so that not one thing is out of place. She avoids the beady stares of the tapestries, slit pupils of her triangular Muse seeming to follow her around the room, tuning in to watch the devotee work.

It’s nerve-wracking having an audience, but she figures as long as Blaire doesn’t make herself known, she’s probably doing an okay job setting up the room.

She takes a moment to ensure nothing flammable is in any danger of burning up from the lit candles. It’s a little hard to ensure nothing is at risk of going up in flames considering the amount of candles in the room, which is definitely a fire hazard, but as long as she doesn’t kick any over it will likely be fine.

Hands shaking, she begins manually adjusting the glass prisms she has lined on the wall shelves, ensuring they’re all matching. Perhaps it is not the wisest to be obsessed with perfection, but the summoning has to go perfectly.

If obsessively checking over everything again and again is what it will take, then she’s going to do it.

With everything up to her standards, Freya drags out the bowl of goat’s blood she has hidden underneath a dresser. Not that Fiddleford would ever find her way in here anyway, but it’s better than having it so blatantly presented. The blood itself is a little tacky after being hidden without being refrigerated, but it should still be fine. She’ll refresh it tomorrow, and maybe figure out a better hiding spot that’s not underneath a warm dresser.

She takes the little brush that’s next to the bowl and begins painting a familiar symbol on the floorboards, over the previous, messily cleaned and faded lines.

She could contact her Muse through her dreams as well, but Blaire prefers the meditation method, just to have the option to summon herself. The various trinkets and effigies and statues strengthen Blaire’s powers, her ability to cross into the mortal realm. It allows her to manifest a physical form for as long as they both may require it.

Or, well, that’s how it’s supposed to work.

Blaire hasn’t tried to come through the connection and to the mortal plane since last time. It was entirely Freya’s fault, a screw up that nearly had Blaire losing her arm. She could grow it back of course, but the mere obvious danger that was presented as the doorway between Freya’s realm and Blaire’s realm closed abruptly was too worrying to ignore.

Freya wants everything to be beyond perfect before they even think of attempting that again.

While a physical manifestation is not what they’re aiming for right now, going through the motions of taking care to keep the various objects as clean as possible strengthens and lengthens how long Freya can meditate and hold the connection.

It’s a lot of work and time to get set up, and the goat's blood from previous sessions has even bled into the floor, staining it and marring it forever, but it’s all worth it in the end.

Once she's finished painting the symbol Freya slides the goat’s blood and paintbrush back into its place, fixes one more candle, and then sets herself down in the center of the sigil; a triangle within a double-circle.

Crossing her legs, heedless of the still-wet goat’s blood staining her pants, she props her elbows on her thighs. She straightens her back, touches her forefingers gently to her thumbs, and closes her eyes with a deep, calming sigh.

It’s not usually too difficult for her to clear her mind and focus. Some days her brain is more wired than usual, but today things seem to be easy. A surprise, considering how irritated she’s been all day, but welcome. She focuses on her breathing, on her brain. On the hum buzz of the world around her, of the thinning veil of her world and Blaire’s.

She drifts, losing focus of her thickening surroundings and the weight of her body resting against the floor.

Before she knows it, she’s completely weightless.

The soft orange glow of the warm candles behind her eyelids gives way to cool purples and blues, and she registers the outstretched, standing nature of her limbs. She cracks open her eyes and smiles upon finding herself within her relatively cluttered mindscape, where many things have been on her mind.

Here, it feels just as real as it does in her own perceived reality. Even if her footfalls are a little more muted, and her jacket sways softly in a not-there wind behind her.

Her mindscape is just as she left it, however. Her and Blaire’s previous chess game remains frozen in time, the board sideways, the chess pieces all floating away from their designated places. It was interrupted by Fiddleford banging on the door for her attention, and it floats in its own little orbit just a few meters above Freya’s head.

Everything is soft and blue and purple here, with a dazzling night sky Freya hasn’t quite gotten a concrete answer for. She’s not sure whether it’s the endless vastness of her own mind shown as a night sky, or if that’s the “out-of-bounds”, so to speak. Her mind being connected to a sort of multiverse. Impossible to traverse, but beautiful.

Blaire hasn’t quite answered the question, though Freya intends on finding out one day. Through trial and error or thoughtless needling.

Speaking of the Muse, she doesn’t seem to be anywhere nearby today. Freya glances around, looking in different directions as she abruptly realizes there’s been no blaring volume in her ears, or a little yellow presence popping in to meet her immediately.

Blaire’s lack of presence isn’t exactly the odd part, but it’s certainly out of the ordinary. If she’s not immediately in front of Freya, there’s usually some reason why. Some sort of clue from her surroundings that may help her deduce where her Muse could be. A note, a distant voice, a vision. Something.

Today it seems like Blaire just isn’t here.

“Blaire?” Freya calls as loud as she dares into the endlessness of her own mindscape. Her own voice echoes back at her.

She begins moving after the echoes die, walking along the membrane that is the floor of her mindscape. Underneath her footsteps, little ripples flow outwards, like she’s stepping on solid water. Her own reflection distorts within the ripples, though her gaze remains raised as she walks along at a leisurely pace, calling for Blaire.

Blaire is here, she knows that. Somewhere.

Her mindscape won’t manifest in this way unless Blaire’s connection is there to hold it steady, so she knows her Muse is nearby. It’s just a matter of finding her or catching her attention.

Freya, having taken to counting her steps, makes it to a staggering 253 before anything new happens. Walking and calling is her only choice, as the mere idea of sitting around leaves her antsy.

A voice rings out amidst her silent footsteps, blaring and echoing like its user is trapped in a cave system, “don’t you know walking isn’t gonna get you ANYWHERE, wise gal?”

Freya twists on her feet, though she sees nothing no matter which way she looks. She opens her mouth, brows furrowing, to ask if her Muse is there with her, when there’s a new noise. It sounds like a lock unlatching, the low metal groan of something protesting being opened. She stops walking, looking up, and finds, flat against the night sky, something opening.

It’s square in shape, and the night sky doesn’t disappear on its surface as it properly detaches from the smooth seam of what must be other panels. It opens little by little, putting up a proper fight as it’s shoved open, and appears to be a rather large width.

It bursts outwards with one last push, swinging on a hinge and slamming into whatever surface it’s attached to. Within that square opening is darkness, and the familiar glow of a Muse.

“It goes forever in all directions. You’d be walking around a tiny planet,” she points out, hanging out the opening, her first eyelid closing, then followed by the squish of her nictitating membrane. She climbs out of this opening, dropping to float in the air as the panel swings closed with a rather aggressive slam, blending in seamlessly with the night sky once more.

“Blaire!” Freya chirps at the god, hands fidgeting with one another as energy makes her jittery. The god is rather high up at the moment, and she doesn’t seem inclined on lowering herself down to allow them to talk face to face. The result is Freya’s neck craning, head tilting backwards as though needing to look up at the sun.

Blaire glows much more brilliantly, however, leaving Freya squinting slightly at the unusual amount of shine coming from the being.

“Yes, of course. I just thought moving was better than standing in one place and calling for you,” she replies, unable to help her smile. It feels more genuine than anything she’s really uttered tonight, though she hopes it’s not too manic this time. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

“It’s been 24 hours,” Blaire says bluntly, sitting on nothing and swinging her high-heeled feet back and forth. The sharp ends come up higher than is necessary to point the points at Freya’s face. “What, you can’t handle being alone for that long?”

The tone that’s being used catches Freya entirely off-guard. Usually, Blaire is quite peppy when Freya arrives, just as pleased to see her as her acolyte is. This time, Blaire entertains nothing. Her black, reptilian pupil is thin and dangerous, and her tone is bleak. Doused with the slightest hint of hostility that has Freya’s hair standing on end.

It’s an alarming change, and it makes Freya’s chest ache in a way she can’t quite figure out the reason for. Her smile wobbles.

“I assure you I can handle being apart from you,” Freya assures, not entirely liking how it sounds like she has separation anxiety from her work partner. “I– I just enjoy seeing you and our working together. I can- I can handle a day apart, of course, I just prefer working as a team.” Her voice is shaking a little too much, nervous, but willing to admit whatever she has to to make her devotion known. “You surely know that.”

Blaire stares her down for a moment too long, black eyebrow arching sharply.

“Do I?” She says, to Freya’s alarm. “You’re late because of that HILLBILLY GOAT FONDLER and that CANDLE. Which you used to summon me. Do you even KNOW how many RULES that breaks? Using the WRONG CANDLE from an entirely unreputable SOURCE? You’re lucky the connection is still holding!”

Freya’s hand immediately shoots to her coat pocket, where the candle seems to have followed her into the mindscape, or simply appeared because of her anxiety. She swallows nervously, wishing she had held onto that intuitive gut feeling of wrongness regarding using the candle. Of course Blaire wouldn’t want a different candle in the room, an entirely different colour from an entirely different source.

What was she thinking?

Blaire even told her that the candles had to match, had to be made of a specific wax (beeswax had been the one Blaire told her to use) and had to come from a trusted source. Freya had been managing to harvest the honeycomb herself, and making it from scratch through various means, and that seemed good enough for Blaire.

The proper amount of devotion required.

Freya knew all this and she still used Fiddleford’s pink candle. The guilt is harrowing, leaving her clutching the candle in her coat pocket tightly.

“I can wake myself up and get rid of the candle for you,” Freya offers with a jittery nervousness that makes her voice tremble. She’s already working hard on trying to wake herself up, something she has not yet perfected on her own, but is something she wants to achieve.

“No, no, you stay right there,” Blaire snaps, waving off her stuttered offering and ruining her focus.

Freya blinks back up at the god, at the way Blaire stares at her with what must be nothing short of contempt. It makes her feel small. Smaller than she should despite logically being far taller than the triangular being, but Blaire certainly doesn’t make it seem hard to make Freya feel tiny.

“I’m more upset about you being LATE! Sure, the candle is a TOTAL EYESORE and we’re going to get rid of it immediately, but you were LATE, Freya. I didn’t choose you for your awful time management. What happened?”

Freya is getting the distinct feeling that Blaire doesn’t actually care about what happened, but, not knowing what she wants to hear, she answers the question anyway.

“You— we were just talking, Blaire. I assure you, I tried to get here as fast as I could but Fiddleford was rather insistent today,” Freya rushes to explain, one hand curling into a tight fist as the other drags out the offending candle.

“My time is money, and that money is important,” Blaire minds her. “Do you even know what this colour MEANS?”

Freya blinks, looking from Blaire and then to the candle with its pretty little rose pink colour, shining slightly underneath brilliant stars. She purses her lips, feeling shame take her over as she slowly looks back up, shaking her head.

She feels like she should know, but she only focused on the purple colour for Blaire’s own candles, which various sources said would focus on power, ambition and spiritual enlightenment. She didn’t even look at the other colour meanings once she found what she needed.

This actually seems to calm the god, the deep crease in her brow lessening slightly. Still, her tone is unfriendly as she mutters, “Of course you don’t.”

Ford opens her mouth to apologize, maybe ask a few questions, try and salvage something good from this interaction, when Blaire takes control of it once again.

“THIS,” she hisses, arm stretching and bending and popping all sorts of ways to tap a manicured claw against the side of the candle, “represents FRIENDSHIP, AFFECTION—” Blaire says, another finger shooting down to stab a long nail into the candle, “And TENDER LOVE.” A third nail carves into the wax, though all three are ripped out quite roughly as Blaire snarls a smile.

“W- what?” Ford gasps, blinking down at the candle with widened eyes, to the deep gouges and the shoddy craftsmanship. “But— but Fiddleford has a wife.”

“What, like that’s gonna stop her?” Blaire scoffs as her arm slithers back to her side, acting like martial ties are nothing but limitations. “And it’s NOT! She LIKES YOU, brainiac. Really, my only consolation is the fact you didn’t even KNOW! Honestly, if I had a physical form I’d…”

Freya fades out at this point, honestly quite shell-shocked by this information. She stares hard at the candle in her grasp, at the pinkness, thinking back on Fiddleford’s odd behaviour as of late. The soft looks in warm light, the coffees made when Ford never had to ask, the gifts, the lingering touches, the fact Fiddleford came to work with her despite having a spouse, for god's sake.

“I thought… I thought she was just being nice,” Freya admits softly, even as she realizes Fiddleford likes her. And Freya? Freya isn’t sure she likes her back.

“You don’t get flirted with often, do you, kid?” Blaire sighs, momentarily looking more tired than Freya thinks she’s ever seen. If she’s not mistaken, there are even slight stress lines around the soft flesh of her eyelids. “The hand-kissing didn’t tip you off, huh?”

Oh the hand-kissing. That’s true.

Fiddleford has taken up a new hobby as of late, which consists of taking Freya’s hand, bowing, and kissing the soft tendons and knuckles of her digits. Freya really did think she was being friendly. She realizes now how stupid that was of her.

“Oh, dear,” Freya mutters, mortified.

“OH DEAR,” Blaire cries back, scowling once more, “you have an ADMIRER. Should probably just QUIT while we’re ahead, huh?” She turns away slightly, taking the brilliant shine of her front-facing bricks away as her voice shrinks.

She’s about to go on another tangent, Freya can tell, and obviously something must be done to convince the being that she is important. It’s not that out of the ordinary for a god to need to feel important, she’s found and heard. Devotion is that care in gifts and words, both of which Freya isn’t sure she’s been doing much of.

She’s made offerings, sure, put time and effort and, above all else, love into doing what the god wants, but it seems like she’s missed something.

Her brain runs wild with the panicked thought of Blaire leaving her over something like this. Over the silliest mistake she’s ever made, at that. Over Freya misunderstanding Fiddleford’s intentions and sending the wrong message to both of her partners.

Something must be done. Her devotion must be made known to the entity before her.

As Blaire rants onwards — something about child labour and Fiddleford — Freya stuffs her fingers inside her jacket pocket, brushing against the waxy, crudely made material of a lovingly made candle.

What if she…?

As soon as the idea comes to her, there’s no hesitation. No thought to Fiddleford or her own feelings. She’s focused on righting her wrongs.

She grips the candle in a tight hand and whips it out, holding it in a tight, outstretched fist. The jerking movement gathers Blaire’s divided attention, slit pupil sliding to the corner of her eye to peer at Freya’s hand and the offending item, falling deafeningly silent.

“Burn it,” Freya says determinedly, worried the slight shake in her voice would be mistaken for hesitation.

Blaire turns fully towards her at that, brow raising and eyelid lowering infinitesimally. It’s like she’s looking down her nose at Freya, but she refuses to allow that observation to make her falter. Blaire is listening — now is her chance.

“It— it’s nothing compared to your presence, Blaire,” Freya continues, swallowing audibly as she’s silently prompted to continue talking. “I’m sorry for accepting the gift. You may do as you wish with it.”

It takes a second, but Blaire begins lowering down. Down, down, down, until she’s floating around Freya’s head-height. Her hand is warm as it reaches out and slips across Freya’s hand, a terribly intimate gesture, to grab the candle without the use of her magic. Freya’s cheeks burn despite herself.

“‘As I wish’,” Blaire parrots slowly, savouring the taste of the words coiling around her tongue, hand retreating with the candle in tight grip. She’s staring down at the candle, resting innocently in her black palm, pink and waxy and unfavourable. “You don’t wanna keep it?”

Freya starts shaking her head even before the question is fully finished, standing up straight and confident. “No. I want you to know how much you mean to me, and if destroying this candle is the way to go, then I want it to happen.”

“Huh,” Blaire says, light and almost impressed. “Alright, you do it then.”

Her hand reaches back out, dropping the candle unceremoniously in Freya’s hands that flap and struggle to catch it on time. She looks down at the pink tube, then back up, lost. “How—”

“Focus,” Blaire says intently, watching Freya handle the oddly shaped candle with two hands, nervously holding its weight. “Burn it, Freya. Show me you mean what you said.”

Freya’s nerves come from her insecurity of not knowing if she can set fire to anything. She’s certainly tried before, god, of course she did when she first got to see Blaire’s powers, but to no avail. But the way Blaire is staring at her makes it obvious there’s only one option.

And that’s to try.

She grits her teeth, staring down at this offending item in her palms, having almost ruined her and Blaire’s relationship. She stokes the angry flames the thought gives her, feeling them lick at her ribcage, at her chest and heart and up and into her throat. Her focus remains on the candle, grip tightening slowly as heat seems to swell in her fingertips, in her palm lines and the webbing between her twelve digits.

It grows and grows and Freya fights tooth and nail to keep her focus, imagining the candle bursting into flames, melting into a warm, scalding goo. Ruined by its own purpose.

And, miraculously, that’s exactly what happens.

A blue flame, similar to the one that makes up Blaire’s powers, lights the wick at the top of the candle. Before Freya has time to worry that she only managed to light the candle and not burn it, the flames begin crawling down the sides of the candle, engulfing the item until her hands are swallowed by the electrical blue flames as well.

It doesn’t hurt, but the candle immediately begins melting. Its hard surface gives way to softness, and Freya squeezes a little bit harder when she feels her fingertips sink into the pliable flesh. The flames grow larger, burn hotter, and the candle quickly shrinks, melting and dripping viscously onto Freya’s shoes, onto the membrane of the floor.

Within seconds, the candle is a wet, burning mess of candle wax, covering the floor and the toes of Freya’s shoes. The fire dies down, her hands parting from each other, covered in pink wax that looks almost bloody under the right gaze.

She looks back up, to Blaire, eyes unknowingly wide and searching for any sign that she did good.

Blaire’s eye gives nothing away. She’s still staring at the mess of cooling wax across the floor, already setting. Slowly, the stenopeic pupil slides up to Freya’s face, and her eye shows some emotion — scrunching. A smile.

Instead of any words, however, Blaire begins laughing. A tiny chuckle at first, slowly growing into raucous laughter that Freya feels inside her very bones. It’s a terrifying cackle that Blaire rises slowly upwards upon beginning to expel.

As the god laughs, Freya feels nothing. Maybe amusement, at the most. She’s busy thinking. Watching her Muse double over herself in hysterical, conniving, victorious laughter. She even opens a second mouth out of her brickwork to more proudly bellow.

It’s not the disgusting display the god must think it is, something she seems to do quite often when hoping for some kind of “negative” reaction from Freya. As a matter of fact, the uproarious laughter is rather telling.

It hadn’t occurred to her before, but with the fading blood in her cheeks and Blaire’s attention no longer solely painted upon her, her thoughts come through clearer. The blank look, the initial anger towards Fiddleford and the gifted candle, the possessive way Blaire had her eye planted upon Freya. It all points to—

“Blaire,” Freya starts, her voice terribly quiet compared to the cackling Blaire still has yet to stop. The god makes no inclination of having heard her, but Freya continues anyway. “Were you jealous?”

Her voice comes out far more entertained than it should, buzzed and excited that her god is getting possessive. It’s not exactly a surprise, though it’s the first time Freya has given the odd behaviour a proper, and obvious, name.

Her suspicions are only confirmed when Blaire abruptly stops laughing. Her second mouth closes with a snap and she straightens up, her beady eye appearing a little wider than it usually does, staring down at Freya with an expression close to aghast.

Freya’s not sure why she figures that since, to the naked eye and the uneducated, Blaire looks the same as she always does. A wide-eyed predator watching prey with an intensity that burns.

“Jealous?” Blaire scoffs, like such an emotion is above her. Like things haven’t just clicked into place for Freya and even this reaction only furthers her belief. “No, Sixer, I was just THINKING AHEAD! That candle could’ve done some real damage to our mental connection, and I don’t feel like playing tag with that brain of yours, no matter how much I like it! You get me?”

Freya nods slowly, though the doubt must show on her face since Blaire continues talking. Ranting, almost. Nervous.

“You know me, my eye on the prize and all that jazz! I just can’t see whatever it is with you and Fiddlesticks ending very WELL. You have to understand, your best interest is my best interest too!”

Freya is barely listening. She’s practically floating, pleased as pink punch at her newest revelation, and at the oddly human way the entity is attempting to pass off her alleged jealousy.

The emotion is silly, she thinks. Blaire has absolutely nothing to be jealous or worried over.

Not Fiddleford, not the candles, or whatever else her Muse’s intricate brain is worrying over. However, most worryingly, the fact her god is even capable of this worry means that Freya still has not made her devotion known well enough.

Perhaps she needs to step up her game.

She steps carefully closer, to where Blaire is still rambling, talking about something completely inane and likely incomprehensible. Freya hops up a little on her boots in order to have Blaire within arms reach, grateful the god had lowered herself back down once more.

Biting at her lip, she swings out her and— gotcha.

Blaire’s warm, gloved palm is small in her two hands, but her claw-like nails certainly make up for the short digits, pressing a little painfully into Freya’s palm skin. The god stops talking immediately upon being touched, looking like she’s going to rip her hand away, so Freya does what she can.

“You are extremely important to me, Blaire. I look forward to our meetings, and our talks, more than I’ve ever looked forward to anything. You have trapped me quite considerably in your orbit,” Freya says as earnestly, as genuinely, as she can. Which isn’t hard, considering she believes what she’s saying.

She hesitates a little on the next part, though Blaire is staring at her expectantly, able to tell that isn’t the end, and she knows she can’t back out. The nickname, sitting pretty on the back of her tongue, prepared to be fired like a bullet. She’s been chewing on it for weeks now. A few weeks full of constant thoughts, of being able to give this god a nickname, to compliment the many that Blaire has given her. Hopefully this will stamp down that throb of a possessive animal in her chest.

Maybe it will even aid Blaire.

“You… you’re the only one I need, my- my Muse.”

It comes out stilted and embarrassed, a little too quiet but she knows the god has certainly heard her with her hearing abilities. It feels like prying rocks from between her teeth, and she’s immediately doused with terribly cold shame, but she did it. She got it out there, in the open.

She watches Blaire’s expression raptly, unblinking, sure she looks disconcerting with the intensity in her eyes.

The god looks shocked, which is impressive considering her eyebrow and eyelids haven’t moved one bit. She’s just staring at Freya. Silent and still, her hand not even twitching with the desire to escape Freya’s hands that it just had.

The uninterrupted eye contact and lack of immediate reaction has Freya immediately wishing she could sink into the floor. She tries not to let her nervousness take her over, tries not to worry that maybe she had taken this step a little too far a little too quickly, though this is impossible.

Perhaps proclaiming her affection in such a brazen way isn’t the way she should have taken this. Perhaps this was a mistake.

Around her, without her realizing, her mindscape begins to crumble slightly. A thunderstorm coalescing on the horizon, the floor crumbling. She hunches her shoulders under Blaire’s piercing, unreadable gaze, beginning to loosen her grip.

“I… my apologies,” she says quietly, beginning to let go of her Mu- of Blaire. Of Blare. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. Please forgive me for my transgress-”

Blaire strikes.

Fast like a cat’s reaction time, Blaire’s hand twists around and grabs onto Freya’s instead, sharp nails digging into her flesh, small digits with a surprising amount of strength holding her steady. A gasp rips from her chest, glancing at her held wrist, and then back up to Blaire, who is now in her personal space.

Freya leans back a little in response, but she’s kept still as Blaire simply enlarges and elongates over her like some kind of brutalist building, spearing the sky. Her pupil is so thin and close Freya cannot focus on it, left staring into endless sclera.

“Hold your horses, pal,” Blaire says, finally, her voice a low simmer that rests heavy in Freya’s hollow chest. “I’m your Muse, you said?”

Freya takes the question as a bad thing, and how could she not? Blaire sounds downright dangerous, and it feels even worse to be trapped under that probing eye. She tries to glance away, to anywhere else, but Blaire just seems to stretch into her field of vision, only returning to her original shape when Freya looks back over, trembling.

“I- that was wrong of me to say–”

“Say it again,” Blaire urges, something manic in her gaze that Freya feels flayed and pinned underneath. It’s a demand, and one she can’t just ignore.

With a trembling, soft voice, Freya utters, “you’re my Muse.”

It feels good in her mouth despite the circumstances, and feels even better when Blaire makes a low humming sound as though pleased. Her eyelid lowers slightly, pupil fizzling and sparking like distant fireworks splattered against a dark backdrop.

“You don’t even know what you just got yourself into,” Blaire huffs a laugh, her voice more animal than Muse.

Focused on Blaire as she is, Freya doesn’t notice the appearance of a couch behind her, nor does she notice as her mindscape slowly begins to shift and morph around her. What was once a blue and purple swirling universe is now a cozy, comforting room.

Blaire’s hand around Freya’s wrist jerks up, slamming into Freya’s sternum with a little too much power. It doesn’t quite wind her, but it does knock her quite effectively off of her feet. She stumbles backwards, arms pin-wheeling and mouth opening with widened shock, watching Blaire watch her stumble, then tilt backwards.

Only, she doesn’t hit the ground.

The backs of her knees hit something instead, and that fully topples her off balance, sent careening into something soft and bouncy. Her curls bounce along with her, sighing in light relief that she hadn’t met her fate on the cold, hard ground. She looks up, glasses askew on her face that she quickly sets to fix.

As soon as her vision is clear, she takes notice of the room she’s in, the changes that took place. The cluttered walls with books galore and a warm, dancing flame within a fireplace. A record player set in the middle of the room plays a crooning, jazzy melody, creating a rather suave ambiance that makes Freya feel out of her depth. There’s a painting just above said fireplace, though the image has her double-taking.

It’s Bill there, looking proud of herself. Standing, for once, with a hand on her hip and another on a scepter. In place of her usual tophat is a dazzling gold crown, and she’s looking directly at Ford through the painting. One of her feet is on top of what looks like a stool except… Freya looks a little closer and realizes that’s her. On her hands and knees, acting as a footstool for the powerful image that makes up her Muse.

She’s not quite sure how to feel about that, and jerks her head back into Blaire’s direction, only to fall silent as she realizes the Muse is approaching her. Slowly, like a predator, though Freya can go nowhere. She adjusts herself a little on the couch, trying to act like the flush rising steadily upon her cheeks is from the warmth of the room and not Blaire’s attention residing upon her.

“Uh, Blaire? Where are—” She tries to ask, wondering where the hell they had both ended up. This certainly doesn’t look like the mindscape she’d gotten used to.

Blaire’s hand flicks, her curved black cane materializing out of thin air. She swirls it up and around her finger, the end of the cane nudging under Freya’s chin, tilting her head up slightly. It presses a little too hard into her throat, though just enough to be uncomfortable.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Blaire tuts, arm slowly shortening as she nears, the oddly predatory gleam in her eye making Freya feel trace amounts of heat whirling throughout her body. It threatens to completely drown out the previous shame.

To be fair, she’s still not exactly 100% positive she’s not in trouble.

“What just happened to that cute little name you came up with?” Blaire asks, entire body tilting slightly to give the impression of a dog-cocked head. “Surely you didn’t just forget it. Where’s my big-brained beauty? I thought THINKING was your strong suit!”

“Uh… Muse?” Freya says quietly, curiously, and then flushes a poignant red at Blaire’s pleased little hum. Deep and throbbing, rumbling right through the cane and into Freya’s throat. A noise she has to actively fight against her brain from sexualising in some awful way. “Where did my mindscape go?”

“We’re still there, brainiac,” Blaire hums, cane falling away, to Freya’s internal dismay, to allow her to sit a little more comfortably. “I have control over it too, remember? I just gave us a nicer setting to talk in!”

“Oh, alright,” Freya whispers, supposing she understands that. She decides not to ask about the curious painting hung on the dark brick wall. She blinks, a little uncomfortable, and tries to use her arms to prop herself up a little. It’s an attempt to not still look like she had just fallen haphazardly, but Blaire seems to have qualms with this.

Her cane is back in an instant, on Freya’s abdomen this time, pressing the rounded edge into her gut. It presses down with a slight warning pressure, and a little bout of nausea follows at the feeling.

“Down, girl,” Blaire hums blithely, the words so reminiscent of a stern command directed towards a dog. Without thought, Freya listens. Not because she is a dog, obviously, but… but listening to Blaire and receiving that mild hum of satisfaction is better than any drug she could ever do. She goes limp into the couch, her swallow obvious against her throat, and Blaire nods a little.

“See, I was intending on punishing you today,” Blaire says casually once she’s sure Freya will stay in place. Her cane disappears in a final poof, and she retreats to leisurely floating back and forth in front of Freya, as though pacing. “For the candle, RIGHT? Just a teensy little punishment! Something something you’d be on your own for a bit, whatever. It was more about your being late, of course. I can’t just let TARDINESS go unpunished, y’know?”

The words have Freya tensing slightly with her worry. Her mouth opens to defend herself, but a single look from Blaire has her snapping her jaw shut with a click. Blaire returns to her slow pacing.

“But you’re just so darn CUTE and you know just what to say that I don’t think I can! So here’s the deal.”

Hands.

Hands rising out of the couch, out of the floor, not yet touching Freya but all rising out of the ground and curving through each other like fast-growing tree roots. Thin like Blaire’s actual arms, but unnervingly strong and long. They all sprout up and curve around Freya slightly like the metal bars that make up bird cage, and then they stop. Positioned all around her, the hands pointing towards her, fingers on the hands twitching and wriggling from time to time on each one.

“You just make sure to squeak out that little name from time to time…” Blaire drawls, voice lowering from a nasally pitch to a low timbre, which is still slightly nasally. But in the way that has Freya’s body reacting, and quickly trying to stamp down. As if to ensure that her words cannot be taken in any other direction, the cane is back, plopping down and sliding seamlessly between two tightly pressed thighs, slotting its way right up against her core. Her thighs clench tightly together in response. “And I’ll satisfy a certain special someone you’ve been neglecting! Deal of a lifetime, amiright?”

Freya has to put extra effort into keeping her mouth from dropping open, still staring down at the cane between her legs, hard and smooth and tantalizingly close to where she really wants it. Even this slight touch has her head spinning, fingers taking nervous hold of the couch upholstery.

The way Blaire is peering at her has her hot under the collar, trying to decide between meeting that single, bulging eye or looking away, where her pupils are eventually drawn to the cane between her pressed thighs. It’s impossible to look away.

“Wha- I, uh-” Freya flusters madly, feeling her cheeks succumbing to fever-heat, knowing they’re only growing darker. She doesn’t quite know what to say. Her tongue feels as though it’s been replaced with cotton, though when she rubs it around and over her teeth, it only feels like warm flesh. Still, words are hard to put together, and even worse under Blaire’s half-lidded gaze.

Her Muse’s warm presence allows heat to seep into Freya’s body. Her chest, her lower-half. It burns in the way a sun-warmed rock would, having spent upwards of an entire day being baked and then touched by an innocent human hand.

Coals in her belly, butterflies in her head.

“C’maaahn,” Blaire cajoles when Freya just dedicates herself to staying silent, her cane wriggling slightly. Just enough to have Freya pitching forward in a knee-jerk response to the not-quite pleasurable but blatant touch to her most private of areas. “I didn’t think you’d hesitate so much! What happened to that bright eyed pupil who’d do ANYTHING for her endlessly grateful mentor?”

Freya feels her brain rapidly derailing. She just thought she had completely ruined her and her Muse’s partnership, and now Blaire is propositioning her? What in the world is going on?

And why does she feel like she’s about to accept?

“Ooor,” Blaire says slowly, tapping her bricks with her hand right where her temple would be, little ting, ting, ting, noises ringing out from her claws, “was that her Muse she was talking to?”

It’s honestly a surprise how much the god likes that nickname. To an interesting degree, too. Freya doesn’t think she’s ever seen her Muse take to something so fast, though maybe there’s an extra degree of love there because it’s the first and only nickname Freya has reciprocated in giving to the being.

It would be an honour to be touched by her Muse in such a way.

Blaire’s right. She’d be stupid to pass this up. Not that she was ever going to. It’s just taken her a moment to gain back her sensibilities. She’s got them now, she thinks, and she starts nodding before she’s even aware she’s ready.

“Of course I want to!” Freya rushes to explain, stamping down the previous embarrassment in order to try and convince Blaire she does want this. And she does. She does. “I just- I didn’t think you’d want… you know.”

“Well, lemme set the record straight, then!” Blaire chirrups, and the record player, that had been playing some sort of rather jazzy tune, stops with a scratch. Her cane is ripped out from between Freya’s thighs and the curved part is hooked around Freya’s neck, enlarging appropriately to fit around her throat. Then it tugs her upright and right into Blaire’s personal space.

Freya attempts to lean back, but she can’t with the cane around her neck, holding her still as Blaire swoops down to press them face to face. One eye challenging two. Blaire’s other hand reaches up when she tries to arch her head, tangling within soft curls and gripping, guiding her head forward with a hiss of pain.

“Whatever this gross bundle of flesh and meat has going on, I want in on,” Blaire purrs lowly, eye glowing brightly with her intensity and casting vibrant shadows and colours over Freya’s body. “Every single clap of your vocal chords, every dilated capillary, even the circulation of your blood in your overworked heart that may or may not lead to an early cardiac arrest! And you wanna know why I want in?”

Freya swallows violently, shaking her head lightly when Blaire eyes her.

The Muse presses ever closer, close enough Freya’s fast, warm breath is causing steam to rise upon the glossy bricks in front of her. Blaire’s other hand in her hair tightens a little as she hisses, “Because. You’re. Mine.”

This isn’t Blaire saying thanks for a nickname, Freya slowly realizes. This is Blaire showing ownership over her. The jealousy and possessive behaviour from earlier had not disappeared, it was merely lying in wait, and quite obviously, too. Freya had just been too blindsided by being propositioned that she hadn’t even noticed.

Oddly, the idea of being seen as property does not scare her away like it should. Maybe it’s the close proximity, or the hands around her, or the mere fact a god is practically proclaiming affection for her, but it only stokes the simmering heat within her gut.

She’s not even sure what she should say. She doesn’t get a chance to figure it out, though.

“Well, that and I get really bad FOMO but, I mean, who’s asking?” Blaire adds on with a light shrug, tilting slightly to further envelop Freya with a gold shine. Her retinas ache with the forceful brightness, but Freya blinks through it, refusing to look away for a second. “ANYWAY, I will crawl inside of your body one of these days and fuse with your immune system but RIGHT NOW I kinda just wanna give you the ol’ fondle!”

“H- huh?” Freya squeaks, wanting to ask what that first bit was about, though Blaire seems to be done talking.

The hands surrounding her practically attack her, acting like a bunch of poised snakes as a few arms wrap around Freya’s torso, continuously moving despite her reactionary flinching. Blaire lets her go when she starts flailing, leaving her alone on the couch as her torso is seized by squirming appendages. Her wrists are caught when she tries to grab for one, wrenched painfully behind her and pressed to her back at an angle that requires her to sit up straight to try and relieve the painful pressure. It barely helps, but moving further is out of the question.

“Trust me,” Blaire tells her, almost purring, as the hand around Freya’s wrists flexes in thought. “You don’t need your hands for this one, sweetheart. I DO, though! No bondage for THIS gal!”

The arms around Freya’s torso continue slither and squeeze, adding her arms to mix as they writhe under her breasts. The position causes them to jut out far more than she’s comfortable with, though she can do nothing about it. The arms continue over her belly, and even cross over each other to more firmly warp around Freya’s abdomen.

Another arm takes its time to wrap above her breasts as well, framing them with two black arms against a blue shirt, drawing attention to the mounds.

She gasps a little at the sensation, feels her ribs creak slightly and then relax under the pressing weight of numerous arms. They loosen slightly to more of a firm cradle, though her skin presses through the various openings of the arms, in a way that has her worrying her lips in discomfort.

Her legs are left well-enough alone, leaving her free to shift her feet along the ground as much as she likes, but her upper half is rather firmly tied up. She struggles a little, just to test the give, pressing her arms outwards and bending at the hip and trying to break free, but the arms, alive, just adjust and tighten when she tries various tactics. She only stops because they tighten to the point she can barely breathe.

As she pants for breath, Blaire claps her hands with childlike glee above her, regarding her with a blatantly happy smile.

“Tied up like a pretty little present just for lil ol’ me to unwrap! I’m not the most patient gal, though, and I don’t wanna wait till gift season, so I think I’ll unwrap you now,” Blaire exclaims, visibly pleased with Freya’s bound state, watching her tuck her chin to chest in order to peer down her torso. “Hm hm hm, you’d look great bound like this NUDE, dontcha think? Black against pink, maybe I’ll even take a picture! CLICK!”

Freya glances up just in time to see Blaire’s hands forming into a box shape, a finger curved above acting as the viewfinder for her to peer through. To Freya’s horror, it actually clicks, aided with a bright flash that momentarily blinds her.

“OoOooo, very photogenic, Freya! Maybe arch your back a little more next time, I want to see MORE focus on those milkers of yours,” Blaire’s voice rings out, humming over an apparent picture. Freya blinks her eyes open, heedless of the spots in her vision, and finds Blaire with a little white polaroid picture waving around between her fingers. From what Freya can tell, her bound body is in the photo. “Don’t you worry,” the Muse says when she catches Freya’s eyes, “I’ll be sure to frame it!”

The photo is whisked away within a plume of blue fire, thankfully before Freya can get a good look at it, though her terror stays.

“You— I’m not… not going to see it when I wake up, will I?” Freya asks quietly, worriedly, forgetting about the arms binding her for the time being.

“What, so you can have a room dedicated entirely to my likeness, but one photo of you for ME, and EVERYBODY goes wild, huh?” Blaire asks, visibly amused, though her tone still spells danger. She doesn’t like being questioned, but Freya just can’t let such a thing happen without at least one question.

“There’s a purpose for the worship room,” Freya protests, then gasps quietly when the arms around her body tighten slightly in warning. She shrinks in on herself, cowed. “My apologies for the questions.”

“Forgiven!” Blaire chirps, the arms very slightly loosening, though not by much.

Breathing is a little harder, but not impossible. Though, really, she’s pretty sure she doesn’t have to breathe at all in her mindscape. It’s all in her head. As long as her sleeping body continues to breathe, she should be fine.

It’s oddly surreal to see her own body squirming below her, wrapped up in arms and hands. She can see her own muscles moving, but genuine movement is not allowed. Blaire is right, she does look like a wrapped up present. All she’d need is a bow.

She looks back up, frizzy hair flouncing as her head pops back up. She blinks through the headrush the fast movement gives her.

“What, are you worried I’ll go somewhere?” Freya asks with the slightest hint of breathlessness to her voice, feeling stuck and objectified with these numerous arms coiled around her. The snark is for show, though, and the pleased squinting of Blaire’s eye shows she knows.

“No,” Blaire says with a smarmy little grin. “But now you can’t stop me from doing WHATEVER I want with you! Sometimes I like my prey a little stuck.”

That makes Freya’s body burn hotter than it should.

“BUT,” Blaire continues with a booming inflection, “I’m still pretty hurt about what happened with good old Fiddlesticks over there. I need some payment upfront before I invest, y’know? Can’t trust you people these days!”

Without Freya’s input, her brain flashes with so many lewd images at Blaire’s words she gets dizzy and then feels immediately ashamed.

“How would— how would you like me to—” she attempts with a dry, anxious, wanting mouth. Her tongue works around behind her teeth, semi-attempting to find anything lodged between her molars, and also trying to work out the new burning in her tongue from want.

Her hands are bound, but she has her mouth and she has her feet. She’s never done anything with another person before, let alone a divine being, so she hopes Blaire is alright with a little inexperience. Hopefully her enthusiasm will make up for any—

“Oh, easy tiger, don’t get yourself so worked up over nothing,” Blaire says gleefully, clasping her hands together like the mess within Freya’s head is particularly entertaining. “I was thinking more in the words category.”

Freya blinks wide, dark eyes at Blaire, trying to calm herself, though the rising desperation within her body is impossible to completely squander.

“I’m sure you know just what I want to hear, right?” Blaire coaxes, eyebrow raising at Freya as though she wouldn’t know.

Her mouth starts working before her mind does, immediately attempting to do her best. To say what her Muse wants to hear.

“You- you’ve given my life meaning,” Freya gasps out, Blaire’s lowering eyelid and slow drifting closer feeling like a reward.

“Keep going!” Blaire says, booping Freya’s nose with a detached hand around her torso. She stays where she stops, which is rather far away, and Freya sets to immediately rectify this.

“I’m so blessed to have met you, to be graced with your presence and your intellect,” Freya continues, words gaining a tremble the closer Blaire drifts, humming along to Freya’s words like she already knows all these things, she just wants to hear them out loud. “You’re beautiful,” Freya breathes, because it’s true.

This particular compliment has Blaire’s eyelids morphing into a pair of sweet shiny lips, drifting ever close. With the tantalizing promise in mind, Freya quickly manages, “Unfit for my mortal eyes. I- I am so lucky to have someone such as you guiding— no, inspiring me. I could not have done half the things I’ve achieved without you.”

“Wonderful, Freya,” Blaire hums, her body beginning to shadow Freya’s, blocking out the light from the fireplace. Just a little bit closer and she’ll be infiltrating Freya’s personal space.

“I would be content to stay here and worship you for the rest of my meagre lifespan if you’d allow me to,” Freya whispers, voice lowering as Blaire’s lips are right there. She leans in with the last whispered word, though she can’t quite meet Blaire’s mouth.

It’s up to the god.

Freya waits as patiently as she can manage, eyelids heavy and blurred, waiting for Blaire to lean that little bit closer, to finally give Freya what she’s salivating for. She swallows spit, lips already tingling at the mere thought of Blaire’s own pressed against hers.

And then—

“Hm,” Blaire hums, and then her eye is back, rolling its way into its socket, lips disappearing back into blank eyelids. She looks disappointed. “Not the ending I wanted, honestly! You must not REALLY want this, huh? That’s a shame, I really wanted to see what the inside of your mouth tasted like.”

She leans farther away and Freya’s eyes blow wide with panic that only grows as the arms begin to loosen. She wracks her brain for what possibly Blaire wants to hear, for once hating the sensation of being able to breathe properly again.

Through the fast storm of thoughts in her mind, there, like a beacon of hope, is her answer.

“My Muse!” She spits out as soon as she registers what Blaire wants.The name is clumsy as it comes out, her tongue having tripped over itself in its haste to give her Muse what she so desires. Blaire pauses, eyeing her, and Freya manages, “forgive me, my Muse. Please don’t go.”

Blaire’s eyelids curve again; smiling. Pleased.

“Good girl,” she says with a satisfied rumble, firing up Freya’s nerves like never before like a rusty engine. Blaire leans in once more, lips transforming again, and Freya sighs with relief as that distance between them is met.

And then they’re kissing.

The arms around her tighten as Blaire presses her lips firmly against Freya’s, the possessive nature causing the claws of the hands to dig into supple flesh. The slight squeeze already has her swallowing down a noise.

Blaire is almost kind with how she kisses Freya. She can likely feel the near-violent tremble of her bottom lip, trying to stay pursed. She’s had no previous experience with this, and she’s sure it’s painfully obvious by how she’s moving her lips against Blaire’s, but her Muse doesn’t seem to particularly mind.

Whatever eyelashes had been proudly displayed on the eyelids seem to have disappeared, thankfully, leaving the skin oddly soft and malleable, though steady and sure. They waste no time in moving luxuriously against Freya’s own, easily taking charge of the kiss and letting Freya toddle after her.

Squeezing her own eyes shut so tightly it almost hurts, Freya attempts to mouth back, hands clenching and unclenching behind her back. Eager to grab at Blaire’s angles, to try and press her closer despite already being lip-locked.

Her technique is clumsy, to say the least. She’s shaking and she’s half-drooling over Blaire’s lips, but the hand that had been on the back of her neck slides over to her cheek, joined by another, and those help guide her properly. There’s a rhythm to it, she finds, as she stops trying to be over-eager and tries to find the pattern in how Blaire’s lips move.

It’s easy to pick out once she focuses, and she puts all of her effort into trying to perfect this technique, copying Blaire exactly. And soon they’re kissing properly, velvety soft against chapped lips.

It feels good in the strangest way, warm and soft and almost pillowy. Giving way easily under the pressure of Freya’s own lips. She can’t tell if her first kiss, quickly snatched in her dorm room under the pretense of wanting to know what it was like, felt this good. They didn’t kiss for this long, or this smoothly. It likely helps that Blaire herself seems experienced, and it’s only Freya who’s fumbling her way through the unfamiliar motions.

No offense to Fiddleford, but their quickly taken, experimental and chaste peck never made her feel this warm. Like there’s lava in her veins, skin tingling and lips throbbing. She’s making these tiny, soft sounds into the kiss that she can’t quite help just because of how oddly good it feels.

With her thoughts comes a passing image of Fiddleford, smiling at the forefront of her prefrontal cortex. A mistake she immediately recognizes, and yet is not fast enough at pulling away from.

The kiss loses whatever sweet properties it had held at first, with Blaire gently introducing her into the world of kissing.

The hands on her cheeks that had been meant to guide grow larger, enveloping Freya’s red-hot cheeks easily in soft velvety palms. Claws threaten to prick her eyes, scraping up into her hairline and her ears, threatening to break skin if she so much as moves. The grip has her lungs burning, though not from lack of air.

She attempts to pull back when the kiss becomes quickly too much, just for a quick gasp of oxygen, but Blaire’s hands tighten, holding her in place by the skin of her cheeks, keeping them locked together. Freya is forced to puff out breath through her nose, little muffled noises escaping upon every exhale.

It’s a little difficult to keep up, especially with the distraction currently glued to her lips, but it’s her only option if she doesn’t want to pass out. Blaire doesn’t seem to have any need to breathe, and she doesn’t seem keen on allowing Freya to do so, either.

The pace is picking up, Blaire’s lips smooth and warm and hard to keep up with, and then even harder to focus on when they start pressing in. Hard enough to warrant Freya to lean back, which the arms around her allow her to do.

The pressure keeps coming, and Blaire keeps leaning in, pressing Freya back and back. It takes Freya’s slow, pleasure-drunk brain a moment to realize Blaire is purposefully applying weight to make her tilt. Her stomach muscles aren’t enough to keep her upright, and she can’t use her hands at all to try and hold herself up.

With a tiny noise of defeat, Freya slumps into the back of the couch without much dignity, eyes squeezing shut. She’s half-laying down with her neck at an odd angle, stuck where she lies. Blaire lowers herself down to kneel on Freya’s sternum and chest, long legs using Freya’s breasts as cushions to rest her shins upon.

She’s surprisingly heavy, and a little painful around the knee area, and the sensation of being pinned down and trapped is only further amplified.

In a smooth motion, Blaire introduces teeth to the mixture, forcing their way into the party. Freya feels a sharp edge drag lightly across her bottom lip, a teasing gesture, not used to break skin. But just as quickly as this softness is shown, Blaire uses two twin canines and sinks them deeply into her bottom lip.

The pain in contrast to the softer kissing has Freya gasping violently. Her mouth drops open without thought to try and gasp, eyes fluttering wide, and Blaire takes that opportunity to introduce her tongue.

The slate-blue muscle bunches on itself as it ensures it’s through Freya’s teeth before it doubles back on itself to rub into the deep gouges of Freya’s bottom lip. There’s the distinct taste of metal on Freya’s own tongue, thick and unpleasant, though the way Blaire rumbles into the kiss, prodding the forked tip of her tongue deeper into the lacerations, says that she’s enjoying the taste.

It stings a little, to have fresh wounds bothered and deepened in such a manner. The forked tip wriggles a little deeper into the cavernous wound, and Freya barely swallows a protesting whine, trying to handle the treatment with little to no reaction.

Viscous, thick saliva from Blaire’s tongue manages to drool its way into her open mouth as well, helping transfer the blood mixed into the spit. There’s so much of it congealed onto the muscle it’s almost concerning, thick like slime and infiltrating Freya’s mouth with no concern.

With the blood mostly depleted from the two puncture wounds, the forked tip finally retracts and smooths itself out. With Freya’s jaw kept open, it has no trouble flying, entirely unprompted, into her mouth.

With the unexpected touch of something slimy and not her own squirming past her teeth and brushing against her tongue, she tries to jerk back and away. The tongue just follows her, Blaire just follows her, pressing their lips harder together to allow the squirming, acrobatic muscle as much space as it wants.

Freya unintentionally tenses up at the sensation of a tongue squirming through her mouth. Her focus is going to mentally tracking the movements of the muscle, and she’s forgetting to respond properly to the impatient kissing of Blaire on her lips. Her Muse’s multitasking is impressive, able to both explore the inside of Freya’s mouth and kiss her into the couch.

Thankfully, and to Freya’s relief, the tongue does not gun for the back of her throat. It does, however, make itself entirely at home inside the wet cavern of her mouth.

With an air of exploration, the tongue laves over the flat, wriggling plain of her own short tongue, dipping into the deep, unfeeling fissures, and then even probing its way underneath, to prod curiously at her frenulum. Slowing down and pulling away, it then turns its attention to her teeth, going over each one with a care that not even a dentist would have.

Incisors, canines, premolars and molars. Back to front, front to back. It goes twice over the bottom and top set, wiggling into grooves and experimentally over the sharp tips. Tracing smooth enamel and tasting plaque buildup, tonguing the single filling she had to get at the very back of her mouth.

“You don’t have very many teeth, do you?” Blaire exclaims with a fascinated sort of excitement, the barest hint of breathlessness tinging her unimpeded words. Her voice seems to be coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once. “And they’re real blunt. I don’t think I could even cut my tongue on these things! What kinda damage are these mounds of CALCIUM and COLLAGEN supposed to do, anyhow?”

Blaire has asked her a question, and yet Freya has no way of answering. She struggles to form words around the gag of Blaire’s tongue, a little thrown off by the impromptu research session. Of her being the subject. She’d love to tell her Muse that the danger comes from their bite force, from infection, and that her teeth are sharper than they seem, but there’s no point. And then the moment is over.

“I think they’d look better on my bedroom floor, but they’re alright in here, too,” Blaire tells her earnestly, unsettlingly, with the tone of a compliment. Freya would be more concerned about that if Blaire’s tongue didn’t choose that moment to carefully retreat from probing aching gums to turn its attention to Freya’s tongue.

Slick and soft and unapologetically wet, writhing against the fissured mess of her own muscle. It almost reminds Freya of a cat rubbing firmly along her leg, leaning its full, trusting weight into her mouth and expecting her to accept it.

Like this, it’s easier for Freya to pick out the texture. It’s smoother than her own, to the point where Freya would think it’s made out of hard plastic if it weren’t so malleable. It’s soaked with secreted spit, which must be making up most of the spit content in Freya’s mouth by now.

Freya swallows lightly, huffing and puffing through her nose, inviting some of that dripping mixture of her and Blaire’s saliva to slip down her throat. There’s so much of it in her mouth that she has to choose between swallowing the liquid or allowing it to spill out from her slick mouth and red lips.

Blaire’s tongue curves up and over and around Freya’s own, tracing the width and circumference as it goes, and she makes a low noise as it does.

“And your tongue, so SHORT! SMALL!! How are you supposed to kill something with THIS? You can’t even strangle someone!” Blaire says again, yellow carapace flashing a little brighter with each syllable. “Sure there’s nothing else you’re hiding in here? Venom sacs? A second mouth? Another row of TEETH? Better not use those things on ME.”

Blaire’s tongue abandons Freya’s to go for the roof of her mouth, prodding for some sort of secret compartment where a biological function might hide. Any function. Her search takes her back to the back of Freya’s throat, dipping in further than last time.

Too far.

Freya presses into the couch with an alarmed noise, threatening to gag, and Blaire retreats with a giggle.

“We’ll work on that,” she promises, returning her tongue to twine tightly around Freya’s pink muscle, like two snakes mating. Or one snake being constricted. “Soon enough you’ll be able to take my tongue as far down there as I want! Which, FAIR WARNING, will be pretty DEEP.”

Freya whimpers something that may be an agreement, and Blaire just further winds her tongue around hers, sliding and stroking. It feels good in a way Freya has never known, had never expected. Her entire mouth is tingling, tongue struggling to keep up with Blaire’s overwhelming motions, head hazy and almost drunk with the slow speed of her thoughts.

Her mouth is so sensitive, it’s quite surprising. Sensitive enough that it feels close to pure pleasure, making need coil and amass within the base of her spine.

She feels her thoughts drifting slightly as she almost manages to relax into the sweet sensation of her mouth being filled. It’s not as aggressive as she was expecting and, once she finds a good rhythm to breathe through, it’s almost remarkably easy to find herself drifting.

Not for lack of care, of course, or because she’s bored. It just sometimes happens. Where her thoughts take the forefront of her brain whilst she’s doing something important and she’s left on auto-pilot while she thinks about what she’s going to eat later that night.

Blaire must be able to feel her drifting thoughts, her slowly dividing attention, and reacts accordingly.

That prehensile tongue gives Freya’s own a good squeeze, and that, embarrassingly, has Freya releasing a rather audible noise into the kiss. Not a proper moan, but a whine of overwhelmed desperation that escapes her before she even registers the fact it left her throat.

Her Muse responds immediately, purring animalistically into the kiss in return. Freya’s head is pressed almost painfully into the back of the couch from the force being exerted onto her face, unable to breathe properly with her mouth occupied and chest crushed.

It’s hard to care, not when Blaire’s tongue is somehow enlarging to nearly perfectly fill Freya’s mouth, rocking in and out in a way that makes it obvious what it’s meant to be insinuating.

When Blaire finally pulls back, it’s with a giant influx of saliva spilling down the front of Freya’s face, soaking into her shirt collar. Her tongue curls to drag out as much as she possibly can, ensuring a mess. Freya is left gasping for desperate breaths, water-logged and breathing through the spit covering her lips and tongue.

Her cheeks are squeezed within those tightly clamped hands and Freya’s eyes flutter again, mouth remaining slack, as Blaire leans in once more, grinning. Only to just lick up the thick, viscous mess that’s all over the bottom of her face.

Wherever her tongue drags, tingling and heated skin follows. Her face feels sticky and sparkly like she has pop-rocks smeared all over her chin — a side-effect of Blaire’s saliva touching skin. At least it’s not painful. She peers up at the god above her with eyes half-lidded and hazy, unknowingly stroking Blaire’s ego quite heavily.

With one last, almost parting, lick over her bottom lip, Blaire’s tongue finally retreats back to her lips. Her eyeball rolls back into place, her still-exposed tongue running flat over and around the aqueous humor like a gecko rehydrating its eye. Freya is sure she’s doing the motion just to get some spit off the lens.

Her tongue tucks itself back into her oral orifice, and she’s left looking satisfied and yet somehow at the same time more pissed off. Her hands both finally fall away from Freya’s cheeks, though remain seated upon her shoulder and sternum, the supernatural warmth seeping into her flesh-protected bones.

“Keep your attention on me, kid,” Blaire says. When she’s sure Freya is focused on her, she continues. “I don’t wanna get some kinda BRAIN EATING AMOEBA from getting an image of FIDDLESTICKS from you. Do you even know how vicious dreamworms are? I’d be outta commission for at least a WEEK!”

She’s still a little upset about Fiddleford coming to the forefront of Freya’s brain, then. That and the danger of apparent “dreamworms”, which Freya has never heard of, but is inclined to believe. Blaire’s anger is understandable, honestly. Freya thinks she’d get quite jealous if Blaire were thinking about some other acolyte.

With no time to think, she opens her mouth to issue an apology, a spluttering, half-formed mess escaping her.

“My- my apologies, something just reminded me of her and I—”

The hand closest to her throat jumps up, taking its rightful place on her face as it grips her chin in a tight, clawed hand. Her cheeks are squished painfully together as she’s hauled a short ways up, just to make a point as Blaire wants their faces close together.

There’s a distant fire in her Muse’s pupil that’s not from the fireplace, where Freya can see her reflected face being burned.

“You’re not hers, you’re mine. ACT LIKE IT.”

Freya is allowed to fall back to the couch with a thud, eyes wide and heart beating as erratically as a thundering stampede, watching her Muse take her hand off her face with a half-lidded, dangerous expression.

“...Maybe you don’t deserve to be touched properly yet, hm? Not until you’re thinking entirely of me, at least.”

Her weight lifts off of Freya’s chest, allowing her to breathe a little more properly, but robbing her of her Muse’s touch. Freya jerks upwards without thinking, but there’s not much she can do about it.

“No! No, please, please wait—” She gasps, even though Blaire is just getting farther away from her.

Her Muse’s eye curves into a smile, as sharp as a knife’s edge and as cunning as a fox, hanging in the air as she just watches.

It takes Freya’s brain a second to play catch up with her reality, blinking as she feels something, and yet nothing at all.

Something is touching her through her clothes despite no hands actively moving across her body. She goes carefully still as she looks down at her body, finding nothing, and then carefully angles her knees inwards.

It doesn’t ward off the sensation at all, the pressure still coming through.

Freya tilts her head this way and that, confused at the sensation of fingers prodding at the heat between her legs. Sliding over two layers of fabric, but managing to find where her folds are remarkably easily, following their covered outlines. And yet she sees nothing when she looks down.

Gradually, and then quickly, panic comes flooding in, sending red hot chills down her back. She looks up to her Muse, still just watching her apathetically, and begins pleading, “Blaire- Blaire, something is—”

The panic in her voice is tangible, wondering if, somehow, something had found her. Because that’s what this is; touches she’s feeling from her waking body, sending signals to both brains. She’s already trying to force herself to wake up, but something seems to be keeping her here.

“That’s just me, Six,” Blaire swoops in to assure with vague amusement, looking unbothered when Freya peers up at her through her lashes, nothing but angles softened by reaching light.

The information is widely appreciated.

Freya’s shoulders loosen a little with their tension, but then hike right back up when whatever is touching her presses a little harder. It’s impossible to back away from, considering her waking body is unconscious, and squirming around as much as she desires does nothing.

It’s not exactly a pleasurable touch, just a probing, prodding touch that’s obviously trying to get a reaction out of her. Which it is doing a great job at.

It’s quite odd to know she’s being touched and feeling it, yet not being able to see anything. The touch is there, as obvious as daylight and just as overwhelming as it would be if she were in her waking body. But it’s not there with her, currently.

Her thoughts grow heady as the fingers grow bolder, more pressing, shoving inwards, against the seam of her jeans and finding her entrance with ease. Her hips shift, eyes widening further as that finger trails upwards to press a round, blunt finger pad to her covered clit.

The touch is overwhelming, especially through the rough texture of her underwear and jeans.

And, fuck, she’s getting wet from it. Not that she wasn’t starting to drip during the makeout session, but now, with teasing touches stroking her just over her clothes, she’s really starting to soak her underwear. She feels it when she shifts her hips, so much collecting in the cotton of her panties that it’s slightly alarming.

“How— how are-” Freya pants out, a messy question that she fails halfway through cobbling together. She blinks, the dragging of her eyelids taking a second longer than usual, her eyes threatening to wetten from the pleasure of it all.

“I figured out how to summon some arms in your realm!” Blaire exclaims happily, apparently understanding what Freya had been trying to say. Her eye is a needle-point, watching Freya’s cheeks slowly darken with great satisfaction. “Helps that you did SUCH a great job setting up my room. Try not to let your waking body move around too much! We don’t need you knocking over any CANDLES, do we?”

Slowly slithering up the opening of her pants legs, Freya can feel the drag of Blaire’s velvet gloves against her skin. Pulling at leg hair, twining around her thighs and shins, going for her heated core.

The second those searching fingers touch her through her soaked underwear, Freya’s back hunches, hands twisting fitfully in her bindings, only for the arms around her torso to tighten in warning. With a quiet grunt, Freya falls still, bottom lip trembling as she watches her thighs press tightly together, to no avail.

The hands at her crotch, unseeable and unknowable, find the leg opening to her underwear, wasting no time in lightly dragging against her wet folds. Freya inhales sharply, hips angling for more, but arching into nothing.

There’s two hands on her core, she thinks, seven fingers all skittering around where she really wants them, only one finger very gently touching her. The touch is wet, made smooth by the slick she’s secreting, her folds are soaked with it. Another finger leans down to her perineum, following the trail of wetness that she’s secreting, threatening to dip into an even lesser used entrance.

Carefully, too lightly, a finger from the mass of digits slowly drags across her labia, up and up and finding her clit. It presses down lightly, like depressing a button, and Freya whispers a whine at the slight spark of itching pleasure.

Her vision starts to fuzz. As she’s touched, her brain seems to flicker, vision faltering like an old-timey screenplay and scratched film, or the cigarette burns that mar the footage. Her brain aches as she sees her vision as it would be in the worship room, her waking body’s eyes angled downwards, to her crotch.

Vision fuzzing in and out like the connection is particularly bad, it takes her a second to realize there are black shapes moving all over her. Long, black arms reminiscent of Blaire’s own, with clawed hands that are much bigger in this reality.

It lasts for a few seconds before Freya’s vision flickers again and she’s back in her mindscape. On top of a couch, uncomfortably laying down, being teased.

“You look like you saw a GHOST,” Blaire teases, acting as a vouyer as she lets her disembodied, tendril-like hands do all the work for her. She floats above Freya, right in her line of sight, making it obvious that she’s constantly watching. “Well, no. Not really! You’re so flush you look like you’ve been sunburnt! And isn’t that unrealistic for you?”

A dig at Freya’s homebody nature, and one she can’t find it in herself to complain about if she’s being touched like this. Even if it’s not all the time, this single instance might make up for everything bad that has ever happened to her.

“I saw— I saw me, in your worship room,” Freya huffs and puffs, embarrassed that she’s been reduced to panting after so little time.

“Ooo, you got some spoilers, did ya?” Blaire asks, sounding only a little intrigued as she smiles. “I did say the hands were mine! What, your impatience win?”

“I can’t— can’t seem to control it, my Muse,” Freya pants, just as her right eye fizzles and sparks, showing her a flash of her other body, of her crotch, before she’s back in the present.

“Well, try not to burst a blood vessel in that eye of yours, I’d hate to replace it with something a thousand times more ADVANCED!” Blaire crows, not sounding all that concerned with the fact Freya’s eye could perhaps explode.

Freya herself is only minorly worried, far more focused on the teasing, lilting pleasure she’s being given.

A burning begins to take place within Freya’s belly. More noticeable than it had previously been. It feels like her body is waking up, like an ancient, rusty forge deep within the belly of a mountain is finally being allowed to start once more.

The flickering, old-timey screen of switching visions continues to happen, and it makes things terribly confusing and overwhelming. Especially when she comes back to her mindscape and finds Blaire grinning down at her, basking in her disorientation.

“Blaire,” Freya gasps quietly, vision fuzzing near constantly. She’s not even able to move her waking body, so she’s not actually awake when she gets a glimpse of her live body being fondled. She’s seeing through closed eyes, somehow, nothing but a passenger in both minds.

“It’d be such a waste to not try and touch you through both planes, hm?” Blaire purrs, watching Freya squirm about, hips unable to decide between rutting forward or shrinking away. “Especially when your waking body is making such a MESS! Should’ve placed a towel down! Though I don’t think it would have helped much.”

Freya would be more concerned about the said mess if she weren’t the only person who used the room. Still, blushing violently, Freya gently admits, “I— I think I would like to think of- of the mess as a sign of my continuous worship towards you, my Muse.”

If Freya isn’t mistaken, she swears she sees Blaire’s pupil darken.

“Oh, that’s just precious,” Blaire croons, appearing pleased. “Well, why don’t we try and make your waking body SHOOT OFF, too? That way, whenever you go into that room you’ll be reminded of your place, of who you BELONG to.”

Freya shudders violently at the persistent rubbing of a finger at her other body’s clitoris, a second finger teasing her slit, running slowly up and down over soaked underwear. She nods aggressively, horny brain barely finding anything wrong with ruining the floorboards of such an important room.

“I want you to clean your mess up off the floor,” Blaire practically growls, voice dropping considerably. “Clean it up with just that tiny, useless muscle in your maw. Think you can manage that after we’re done here?”

Freya nods deliriously, already begging, “Please, please, yes, of course, just— please—”

“I’ll hold you to it!” Blaire chirps. “Alright, alright, enough of that. Let’s get some skin out and about, shall we?”

The hands on Freya’s waking body slither away like snakes, though they remain nestled within her pant legs. The lack of touch is even more torturous than being teased, and it leaves Freya itching to plead, already prepared to say anything her Muse wants out of her.

Anything Blaire wants to hear, she’ll say it.

“Such a sweetheart, aren’t you?” Blaire purrs as fabric shifts against skin. Actual fabric. Freya looks down, showing her pants slowly slipping down her legs with no resistance, the undone fly of her jeans allowing her some more room to breathe. “I’ll keep that in mind!”

As her pants in her mindscape shed her legs, her brain is hit with a sensation of disorientation, of movement. Her waking body allows her to get another look. She’s being tilted around, Blaire’s hands moving her into a kneel to more easily wrestle off her pants and the sopping wet nature of her underwear, and then carefully tilting her back into place. It’s a miracle she doesn’t flop into a candle.

There’s twin sensations of air over her skin, legs completely freed from the sweaty confines of the jeans, her underwear the only modest protection she has left. Her legs rush to close once more, knees aching a little from the movement, squeezing thighs streaked with slick together.

“Now, now, don’t hide,” Blaire purrs, noticing the movement and the light click of kneecaps making contact. “You’d think I had you here for hours with THIS amount of slick,” Blaire comments breezily, watching Freya hunch over herself, unable to touch herself despite wriggling fingers. “And to think I’ve barely started! You always this easy?”

Freya feels warmed underneath Blaire’s watchful gaze, blinking heavily, her eyes fuzzing in an odd way. Blaire just snaps her fingers and suddenly Freya’s underwear is gone, leaving her feeling so exposed. Her legs press tighter together despite being closely pressed, feeling herself dripping onto the couch below.

At least it’s not a real mess.

She forgets herself in the sensation of her own sticky, tacky skin for but a moment, thighs streaked and body overheating. The dry gliding of Blaire’s arms around her real life counterparts’ legs is terribly distracting, too close to where she’s begging for it and yet not quite enough. Blaire’s not-quite-a-question ringing in her ears and yet not properly registering as she tries to collect herself.

She’s not given a chance.

Blaire makes a snarling noise like some kind of animal, her actual arms connected to her slanted sides reaching for Freya’s legs with sharp claws. Her kneecaps are grabbed, sharp needle-tipped points sinking into wanting, tender flesh. Then, with only twin grips on her knees, Freya’s legs are wrenched apart.

The limbs go easy under the threat of pricking pain and the undeniable strength Blaire exerts, warmth rushing through her as she’s forcibly exposed.

She inhales sharply as she feels her cunt put directly in Blaire’s line of sight, blinking back up at her Muse with cowed, nervous eyes. Right where they belong.

“I’m talking to you, you know,” Blaire says warningly, much closer than before, her eye blatantly roving over Freya’s nether region before making eye contact. “USUALLY talking means saying something back. It’s a bit of a two person game.”

“No! Well- I mean, yes, but it’s- it’s harder with you,” Freya stumbles through a coherent answer, trying to focus. She’s not even sure if she said the right thing, if she answered the right question. Her brain feels cleaved in twain.

Her legs twitch a little underneath Blaire’s sharp touch. Feeling put on the spot, feeling watched, feeling all kinds of things happening to her body as her legs are pulled wide. She’s on display like an art piece hung on a wall, and she can’t even bring her hands down to protect herself.

“Well, I sure hope so!” Blaire purrs, dragging her eye slowly from Freya’s wet core to her similarly wet eyes, as though savouring the wide-eyed fawn look she’s adopted. “I don’t know anyone else who can touch you nearly as well as this.”

Fingers rub into her that aren’t there, and Freya’s mouth drops open at the touch of fingers in the real world wasting no time in finding her entrance. Two of them gather up the slickness she’s dripping, rubbing that fluid over and around her outer lips. Through wiry, unkempt curls and through the drier parts of her folds.

She can feel it all, left breathing heavily as she can do nothing but process the stimulation, able to do nothing but witness.

With fingers covered in slick, angled claws and all, they slither to her hole.

The fingers on these “real” hands are different compared to the ones touching her in the mindscape. The two fingers pressing into her, heedless of her shaking body, feel longer. More dexterous, compared to the rather short digits that belong to the hands on her dreaming body. Those hands’ length comes from their arms, but the ones on her waking body seem to stretch.

Elongating.

The touch is electric as she feels herself parting for the bullying press of two impatient fingers. Claws retract to make the glide less painful. She feels her mouth drop open slightly, looking much like a pouting dog with pinned ears.

“Oh,” She says with a thin wobble to her lips. She feels fingers frame her body, the other hand’s knuckles running through the wetness of her folds. Her eyes go all hazy and sparkly for a moment at the touch.

Blaire lets her close her terribly trembling legs at this point, which she does. With Blaire’s summoned arms all over her, Freya only feels a little pang of alarm as her Muse retreats from her, head popping up to pant, “w-wait— where’re you goin’?”

The Muse does not go far, simply turning around summoning a little pink plastic toy chair to sit down in. She even summons a drink, as though Freya is Friday night television entertainment. Thankfully, she refrains from grabbing some sort of snack. A little crazy straw is plopped into the drink, and shoved just underneath her eyeball, allowing her to continue watching Freya squirm.

“I don’t have to be over there with you!” Blaire chirps, taking a very annoying very slurpy sip from her full drink. “I think I deserve some DOWNTIME by watching my favourite show! I sure just did enough WORK to earn a break! I wonder what’s on?” A black remote is there in her hand, and, with a sharp press to the ‘channel’ button, two fingers begin to press into Freya’s unconscious body.

Freya jerks at the unexpected touch, hips writhing into the phantom hands on her body. She feels herself being stretched open on the digits, the pressure carving its way through her body. “B- Blaire—” she pants needily, trying to both escape those wet fingers and to take them deeper.

“There you go!” Blaire coos, voice thick with both praise and mocking affection. She sets aside the remote on the pink armrest for a moment, taking another leisurely sip from her crazy straw. “Taking those fingers like a CHAMP, Brainiac! I mean, sure, you could say that this is pretty easy, but I think that’s selling yourself short!”

Freya desperately clings to Blaire’s voice, feeling terribly overwhelmed from just the sensation of fingers sliding to the first knuckle inside her. Moving smoothly, scissoring her warm walls apart, coaxing wet noises from her slick insides. It’s not even completely pleasurable right now, but it feels good to be touched in such a way.

She’s done this herself, once or twice, but it never felt like this. Like She’s being filled up, like this terribly, deep pit she hadn’t even known was there is being rightfully filled by Blaire. She’s dizzy with it, desperately trying to stop herself from rocking into the fingers, letting them fill her up inch by inch.

The second knuckle is reached, and Freya feels herself falling apart over nothing. The sensation, while fulfilling and pleasurable, isn’t enough. The body her brain is physically inside isn’t receiving the proper pleasure, and it’s leaving her rudd and frustrated, desperate for more than this odd, muffled, sensation. It’s just a delicious drag of not enough, no matter how hard the fingers pry into her.

Her vision fizzles again as she stares almost unseeingly at Blaire’s lounging figure, showing her waking body with her chin to her chest, giving her a wonderful view of Blaire’s long, demonized fingers all congregating near her cunt like a mass of huddled spiders. It’s easy enough to pick out the hand pushing fingers into her, as it’s the only one that’s moving back and forth. Another pair of fingers has her hole framed between two digits, helping to expose her better.

She’s soaking. Moses, there’s so much liquid. She feels it seeping into the fabric of the couch, into the floorboards. And yet it’s getting harder to care, not with Blaire’s segmented fingers sinking deeper and deeper, dragging deliciously at her walls.

Those two fingers scissor, stretching her apart, and Freya bites her bottom lip so hard she draws blood.

Slowly, as those fingers press deeper in, the sheer drag of her digits blooms into rooting pleasure. Digging into her muscle, taking root, and blooming throughout her body.

“B— Blaire,” Freya gasps wetly, overwhelmed with the consistent press of something opening her up. A sensation she’s not entirely unfamiliar with, but inexperienced with nonetheless.

Work above her needs, as it’s always been.

But now her work partner is tending to her, in a way that has half of Fryea’s face fuzzing out, blinking between her mindscape and reality. She’s so desperate to be touched, legs wobbling between opening wider to entice her Muse, or pressing as close as possible to try and gather pleasure from the squish of her thighs.

In response, those fingers inside of her waking body drag to an agonizing stop. Freya’s mouth drops open on a smothered whine, trying not to exhibit betrayal of all things.

She looks to Blaire, though her Muse is taking a slow sip from a brightly coloured cocktail from her martini glass. She exhales, eye rolling back into its socket, finally looking back at Freya. All she has to do is raise a single eyebrow in expectation, and Freya gets the memo.

With need slowly coming to life in her body, Freya immediately splutters out, “My Muse, please. Please— don’t- don’t stop!”

Blaire’s eye widens happily, cooing, “Quick learner!”

The fingers in Freya’s body respond, pushing in with an extra inch behind them, and then rocking a little ways back out. A little tantalizing stimulation, used for nothing but teasing. This method is continuously used; pulling out, and then shoving back in with an extra inch behind the fingers. Over and over, overwhelmingly effective.

“See, this is why no one else compares to you, Freysy. No one else quite sings my praises the way you do, kid! Makes me wanna KEEP YOU. Have you sing like a canary for me every morning, and if you say the right things you might just get a treat!”

Freya is barely registering whatever bullshit Blaire is spewing. She’s already nodding her head haphazardly, body rocking against the phantom thrusting fingers as she pleads, “Yes, yes, yes, please. I’d like that!”

She’d be embarrassed of her incoherency, but Blaire’s fingers are making her dumb.

“And she’s eager. You make it PRETTY DAMN HARD not to just do WHATEVER I WANT with you, you know that?” Blaire says through a heartfelt groan, taking a rather tension-filled sip of her drink, her eye in her throat remaining locked onto Freya’s body. “My self-control is ALREADY practically in LIMBO and DANCING with the DEVIL.”

Freya has zero idea what Blaire wants to do with her, but she thinks she’d be alright with anything as long as Blaire keeps touching her.

She tosses her head back, panting heavily, heart pounding within her ribcage. It’s agonizing, not being able to do more than sit and writhe, any bodily autonomy thrown straight out the window. She squirms, she writhes, her hips buck up and find next to nothing, and her real life counterpart sits entirely and frustratingly still.

Her eyes, squeezed shut as they are, miss Blaire momentarily abandoning her drink and chair, beginning to approach. So swallowed by trying to reach some sort of orgasm, she even misses the static charge sensation of prickling along her skin, chalking it up to her body’s desperation.

“What, my fingers not enough for you?” Blaire asks teasingly, appearing terribly close by when Freya rips her eyes back open. She sounds amused rather than dangerous, however, and only getting more amused when Freya thoughtlessly rushes to assure her that it’s perfect, it’s all perfect.

It’s just—

She wants more—

And then there’s new pressure.

Thicker, like getting submerged in heated honey. It feels like more, like it’s actually there. And it’s easy to figure out why.

The body she’s currently in is finally being touched, and her chin jerks downwards so fast to find her Muse in her personal space. She’s grinning something sharp as her own hands, connected to her body, clawed and terribly light, tickle their ways along the expanse of Freya’s red-speckled thighs. The claw-tipped digits follow the bone to the seam of her hip, sharp points cutting through the topmost layer of Freya’s epidermis.

Not even deep enough to properly sting, as only white lines are dragged from her knee to the hinge of her hip. The waist of her shirt has to be brushed aside, creating a rather enticing image of Blaire’s fingers sneaking underneath her clothing.

Freya’s thighs remain pressed together as she watches her Muse’s hands trail towards her center. She barely realizes she’s chanting, “Yes”, until Blaire reminds her that her legs need to be open.

Right, of course.

She allows her legs to fall open with no further probing, and Blaire’s finger falls upon her with haste. A thumb presses at the button of her clit with a pressure that borders on painful, then slides down and through the gratuitously soaked folds of her cunt. The digit is careful not to catch or tangle any of the curls she has, especially careful as it folds and presses its knuckle against her needy, dripping opening.

Then it pulls away.

Freya watches with a shuddering heart as Blaire retreats once more to her chair, humming over the wetness that’s newly shining upon her right hand. She turns, taking her rightful seat, and pops those sticky fingers right underneath her eyeball, staring Freya down as she obscenely licks at her fingers behind her eye. Her tongue peeks out once or twice from her lower eyelid, making it obvious that she’s cleaning off Freya’s juices.

Her hand pops back out, clean of juices, yet newly shiny with spit. Her wet hand then wraps around the body of her martini glass, smearing her saliva around, and she takes a slow, obvious sip.

That should probably not be as attractive as it is.

“Muse,” Freya gasps, wet eyes rising to peer pleadingly at the seated isosceles just above her, staring down at her with a rather apathetic expression.

“Now, now, I’m controlling the pace, Six. You’re MY show. TV programs don’t complain, they just do what they’re PROGRAMED to,” Blaire chides, bodily shaking side to side as though shaking her head. She waves the remote in hand in tandem with her swaying. “Besides, you’ve got two fingers in you, already! Do you really need more?”

The fingers in her other body shove inwards, all the way to the last knuckle, sheathing themselves within Freya’s inviting heat with the entitlement of someone who thinks they deserve to be there. A gush of warm liquid seeps out, displaced by Blaire’s agonizing fingers, and the wet squelch from her waking body seems to echo throughout her mindscape.

They curl upwards inside of her body, and, with a come-hither motion, manage to nail her g-spot with scary accuracy. They quickly leave the spot alone, allowing Freya’s body to jerk violently, whining high and overwhelmed in the back of her throat as her body tenses.

The wave passes too quickly, and she slumps back into the couch, breathing heavily. God, that feels good. But something tells her Blaire isn’t going to be nice about touching that spot that has brief black flashes obstructing her vision.

The quiet whimper that escapes Freya speaks for itself, even as she tries to steel herself from being too greedy. She can’t help it, she wants so much more. Her teeth grit together, her eye fuzzing out once more, showing her that tantalizing footage of her waking body being fingered, where slick shines brilliantly over her thighs and the floor and Blaire’s own hands.

The canting of her hips does nothing to exacerbate the pleasure, as she’s not actually moving her real body. It’s quite frustrating, and that pouty frustration boils within her chest, threatening to have her tear up.

That’s frustrating, too. She doesn’t want to be a crybaby.

At least, even if Blaire won’t properly touch her, she’s still getting something. The hands on her real body are going strong, rocking in and out of her gradually loosening body with soft squelching noises she can hear.

A third finger is introduced on the next withdrawing movement, nudging in alongside the two fingers already inside.

“Please?” She says quietly, breathlessly with the new perceived stretch. Blaire just raises her eyebrow, hand pausing its slow stroking over Freya’s folds entirely in punishment.

Not enough, then.

“My— My Muse, you are- are- my first thought when I— when I wake up, and my last thought before I go to– to sleep. You are my— my world,” Freya practically whispers out, her voice stuttery and slow, yet sure of herself, of what she’s saying.

Even if she’s saying all of this to get what she wants, everything has been truthful. Beyond truthful, perhaps. Maybe a little more see-through than she should have allowed.

But it’s worth it, as Blaire snaps one of the disembodied hands wrapped around Freya’s body, grinning slyly. “Well, shucks, kid! You’re gonna make me blush! Impossible, but I sure am feeling the heat! When you ask me like that I can’t just say no. Here, you’ve earned it!”

A new hand sprouts up and out of the ground, right between Freya’s spread legs, and quickly takes the place of Blaire’s “real” fingers. They band two of the four fingers together, and dip down, nosing between curls and wet lips, nudging up against her entrance and quickly beginning to invade.

The resulting fullness of being filled from two separate realities is surprising, making her feel like she has five fingers inside of her instead of just two in her unconscious mind and three in her waking body. It’s pleasant, and the continuous push and slight burn has something in her brain settling, pleased.

The fingers gliding into her are warm and stretching and her body carefully begins twitching and rocking into the press of Blaire’s fingers as soon as she feels ready. The need is dripping into her body again, gradually causing her to want more.

“Never would have taken you to be the begging type!” Blaire comments as she watches her disembodied fingers core into Freya’s body. In tandem with the three in her other body, all five push in at once. It’s another question entirely on if Blaire can feel with these unattached hands. “You’re just always so calm and collected, but I guess just a few teasing touches and you’ll show your belly like a good follower, huh? Not that I’m COMPLAINING. This might actually become my FAVOURITE version of you!”

Dumbed down and pleasure-drunk, a being moving on nothing but instinct. Freya doesn’t see how that could be nice to look at, even if she can do fuck all about it.

“Oh, come on, that face?” Blaire asks, one of the hands resting on Freya’s sternum slithering up to grab hold of her wet, red-hot blushing face. It shakes her head side to side, putting emphasis on what she’s talking about. “I would KILL someone out of NEED to see what other kinds of gross expressions you can make! Might even kill a medieval peasant!”

A third finger is introduced by the newest hand, adding to an overwhelming count of six. If they were combined into one hand, Freya thinks blearily, it would give her a taste of what her own hand would feel like.

“A medieval peasant?” Freya chooses to rasp, the semi-flattery of Blaire’s words giving way to wondering what that has to do with this.

“A MEDIEVAL PEASANT,” Blaire hollars a few decibels too loud, as though Freya hadn’t heard her the first time. “But, really, they’re already PRETTY diseased, and my killing them would be more of a MERCY! Well, then! I’d KILL a DERANGED HEALTHCARE CEO just to see what other kinds of faces you can make! I think this blank, slack-jawed one is my favourite. All drool-slick and pliable. I could slip just about anything in that mouth if you aren’t CAREFUL!”

At the mention, Freya tries to direct some brain power to keeping her mouth closed, further realizing she’s terribly close to drooling all over herself.

As Freya is fucked open relatively roughly on six seperate fingers, the arms and hands that had been previously just holding her, come to life. Twitching and flexing over her skin, and then beginning to move.

She looks to her chest, watching the hand on her sternum do a whole U-turn and, with no warning, grab for her right-most breast. The hand enlarges as it does, allowing it to more properly engulf the mound of fat. Freya’s mouth drops open on a surprised, shaky noise as her right breast is squeezed obscenely, and as another hand, just as big as the first, goes for her other breast.

It’s rough and surprising, and absolutely catches her off guard. She squeaks a little at the touch. Her breasts have never been particularly sensitive, but, somehow, they seem to have been heightened. Either through some kind of brain rewiring, or perhaps Blaire’s touch itself.

Usually, having her breasts groped and fondled results in a little pleasant sensation, but usually not enough to make it worth anything. Though, surprisingly, the fact it’s Blaire who’s attention is very obviously centered around Freya’s breasts has it feeling much better than it usually does.

To an almost worrying extent, even. Her cheeks flush further, eyes dewing, as her chest is squeezed and manhandled by greedy, grasping handfuls, as Blaire’s own peering eye watches the mounds be gratuitously kneaded at through her collar shirt.

Maybe it’s the fact she has fingers inside of her, rocking in just enough to avoid her g-spot, and yet deep enough to have blunt pleasure blooming anyway. Maybe that, combined with the kneading, is why it’s feeling so good.

She arches into the touch as best she can, clothes straining and shifting. Blaire hums slightly, seemingly content with allowing her own, rather small, hand to pound away inside Freya as she watches her unattached hands do their own thing. Those probing fingers press indentations through the fabric, taking great handfuls and hefting them, digging claws into the supple skin.

“Nice that I don’t have to look for buried treasure with these ladies,” Blaire says happily, watching her hands move about with visible intrigue and satisfaction. She seems more obsessed with Freya’s chest rather than her cunt, even with Freya’s fluid halfway up her arm. “They’re just right out here! And big as well! Nice mommy milkers you got here, pal, you grow ‘em yourself?”

Blaire’s shit-eating, smarmy, grin tells Freya that the words are rhetorical, and being used to get a reaction. Even though she tries not to appear affronted at… at the “mommy milkers” term for her breasts, her tightly furrowed brows and frown lines are reaction enough.

The squeezing somehow gets more aggressive, more obscene, pushed together and jiggled and kneaded like cat paws on a blanket. Stoking the flames inside her body, adding to the pleasure she’s fighting her way through receiving.

As her chest arches deliciously outwards, Blaire seems to take that as an invitation. Buttons are popped by ripping hands, momentarily freeing her breasts as her shirt is ruined. And then, with no time to allow Freya to grow cold feet, her bra follows.

Without the support, her large breasts sag slightly outwards, dusky nipples pebbling, goosebumps peppering her red-hot skin. It’s not even particularly cold in here, but the temperature change has her body reacting anyways.

“You’re even red down HERE!” Blaire comments happily, as though this is the best thing she’s found out. A hand brushes over her nipple, helping it harden, and then down the flushed flesh of her breast, over her chest, and over the second one. “Full body blusher then, huh? KEEP IT UP! Maybe you’ll turn completely red like a boiled lobster, at the PERFECT temperature to be eaten right up! Maybe you’ll ooze like a stomped one, too!”

Freya’s not sure if that’s supposed to be a threat or not, and Blaire doesn’t continue what she says. Her fingers just start attacking Freya’s dusky, perked nipples, other hands coming up to squeeze at the heated flesh, simultaneously providing support for the heavy breasts as well as an ability to further fondle.

She’s mean. Pinching and pulling hard enough to hurt, painful enough to have Freya’s legs kicking out and missing, and yet it hurts in such a delicious way. Blaire sounds like she’s making note of something as she carefully pinches a nipple between the sharp points of two claws, rumbling when Freya practically yells out.

As her chest is ruthlessly abused, the fourth, and final, fingers of Blaire’s two hands finally curve inwards, pressing against her palm to smooth the stretch. The fingers, longer than they should be and, attached to slightly larger hands, create a much larger stretch than they would have if the smaller hands were pushing inside of her.

“Blaire, Blaire, oh— oh, fuck!” She splutters at the sensation of what may as well be two hands pressing in at the same time. It’s not painful, exactly, but it is a lot to handle. She can’t imagine what her own hands would feel like inside her body, bigger than Blaire’s and thicker.

“Oh, come on, you can take it!” Blaire assures her, unmoving and apathetic to her near-hyperventilating breaths. “If we wanna get those six fingers of yours inside you, we’ll have to start somewhere, won’t we?”

Oh, oh dear, Blaire heard her thoughts. She likely felt the vision of Freya with her own hands lodged inside her body, terrified to move her fist without proper guidance controlling her.

Freya feels the noises lodged inside of her throat threaten to come tumbling out, high-pitched and struggling. Her breasts being fondled is a nice distraction as she feels the widest part of the thumb pop inside of her body, which is then followed by a much slimmer wrist.
She’s heaving for breath as the stretch seems to worsen, feeling her insides part around the tight fist punching through her body.

Instead of trying to push out the intrusion, her body is newly welcoming Blaire’s hand. Sucking it in with the wettest noises she’s ever bore witness to. She clenches weakly around the hand inside her, whistling breaths escaping her throat, head twisted at an odd, uncomfortable angle.

She’s grateful the nipple torture has momentarily stopped, allowing Freya to focus on the sensation of a fist inside her body.

“Well, you’re just sucking me right in,” Blaire giggles, twisting that wrist around inside of Freya’s body, knuckles massaging her inner walls. She makes an entertained sound around her straw when Freya gasps sharply, body threatening to bend. “Yeah? Sounds like that feels good. Did I maybe fwind your wittle g-spot?” She coos, and has that hand do it again, fingers uncurling to prod and curl very slightly, hitting that spot.

Freya practically yelps, back arching, breasts bouncing, shaking legs falling further apart with a strain in her muscles refusing to allow her comfort. The tight band of hot metal within her body feels like it’s going to snap any moment now, and her moans, previously attempted to be stifled, are escaping semi-freely.

Blaire’s two fists from two hands piston in and out of her cunt at odd, arrhythmic times, leaving her with the sensation of fullness nearly constantly. Her vision begins fuzzing again, where she finds herself in the same position, though leant back comfortably within a coiling mass of writhing arms, fucked ruthlessly by a single fist; four fingers.

The hands that had been draped semi-comfortably along her chest, over her breasts and lounging upon the tops like sun-bathing beasts, return to action, as well. Squeezing and pinching and pulling and being consistently rough with it.

Everything is working together to create a beautiful, blinding mixture of red-hot, swirling pleasure inside of her body. A tight coiling in her gut, made larger by every punch into her body, every squeeze at her breast and every pluck at her nipple.

She’d be more embarrassed about shooting towards her rising orgasm so fast if she had the space for it, but she’s not. She hasn’t been touched in such a way, well, ever, she doesn’t think. And her own, desperate attempts at taking care of herself never felt as good, leaving her frustratingly inept at giving herself any pleasure.

The sensation of an orgasm approaching is mind-numbingly tantalizing. A beautiful, red hot coiling of heated chains, wrapped together into a soldered ball. And tightening. She’s blameless for how her mouth drops open, pleading and begging incoherently for something she knows she needs.

The idea of stopping now is impossible, is so far out of her mind, as her eyes slide shut, focusing on the pleasure. Trying to summon it into her throat and throughout her body, Coaxing it larger and larger, her mouth opening in a silent scream as—

As it all stops.

It stops just before she hits that damned point of no return, as fists shove in as close as they dare, seated comfortably within wet walls. Everything just stops, her nipples left reddened and angry from their treatment, cooling off in the room-temperature air that’s cold upon the heated flesh.

There’s the click of a TV remote, likely the channel button again, and Blaire scoots her pink chair closer to get a better look at her desperately reacting body, cunt fluttering and squeezing, body arching and stomach muscles taut with tension.

A barely muffled cry of frustration escapes her throat before she can even think of stopping herself, betrayed and awful and desperate. She collapses back into the couch and the arms surrounding her, raggedly gasping on every inhale. Freya’s eyes blink open, worryingly wet, finding Blaire staring at her from her stupid fucking chair, wide-eyed and obviously interested. She’s getting some kind of satisfaction out of Freya’s suffering, the human can guarantee that.

“Wha- why— why would you—” She gasps thickly, betrayal making her blood ice. Arms trapped behind her back, her fingers dig into her palms, legs remaining wide open without conscious thought. The muscles burn from her straining, they need to rest.

She tries to desperately bring herself back to that edge, hips humping, but there’s not enough room for her to take control, and Blaire just presses her hand in closer to properly push her against the couch. Her Muse’s other sharp clawed hand connected to her body comes in to latch onto her wide hips, exerting a careful, bruising amount of force to keep her down.

The fingers inside of her body flex slightly to keep her on edge, and even that small movement has sparks traversing up and down her vertebrae.

“I wanted to,” Blaire replies simply, like that’s all there is to it. “And you get way too close way too fast! It’s like you haven’t been touched at all in a hot minute!”

She must be referring to the time it took between getting her entire fist inside Freya and Freya finally approaching an orgasm. Time dilation has her unsure how long it really took, though it doesn’t really matter. Blaire has her climax in her hand, no matter what.

“I— I haven’t, Bl- Muse,” Freya manages, hating the feeling of her body calming down, leaving her back at square one. “It— this isn’t something I usually do.”

Blaire waves her off as her fists start up once more, sliding out slightly to pop out a few fingers, despite Freya’s desperate clenching, to return to just fingering. She whines slightly, but Blaire’s small cooing of mocking comfort is enough to have her falling silent, smoothing out the jut of her bottom lip, almost pouting.

“Well, we’ll be changing that, won’t we?” Blaire practically purrs, pink plastic chair fully disappearing, along with her half-drunk drink. Eyes tilt up to watch her Muse approach, glassy and hooded, body twitching into the languid movements of the four fingers below.

She makes her home between Freya’s thighs, and immediately takes a rough hold of her clit, pinching it between two tight fingers. Freya thrashes so hard she thinks she’s going to have her clitoris ripped off, though the fingers slip away just in time. Instead, her face is gripped by the same hand, smearing her own slick across her cheek.

“You don’t get to go without my touch for as long as you’re mine. You’ve neglected yourself for far too long, doll, but you don’t have to worry! As long as you keep working on that portal, I’ll have you whenever you want. You know, for good behaviour!”

“My Muse,” Freya gasps without thought, barely thinking about how those claws sink into her body in a blatantly possessive show. Blood pools around the blockages, down her chin, down Blaire’s hand. She can feel the rapidly depleting warmth from the liquid, and she feels her brain go a little extra hazy. “Please.”

Blaire’s thumb retracts, then rubs through a dripping line of blood, smearing it across Freya’s cheek with covetous intent. “Seems we’re on the same page with that,” Blaire hums, dragging that thumb across a willing bottom lip. “Good. No take backs!”

Subverting expectations, Blaire’s clawed hand disappears, and she ducks down.

Hands from Blaire’s personal body grip Freya underneath her knees, and then force her legs wide as Blaire’s triangular, enlarged body properly nudges between her thighs. She’s wrenched a little further down the couch from the forceful positioning, neck aching from the awful angle it’s been subjected to, though not daring to complain.

She’s forced to peer down her rolling, curvaceous body just to get a glimpse of the geometrical figure peering at her from between her legs. She’s grown a little bit, big enough to keep Freya’s legs spread at an angle that’s quite uncomfortable. Even if Blaire’s hands weren’t underneath her knees, she’d still have no way to properly close her legs.

Blaire is warm between her thighs, giving off an amount of near-burning radioactive warmth that reminds Freya of a slightly too-hot Summer’s eve. Sticky and buzzing with cicadas, with sweat pouring down her nape. Freya somehow burns even hotter as Blaire’s eye blatantly roams over the wet mound between her legs.

The fingers of the hand there slip out with a schluk from her current reality, though a full fist stays inside her real body. Instead, the fingers that had left her body take it upon themselves to spread her lips apart.

Freya’s hips twitch with a small noise of discomfort as her folds are taken between clawed fingers and spread. Air wafts over her nether regions, inside her, and not to mention how the angle shows off her insides to Blaire’s greedy gaze.

She’s even more exposed than last time.

She can feel the wet tips of Blaire’s fingers losing their grips from time to time due to how much slick she’s secreting, having to adjust and furthermore opening her up further.

“You’re so wet,” Blaire comments with an obvious smile in her voice, the scrunch of her eye quite telling. “And, what, this is all from ME touching you? Way to make a Muse feel SPECIAL!”

“It’s- it’s been quite a while,” Freya huffs and puffs even though Blaire already knows. She shakes her head lightly to try and get her slipping glasses back on her face, amazed they’ve stayed on for so long. It’s for not as they fall down her face and into the couch. She squirms a little at feeling what might be Blaire’s breath washing over her core.

She’s only been edged once and even the simple sensation of breath touching her is almost enough stimulation for her to get riled up again.

“My poor pent up, filthy thing,” Blaire jeers, tongue licking a slow line around the rim of her eyeball. “Were you saving yourself for someone? I mean, that’s the only reason I can think of as to why you haven’t even been FUCKED properly! Was it maybe… Fiddlesticks? Is THAT who you were waiting for? To take your body in a PICTURE PERFECT scene?”

The question is asked nastily with obvious discontent in the words, leaning forward to flutter her eyelashes over Freya’s slit in featherlight brushing. It’s barely anything, but the odd sensation has her brows furrowing together anyway.

“No,” Freya snaps with a harsh tone. She’s fed up with Fiddleford being used as a weapon against her, as though Freya has spent her entire life yearning and waiting for Fiddleford to touch her. It’s inaccurate, especially since that small spark, if there ever really was once, died once they parted ways.

Freya’s mind and body and thoughts and being belong to Blaire. To her work partner, her Muse, her god.

A god who apparently also requires some incentive and reassurance that they’re the chosen divine being of Freya’s affection.

“I’m yours. If– if I’ve been saving my- myself for anyone, Blaire, it- it has been for you, my Muse.”

Freya watches as her Muse slowly tilts her eye back up, pupil heavily dilated with little pointed teeth beginning to unveil from her gums, pressed against her aqueous humour. It’s like this facade of hers, this fake form she uses to look more appealing, is falling apart under Freya’s honesty and devotion. Like her predator nature is shining through, activated by prey beneath her claws.

Swallowing heavily, Freya watches with bated breath as Blaire looks her over as well, finding her pleasure-drunk and hazy and unfocused, but beholding a tasteful genuinity. Good enough to eat.

“Well, now you really don’t have any take backsies,” Blaire murmurs with a lower tone than the absurd statement would call for. “You say that to any Muse that comes your way, pal?”

Her arms, attached to the hands snug underneath the hinge of Freya’s knees, begin stretching. Quickly going all loopy and soft and long, like spaghetti softening within hot water. The loops of black arms throw themselves around Freya’s legs, left on right and right on left, over and over again until Freya’s legs are tightly wound with arms.

Her flesh spills out through the small gaps allowed by the arms as they tighten slightly. The large hands perch themselves upon her kneecaps, claw tips curling inwards, resting just under the cap with the threat of overturning.

Freya shakes her head rather aggressively, excitement pooling within her body turning up a little hotter with winding arms taking control of her legs. She wishes she could touch, too.

“No, no, you, jus’ you, please, my Muse,” Freya disagrees and begs in one jumbled, vehement sentence. “I haven’t even met another Muse.”

“There’s plenty out there to warrant concern!” Blaire informs her, though whether she means higher beings such as herself or regular, ordinary people Muses, Freya isn’t sure. “But, sure, doll. You’ve been such a treat tonight that I think I can believe you!”

Her eye rolls into the back of her throat as she speaks, sliding down the slippery slope of her own tongue until it lodges into something in the back. Her pupil is still visible, though, out of that cavernous, spacious blackness comes teeth and a tongue.

Freya takes this chance to take it in better, since last time she got her mouth filled by it.

It’s long and goopy, twirling in the air like a snake and its threat display. The slate blue colour of its abnormally smooth texture is broken up from time to time by little bioluminescent pulsing lights within the deep muscle of the tongue, within the very center. Like a light display coming through a block of thick, reflective ice. It drips heavily, viscous and oozing, taking longer than Freya’s would to drip down the side of Blaire’s constantly moving tongue.

Freya is enthralled, and grateful to her Muse for momentarily pausing to allow her a good look.

“I think this is the only thing that’s gotten your head to go COMPLETELY silent!” Blaire comments, her eye a small, glowing thing in the back of her throat. It’s barely visible over the rolls of her tongue, but the light shimmer of Blaire’s eyeshine allows Freya to pinpoint it, much like a cat’s reflective eye. “You like this thing that much, huh, pet?”

“It, uh, is interesting,” Freya squeaks, her initially quiet brain exploding with thoughts. So many thoughts. Some about how that thick tongue the width and size it’s dragging is able to bunch up so neatly without causing a single bulge. She wonders about its composition, where it goes.

And then these thoughts morph into unapologetically entertaining the possibility of asking her Muse to perhaps be the one on the operating table. To dig deep into Blaire’s bricks and biology to see what’s in there.

Will it be various types of meat? A skeletal structure? Perhaps an array of old clocks? The possibilities are endless with an entity such as Blaire on the table, with non-concrete answers about what her own body is made of. Her Muse is certainly the biological delight and oddity here, no matter how much she says Freya is the one who is that.

Her fingers itch with this desire, swallowing hard.

“You wanna cut me open that bad, huh, smartypants?” Blaire asks knowingly, her eye gleaming, tongue roiling, dripping hot spit over the overheated flesh of Freya’s legs. She aches to spread them wider, but there’s no comfortable way to do so. “Wanna get me on that operating table and see what makes me tick? Cuz I’ll warn you, I HAVE NO IDEA!”

“Yes, yes, please,” Freya stammers, amazed that the idea is even being teased and entertained, like it’s an actual possibility.

“We can maybe talk about that AT SOME POINT, toots! Right now, though, I’m practically salivating over here, so EXCUSE me if I don’t want to wait any longer!

With no prompting, that tongue is dragged, smooth like jello with only the slightest texture, over Freya’s slit and exposed hole. The fingers remain where they are with mild trouble, allowing more lukewarm spit than is comfortable to seep inside her body.

She huffs a small, overwhelmed noise at the touch of a tongue with an almost silicone texture rubbing against her. Like the sex toy of her nightmares. It licks her down again, the amount of spit being secreted being transferred to Freya’s body and thighs, some even making it to her lower belly.

She feels drenched and overheated, squirming into the soft licks that Blaire is giving to her, that tingling already taking effect over her wet skin.

“I’ve barely started!” Blaire snarks, pressing closer and using her hands to nestle as close to Freya as she wants. The strain in Freya’s hips has her grunting, but any attempts at feebly adjusting her body is met by Blaire applying a little more pressure into Freya’s hips. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had something drench you in SALIVA! Taking a hot bath in the stuff is GREAT for rejuvenation! Something you, my geeky friend, need.”

Freya’s feet hang uselessly in the air, swinging with every firm lick of Blaire’s tongue, moving her with its force. The forked tip, just as gelatinous and firm as the rest, but thinner, licks flicks right at her entrance, then dips away. Back to slathering Freya with a possessive amount of fluid. It’s all the way down her thighs, even, shining in the firelight.

“Please, don’t fill up a bathtub with your spit and dunk me in— in it,” Freya nearly whines, thoughts a little hard to put together, like when she has a few too many glasses of wine. Usually courtesy of Blaire.

Blaire snorts into her crotch, tongue flicking at her labia, and then applying a little bit of pressure to Freya’s clit. It feels like heat zapping throughout her body there, tangling through the cords of her spine. She starts gyrating her hips immediately, trying to clumsily hump Blaire’s face for more of that sensation that makes her blood vessels sing.

“Well, there goes my FRIDAY NIGHT PLANS,” Blaire laments in a rather mocking manner. “Spoilsport,” she teases, and simultaneously begins writhing that thick, hot, wet piece of muscle into Freya’s yearning body, finally. “Well, suppose I’ll just stay here, then! You’re probably all the Friday night fun I need, anyhow! Say, has anyone ever told you that you taste great?”

Blaire practically purrs the last word, rolling around inside her triangular body, rumbling out through her appendages like dry thunder on a warm Summer evening. It’s hard not to believe those few, rapturous words, so Freya allows the questionable compliment to bathe her in a warm glow.

Freya’s back arches as she feels that tongue continuously slithering further inside her warm cunt, making itself at home as it paints her walls with sticky, secreted saliva. Maddeningly, the tongue and its spit sits heavy inside of her, like there are stones in her body, weighing her down, keeping her grounded. She feels full from the new pressure of this tongue, managing to both conform to the loose squeeze of Freya’s walls and simultaneously stretch her.

She almost worries she’ll look down and see a moving bulge, but it doesn’t seem to be that far in.

“Not— n- ahh— not really,” Freya mumbles, mostly because Blaire knows she’s never been eaten out, or fingered, or whatever the hell else Blaire has done to her today.

“Well, you do,” Blaire continues pressing, tongue similarly continuously pressing in. She sounds like she’s inhaling through whatever acts as her olfactory. Breathing her in. “I could just about eat you up right here and now! Dangerous, tempting a thing like me. I have little to no self-control, as we’ve established!”

Teeth that had previously not been threats prod sharp canine tips to Freya’s outer lips. Nothing dangerous is touching the more sensitive inner lips, but it seems like Blaire is considering doing so. They drift closer and closer until Freya’s belly is straining, clenching and pulling around that tongue as she arches away from the canines. There’s nowhere to go, however, and she quickly finds her hips trapped.

Those teeth hover there, dangerously nearby, until Freya’s body starts trembling from holding her body so taut, and only then does she move.

“I can do that another time, though,” Blaire relents, allowing Freya to slump back down. “I think I’m pretty content with my mouth buried riiiight here! Practically a GOLDMINE down here for that post-doctorate dweeb smell and taste. IMPOSSIBLE to find this stuff easily around here!”

Freya knows she smells — it’s been a point of contention between her and several libraries beforehand — and it’s been a slightly irritating thing to deal with. It’s impossible to remember something so fickle when she has so many other things going on!

Work is important. It’s always taken priority over her bodily care.

Blaire’s comment, however, instead of being intentionally mean-spirited, seems engrossed in said musk. Perhaps worryingly, the comment has Freya dangerously close to embracing said smell, if that’s what Blaire desires.

“Oh, boy, do I! If you ever decide not to bathe again, rest assured I’ll be there!” Baire assures her, almost conversational even as her tongue burrows further inside, squeezing naturally through Freya’s vaginal canal as though it’s meant to be there. When in reality Freya knows it’s just heavily wet, and the glide is made smooth because of it. “I just can’t get ENOUGH of this natural wet dog smell of yours. Hey, you should try some different FLAVOURS from time to time! For variety!”

She blinks wetly, eyes sticky with tears from the overwhelming sensation, feeling that wet, smooth, and wide tongue between her legs flatten itself in order to fit compactly inside her body.

Once inside, however, it just inflates once more. She feels it the second her entrance is passed as the tongue pulses wide inside her, filling her up much more effectively than bony, long fingers. It curls and throbs inside of her, shifting like a live specimen, and it hits that nice little bundle of nerves with a mean, sharp strike.

Freya thrashes and grunts throatily as her g-spot is momentarily abused, her voice coming out weak and whimpery at the worst moment. She’s breathing fast, feeling close to passing out as her lungs burn, trying to help her work her way through obsessive pleasure.

It’s infinitely hard not to react though, when every touch Blaire gives her makes her want to wail.

Hands shift underneath the weight of her back, her spine aching a little from the strain of how they’re pulled together. She’s slick with sweat and overheating despite being quite naked, though Bill’s holy warmth may have something to do with that.

As Blaire’s tongue cores its way even further into her, the part outside of her body arches a little bit so that the flat top of the tongue can press nicely to Freya’s neglected clit. At the same time as the rubbing, the tongue bunches in on itself inside of her, making sure to hit every good dragging spot along her walls as her g-spot is kindly smoothed over.

Her chest wobbles, breasts bouncing at a particularly nice wash of pleasure, and, as though reminded, the hands that had been so nicely resting around her body come alive all at once. They immediately begin practically worshipping her chest, heaving and gripping her breasts, squeezing tightly.

“These things would make fantastic stress balls during working hours,” Blaire purrs, though there’s a hint of seriousness there that Freya can’t help but be excited by. “Might have to give these babies the ol’ one-two-squeeze when I’m all fidgety-like!” Her fabric-covered fingers flick a nipple, and Freya openly whines.

“I forget that these things are important, too! Even if they are great for stress,” Blaire chirps happily, her voice sounding almost slurred, as though getting slightly tipsy off of Freya’s juices. Her tongue worms further and further, hitting all the good spots as she talks, and Freya can only whimper pathetically on every breath. “They’re not wet or squishy like you are down here,” she says, a hand squeezing at a buttcheek with the groping of a lust-drunk citizen, “and they don’t make the same slick sounds either, but I think I can help!”

Freya doesn’t know what that means, getting lost in the pleasure that she’s been showered with, arching prettily into the tongue that she’s practically riding on. It’s hard to do so at this angle, but some hands on hips allow her to try her best.

Not paying attention to Blaire continues to be her worst mistake yet.

She doesn’t notice, with her eyes closed in bliss, the wet, cavernous opening that opens up dead center in a palm. She doesn’t notice how the hands connected to the arms all around her torso are shifting and morphing, the palms widening, opening up and revealing wet, gaping maws.

A wet dribble of something hot and warm, followed by familiar static, tears her from her pleasure. Her brows furrow together, trying to brush it off as her own sweat, but when it happens again, she starts trying to crack open her eyes.

Only for them to attack.

Something wet and warm with sharp, hard points envelops her areola and nipple on her right breast, feeling suspiciously like a mouth. She cries out, loud, as another one latches onto her other areola, and this one sinks in teeth around the sensitive skin. All at the same time her eyes fly open, the other hands around her body, with palms facing downwards, find separate areas on her torso to bite, and latch on like urchins.

Teeth sink in from all angles, sharp and hard to pinpoint but certainly teeth, combined with the hot, wet shape of a suctioning mouth, attaching to her skin with no mercy.

“You got really lost in the sauce for a minute, there,” Blaire croons, pushing her tongue in so fucking far Freya thinks she feels it in her entire body, made up of nothing but this insane, odd, throbbing pressue. She’s so slick with Blaire’s spit it’s drooling out of her cunt, around Blaire’s tongue. “You back in the present, now?”

She asks, as though Freya’s eyes aren’t currently wide open and confused but horrifically aroused, also. The biting from these odd palms is enlightening and strange, and the sensation of needle-sharp canines sliding into her skin is delicious.

The ones around her breasts close a little, allowing the teeth to prick her nipples, sucking hard enough that Freya knows there will be a nasty bruise there later. In fact, there are nasty bruises all over her. The palms that leave her skin blink at her with eyelids closing, unveiling a giant eyeball back where the mouth had just been. The eyes then disappear, and teeth take place instead, along with miniature slate blue tongues lolling out and dripping with drool.

They then reattach themselves to her, back to biting and sucking and licking all over her torso, overwhelming in number and almost too much.

“Blaire— you-” Freya gasps blindly, looking away from her bruised, hickey-covered chest to peer down at Blaire, still contently seated between her legs, tongue still eagerly writhing through her tight channel. On its way to her cervix, if it presses any deeper.

It’s impossible to stay still, squirming constantly, arching and squeezing tight, a constant litany of unabashed moans falling from teeth-bitten lips. She’s hurtling towards her orgasm, an asteroid in the gravitational pull of a planet. Ready to implode upon contact.

“Singing like a songbird! Finally!” Blaire coos at her, paper-thin and thready, sounding almost like she herself is having trouble. “Think I could truss you up in pretty gold colours like a yellow canary? Maybe even have you SING for me if there’s any CARBON MONOXIDE around! I hear they have just the sweetest song, and I think yours is pretty on par!”

Freya almost wants to bite down on her bottom lip, stop the sounds from escaping her red chest, newly made aware of the whines and cries she’s making. She goes to do so, but suddenly there’s a hand there, with fingers inside her mouth, keeping the hinge of her jaw wide open.

“Oh, no you don’t. Nice try,” Blaire snorts, uncaring of the way Freya bites at her. She’s drooling, a flush of spit coming out from her mouth around the fingers in her maw, soaking her shirt. “I’m not going back to silence! I’m progressive, and I LIKE this change!”

Freya, unable to do anything else, moans wantonly around the hands wedged between her molars, feeling her wet eyes threaten to leak.

Her orgasm is right there, approaching fast like she’s on a high-speed rail car, speeding towards her inevitable crashing and burning. Her moans begin to rise in volume and pitch, tightening and pleading garbled attempts at Blaire’s name and nickname. Sometimes both at the same time.

Blaire just watches her, but things seem to double in effort. Everything picks up tenfold, and it all combines into this wonderful amalgamation of different sensations, all singing at once with each other. Freya feels like she’s bursting apart, like the cracks that appear on her body are being shone through with blinding, holy, rapturous light.

There’s no sign that anything is wrong, not up until it happens.

Freya almost makes it to that beautiful, fiery explosion, and then it’s cruelly ripped away from her.

Again.

With no way to close her mouth, a vulgar cry of debased frustration escapes her, ripped from her throat like an unripe apple from a young tree. Blaire just laughs at her.

“Well, with the volume on that vocalization, I do declare you’ve been holding out on me!” The Muse sneers, ministrations slow and soft enough that Freya can’t find enough friction to reach any sort of climax with. “Is the only way for me to hear you really SCREAM by working for it?”

Freya, panting heavily, body covered in hickeys and shallowly bleeding bite marks, sweating profusely, simply scowls.

“Heh, lucky for YOU, I’m an all work, no play kinda gal!”

Freya’s contempt shines through before she can quite stop it, her frustration genuine, desperate for a proper orgasm after going so long without it. This is absolute torture.

This awful, terrible creature is her torturer.

All movement fully stops, and the silence and stillness has Freya tensing badly.

“+What was that+?”

Right, Blaire can hear her thoughts. Shit. Freya mentally curses herself, all frustration completely leaving her as she feels instead like she made a terrible mistake.

That tongue begins pulling out, slow and dragging despite Freya’s best attempts at clenching around it, and the suctioning hands on her torso all begin to lift away, hovering around her like snake heads. Taking away the stimulation entirely is so much worse than just being edged, and the threat of leaving her here is all it takes for Freya to crumble like a dry sand castle.

“A— a mistaken thought, my— my Muse,” Freya swallows around a whimper, getting terribly close to falling apart, to having a, god forbid, tantrum simply because Blaire stopped giving her that sweet sweet nectar of pleasure.

“That,” Blaire snarls, claws digging in and dragging along her shins, “is not enough this time. Would you rather I just LEAVE you here? I can DO THAT! You’ll be the one left WANTING, though, pal. I don’t think this is the sort of situation you can insult your way through.”

The claws drag a short way, but they’re deep and slow enough that Freyga gives way underneath the pressure like wet parchment. She presses her head back, into the couch, at the painful treatment, even if, oddly enough, it still feels good. Even with her skin being torn to ribbons, bitten, and treated like someone else’s property, her crossed wires seem to think it’s the best thing in the world.

Blaire’s tongue pops out of her with a sloshing, disgusting wet noise and a rush of saliva, leaving behind an empty, gaping cavern in the shape of Blaire. Freya can’t even close her legs around her Muse, held as they are by Blaire’s arms.

“No, please, don’t leave!” Freya gasps, halfway wet eyes blinking furiously at Blaire’s golden angles, unable to quite meet that thin, searing eye. “I— every second that I spend with you is a— a blessing,” she manages, desperately, and Blaire’s sharp claws stop dragging. They end halfway up her thighs, and the canyons in her skin dribble blood down her pink, throbbing flesh. “Your touch is a blessing I don’t– don’t deserve. Please don’t— please don’t leave me. You— you… complete me.”

Blaire’s frown gives way to something barely softer. Her tongue doesn’t slip back into her eye, leaving it instead hanging rather grotesque from her gaping mouth. It doesn’t disappear though, which is what matters.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head! I’m not going anywhere. I just can’t have my sweet little lady thinking she can just call me WHATEVER she wants, right?” Blaire soothes, hands turning gentle in a second. Her tongue even adds to the sweetness by squirming its way back inside a previously empty channel

“Discipline is IMPORTANT! Without it, you’d just go off and say whatever you want willy nilly! Maybe even have some THOUGHTS! But you’re such a good girl I think you understand just fine.”

Freya nods her head before she’s even 100% sure what she’s agreeing to. The praise is doing something to her, of course it is. Even though it’s being slightly framed as though Blaire is a dog trainer and Freya is her loyal, albeit stubborn, hound. A desperate mutt that’s prepared to roll over and show its belly to the first predator that gives her a lick of praise.

She’s okay with that, as long as it’s Blaire.

Blaire’s eyelid lowers slightly over its gaping vastness, her distant pupil appearing hazy. Just before her tongue returns to coring through her, she purrs, “just make sure to make some actual noise, kid. I’m not one of those performers who like an empty or dull AUDIENCE! I need some FEEDBACK once in a while!”

Whether Freya wanted to make a sound or not, a sharp noise that has her burning up like a lab fire in embarrassment tears from her throat at the practical punch delivered inside her body. Blaire’s tongue gains some mass as it spears its way through her, making itself at home, where it’s welcome.

Freya’s legs try to close, wanting to wrap around Blaire’s angles, but the arms around her legs won’t allow it. The aching pain in her hips returns as her legs are pushed wide, not exactly the most flexible person for this.

Then there’s a finger pressing against her stretched entrance underneath the tongue from one of the hands under her rear, and, oh, moses, that, combined with the thick gloopiness of Blaire’s tongue, opens her up a bit more. With this finger, carefully joined by another, comes a return from the fingers within her real life counterpart, having been lying in wait.

She completely forgot about them, having assumed their job was done. Apparently not, however, as Freya can feel that muddled and not-quite-there but also there pressure of fingers diving into her cunt.

When she gets a flickering vision, she finds herself face down in the circle, hips held up by hands, actively fingered. Her body seems to be reacting, even, as her own hands scrape and claw at the floorboards, gathering dried goat’s blood and wood underneath her fingernails.

She comes back to her current reality, hiccuping on every breath, desperation coursing through her body as she feels that coiling mass takes place a little bit quicker now. She’s oversensitive and overexerted, but she desperately wants to reach that peak. It’s entirely up to Blaire whether that happens, however. Freya knows better than to assume a simple, one-worded plea would be enough to convince her Muse. A being who does not have to be here, doing this.

“You know, I haven’t really figured it out, EITHER!” Blaire laughs into her cunt, though her voice comes from all around. “Just kind of making decisions on the fly! You know how it is. Could do THIS, could do THAT. So many choices!”

“Please?” Freya gasps, as if that’s enough.

It is, of course, not.

“I dunnoooo,” Blaire drawls, fingers curving around the tongue inside her body to get at her g-spot with a single, teasing stroke. It’s almost agonizing, to feel such pleasure and know she won’t get a sufficient amount of it. “I’m kinda curious as to how much of this your metaphysical metabag can even TAKE! I’m betting, hm, maybe THREE MORE DENIALS before you start blubbering!”

That sounds like torture. Inaccurate, too.

She’ll probably start blubbering on the next denial. Though it’s sweet of Blaire to assume she can take more than she really can.

“Pushing you to your very limits, that’s my game!” Blaire purrs, her tongue waving through Freya’s body, curving up and down like the rocking motions of a wave. Freya swears she sees her belly distend a few times, though it’s far too tiny to properly notice. “I’ve got all the time in the world to really put you to the test. I could spare a full night just for this.”

“My Muse, please! I want to— I want-” Freya whines, feeling rather threatened.

“Oho! Pulling out the big guns!” Blaire comments, finger and tongue both just missing that good spot inside of her. She’s so pent up, however, that even the sensation of being filled would be enough. “OH, but I really wanna know how much it takes to make your body drop. Or, y’know, we could go with how many ORGASMS you can handle instead! Would you rather that?”

“I’d rather just reach one good one and– nn- a- and be done with it,” Freya protests weakly, chest hiccuping.

“BZZT. Not fun enough, try again,” Blaire immediately shuts that down, tongue and fingers even slowing down slightly. Freya is very careful to keep her thoughts under control this time. “I want at least one more orgasm outta ya, kid. Don’t go cutting corners, now. Suggest something equally as FUN and MAYBE I won’t spend my valuable time PICKING YOU APART.”

Something fun, something fun.

Something equally as fun as denial or overstimulation. Oh, dear.

It’s hard to think properly with distracting fingers being pushed into her lower-half, but she can handle it. She thinks of different positions, though they’re all too exhaustive to pull off, and seem to be ones that Blaire doesn’t think are “fun” enough. Identified by Blaire audibly going, “NAH” to those choices.

And then— there.

“Oooh, THERE’S something, hold that one!” Blaire’s body jerks with excitement, and Freya quickly attempts to hold onto that slippery idea her brain had been ready to throw away.

She’s apparently fallen onto the idea of scissoring. The image in her brain is a little jumbled, not quite able to construct a full image of what the position would look like between them, but the basic impression is there; the intention.

“We’re doing that one,” Blaire tells her firmly, fingers skating up and down her body, at the thick slopes of her hips which make for great handles, using these spots to haul her closer to Blaire’s mouth. “Looks like a fun little pretzel situation to me! Sure you have the flexibility for that?”

“It shouldn’t be that difficult, my Muse,” Freya scoffs, though quickly tones down her snappish tone as she uses Blaire’s favourite title.

“Something tells me you don’t usually stretch,” Blaire purrs, her tongue fattening inside of Freya.

It allows a sweet little burn to take over, something she doesn’t shy away from. Blaire’s hands around her torso pick up once more, squeezing with fingers and biting with mouths. At the rolls of her skin, the curve of her belly, at her breasts, her nipples and hips and waist. All parts Blaire touches with a sort of reverence that Freya would not have expected. She’s practically clawing at Freya in her intense desire to grab at every part of her that she can.

Freya grinds freely against Blaire’s mouth, feeling the blunt sides of Blaire’s teeth meeting her hip movements. Never catching on sensitive skin, thankfully. The danger doesn’t stop her in the least, in fact, it just gets her going.

Blaire practically hisses into her cunt, the sloppy noises that are happening down there a result of her tongue constantly emitting a disgusting amount of viscous spit. Freya feels it inside her body, sloshing within her, pushed inside her vaginal canal with every haphazard, coiled thrust of Blaire’s tongue.

“MAN, do you hear that? How wet you are?” Blaire croons, momentarily purposefully making as many wet noises as she possibly can. Slick squelching reaches Freya’s ears, popping of bubbles and suctioning noises of a greedy cunt. It’s horrifying. “You sound like a Wet ‘n Wild waterpark! Pretty much just as slippery and fun, too!”

“Blaire- B- bah, Muse! I’m gonna, I- ‘m gonna— gonna!” Freya gasps out desperately, feeling her body tightening with that golden hurt syrup inside her body, filling out her pores and tendons and any and all cavities. Her toes curl, body jerking and writhing through different positions to have Blaire hit her in that one spot.

“Hold your horses, we’ll get you there,” Blaire snorts at her eagerness, holding her close and touching her with possessive, owning hands as that tongue curls up to undulate perfectly against her g-spot. At the same time, the fingers of her “real” body seem to crook, the flashes of hot, sharp pleasure ricocheting through her brain as well, through an entirely different body. Doubling the pleasure.

And— and this all seems perfect until she realizes it feels different.

The coiling of that tight heated chain feels… odd. She’s not sure why, though perhaps it’s a wrongness in how her body is positioned. She’s left to whimper and whine in confused incoherency, the dizziness within her brain from how badly she wants to cum making it hard to care about her volume.

She tries to brush it off, but it only seems to get worse. Building and building, like running water in a blocked hose. It’s a strange and unfamiliar pressure building within her gut, which has Freya mildly panicking.

“W- wai— wait,” Freya mutters through a gasp, her voice terribly wrecked. Her arms fidget within their bindings, flexing and pulling, desperate to escape this new, strange sensation that’s growing within her body. It’s mounting dangerously, her eyes opening wide with anxiety.

Blaire does not stop, nor does she respond.

Through the wet squelching, it’d honestly be a miracle if she even heard Freya’s plea. She says, again and louder, “B— Blaire! Blaire, wait, something is— st— ah— stop!”

Her g-spot is struck in tandem with the type of precision that says Blaire has been avoiding the gland this entire time. Freya shouts, jerking as she’s held fast.

“You JUST wanted to cum! You were just BEGGING for it! I’m getting mixed signals here, y’know,” Blaire crows, “don’t tell me you CHANGED your mind! I don’t think I’ll be this nice again if that’s the case, hun.”

Gradually, as she’s forced closer and closer to the unsure and new edge, that fear within Freya almost completely dies out. Her body is tightening, curling in on itself, feeling pain and pleasure from two different parts of her body amassing together into something sweet. The pressure spikes, and Freya’s hips jerk around messily.

She’s so close, a knife’s edge away from falling apart completely. Need and anxiety fight with each other, growing stronger with each second of this unique coiling sensation she experiences.

“No, no, I want to— I just- I— Mu- Muse!” She tries to garble out to no avail, her questionable orgasm sneaking up on her out of nowhere. It feels like she was just at the bottom of a treacherous mountain and within seconds she finds herself abruptly reaching the tip top.

One of the palm-mouths leaves her torso to chomp down on her shoulder, nearly taking the entire bone into its mouth and Freya cums so hard with both bodies that her vision blinds her with gold. A half-strangled yell tears from both her waking and sleeping mouths of overwhelmed pleasure, crying out in tandem, and Freya registers fluid.

Something comes squirting out of her body, a strong stream of semi-clear liquid that practically gushes from her urethra. A wave of relief washes over her with the heightened pleasure she’s feeling, almost too much.

Blaire pulls her head away from Freya’s cunt in order to watch, but leaves her tongue messily thrusting into her well-used hole, helping prolong this very wet orgasm. Her golden carapace is flooded with this new liquid, an audible splattering reaching Freya’s ears despite her eyes being squeezed tightly shut.

She convulses through wave after wave of pleasure, jerking and trembling through the ride. It just seems to go on forever, even as the sound in Freya’s throat dies down into a soundless scream.

Her cunt is left gushing weakly over Blaire’s tongue, and Freya finds herself nearly sobbing dry. Slowly, gradually, the stream dies down, as does the intense orgasm she had been subjected to. She sobs properly when Blaire hits her sweet spot, one last spurt of liquid escaping her cunt.

She’s left tingling and spent, aftershocks rippling through her poor body, thighs streaked with liquid, still messily held aloft. Blaire’s tongue and all four fingers continue moving, quite gently rocking into her sopping cunt. The downright painful overstimulation has Freya’s thighs trying and failing to draw together, whimpering openly.

“Nnn— no- no more…” she grunts, finding herself terribly helpless when she puts some effort into trying to sit up. She’s stuck in arms though, and she simply slumps back into the couch, chest heaving, still collecting herself.

Blaire grins at her as she stops her tongue and fingers, though the two in her other body press in twice more before finally drawing out. The retreat is done with the slowness of someone who really doesn’t want to pull out.

Freya goes even further limp as she’s left empty and clenching weakly around phantom sensations. Blaire’s arms slowly begin to unwrap from her thick thighs, snaking through bloodied rivulets caused by clawing hands. Her legs eagerly fall from Blaire’s shoulders, still-clothed feet slapping onto the floor with twin heavy thuds.

“Huh! Gross! THAT was new!” Blaire finally comments, her voice a little muffled, Freya’s ears feeling slightly plugged from her intense… orgasm? It sure felt like one.

She looks down her shaking, twitching body, easily finding that thin, watery liquid that she had managed to get all over the couch and Blaire’s carapace. It’s literally dripping from her, splattering onto the floorboards below with the slightest pattering sounds.

“I— I have no idea what that was,” Freya gasps quietly, once again trying to shuffle herself upright, and still failing even with usage of her legs. Blaire grabs her with her two attached hands, hefting her upright and allowing her to properly sit against the backrest. Her neck aches with relief. “Thank you. And- and my apologies. For- for the mess.”

“What mess?” Blaire says innocently and her tongue, that had still been writhing around in the air with nothing to do, takes it upon itself to clean up Freya’s mess. Over Freya’s thighs, through her folds — to which she hisses in oversensitivity for — and then to Blaire’s own brickwork. Her tongue drags itself almost seductively over her seams, across the glossiness of her own surface, under her stained bowtie, and then once over her eye before returning to its rightful pocket dimension.

The wetness underneath Freya, and on the floor, is pointedly not cleaned.

“I don’t see ANY mess!”

Freya snorts quietly, smiling a little at her Muses’ antics, feeling a little bit better about whatever that was.

“Plus, I’ll TELL you what that was!” Blaire says, pressing comfortably closer to her, nearly sitting atop her thighs, her hands sitting on Freya’s shoulders as if Freya is going to look away. “You, my knowledgeable pet who needs to educate herself on her own body, just SQUIRTED!!!”

Blaire throws up her hands and, at the same time, confetti and noisemakers both come to life. Confetti rains down from just above, multi-coloured and shiny, and twin noisemakers appear on either side of Blaire’s shoulders, unraveling with two loud FWEEEE sounds.

Freya flinches at the abrupt sound, but just as quickly as they came, the noisemakers leave. She watches the confetti flutter down and onto her tacky skin, and onto Blaire’s tophat as well, making a slight mess.

“Was the celebration necessary?” Freya asks wryly, internally wondering about how she had squirted. She’d heard of it, of course, but it was so out of her line of thought that she could squirt that it never crossed her mind. She’s heard it’s difficult to achieve, though a couple of draining edges doesn’t seem that impossible.

Well, everyone’s bodies are different, she supposes, and she’s been quite out of the loop of anything sexual, so it would make sense she’d be “easy”.

Those tightly holding arms around Freya’s torso finally begin to loosen from her body. Unravelling slowly and sinking back into the ground, Freya looks down at her body, finding red lines where Blaire’s arms had been holding her stretching all across her body. Not to mention the various bruises, hickey’s, scratch marks, bite marks, and blood she’s sporting. She looks like she had a run in with a bear in rut.

“EXTREMELY,” Blaire hollars into her face, booming voice shaking through the couch. “They’re edible, too! If you’re into that kinda thing.”

“Are they?” Freya asks, eying a piece of confetti that’s sitting upon her bare thigh.

“Everything’s edible at LEAST once,” Blaire informs her very helpfully, wasting no time in grabbing her by the waist, with two large hands, holding her quite firmly. With a grip strength that’s always surprising, Freya finds herself hoisted upwards and, for a second, she’s treated to the very unfamiliar sensation of being manhandled.

She panics a little like a large dog unused to being carried, but she’s only turned around a little to face the rest of the couch and Blaire puts her back down, patting her twice on her noggin.

“Alright, that’s enough CHIT CHAT. Time to uphold that beautiful brain image! Better not chicken out on me!”

“Of course not,” Freya brushes off immediately, becoming slightly riled up at the idea. She’s still sore, and the movement of her thighs rubbing together and applying pleasure to her cunt has her twitching, but she’s never been one to back down from a challenge. “I did say we could.”

“Upholding your end of the deal, I like it,” Blaire chimes back, looking concentrated as she floats up and over whilst enlarging herself to be a bit bigger than Freya herself. She takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch, the two facing each other.

Even despite her intense, ahem, squirting orgasm, Freya knows she has one more in her. On rare occasions when she does give into those baser needs and tends to herself, the limit always seemed to be two. Sometimes three, if she were particularly pent up that day and had the time to spare.

She won’t be quite satisfied with only one climax rocking through her, and she can already feel stirrings of interest in her lower belly.

Blaire scoots towards Freya, knocking aside her crossed legs to sit between the limbs. She spreads her own legs and Freya’s gaze zips downwards despite knowing nothing is there.

Except…

Blaire brings one of her hands down, two of her fingers framing the seams on either side of the middle-most brick between her legs.

“This isn’t normally there,” the Muse says, practically purring as her fingers visibly flex, encouraging that brick to soften. It visibly loses its solid surface, allowing some give as Blaire’s fingertips press at the pliable skin. Then it opens. “But you had some pretty good ideas in that noggin’ of yours! SO intriguing, in fact, that not abusing the fact I can do whatever I want in your mindscape seems like a waste of CREATIVE ABILITY!”

Freya watches, amazed and dumbstruck, as, between Blaire’s two fingers, a slit opens up. Golden yellow like her bricks, but slowly forming lips and a slit and a clit and all. Two puffy lips rise on either side of Blaire’s self-made vagina, about the same size as Freya’s, though everything is a bit bigger considering Blaire’s size.

Everything about the sexual organ is the same, except there are teeth growing outwards from the outside of Blaire’s cunt, and her fingers lift away to allow the sharper-than-most canines to grow properly, almost like flower petals. Sharp and canid in nature, much like the practical fangs hiding within Blaire’s maw.

“What… is with the teeth?” Freya asks curiously, reaching up to adjust her glasses on her face only to remember she lost them. Her hands return to her lap, obscuring the view of her curls, as though there’s anything to hide anymore.

She’s sure she’d be more into the teeth if it were her mouth on Blaire instead, but if her and her Muse are on the same page about what position they want to get into, it just looks terribly painful.

“What, not to your style?” Blaire asks teasingly, obviously smiling at the warines in Freya’s eyes. Peering at her like a dog, unsure, but willing to do what is asked of her despite this.

“I’m just not quite sure if female genitalia usually has teeth, is all,” Freya says and then, after a pregnant pause, corrects, “that’s not from a tumour or growth, of course.”

“Being inclusive, I like it. We’ll come back to this later,” Blaire decides, and the teeth sink back down, absorbed into soft brick.

Freya can muse about her Muses’ body modification abilities later, as her attention is drawn properly to Blaire’s cunt. Those black, clawed fingers return, back to framing puffy lips and making them jut out even further. Her fingers press down, pulling at those smooth, glossy folds, spreading them apart to properly show off the female genitalia that looks vaguely familiar. Slick spreads apart from the folds with its self-lubrication abilities, and Freya’s mouth practically waters.

She has to mentally get a hold of herself.

“It’s based off of yours,” Blaire says smartly, sounding proud of herself, her own eye peering down the plane of her body, past her little black bowtie. She manages to sound coy, eye-half lidded as it blinks up to watch Freya stare openly. “You like it?”

A rhetorical question, surely, but Freya still nods along without thought.

“I can’t say I was quite expecting that, considering I was under the impression you have no genitalia, but…” Freya manages, finally tearing her own eyes back up to meet Blaire’s bulging own. Pupil dilated heavily, watching Freya with a hunger that she has to force herself not to shrink under. “It’s very pretty, my Muse.”

She’s not one to give genitals any sort of descriptive words like that, but Blaire’s are just truly nice to look at. A gorgeous, shiny colour, slick and soft and beautifully sculpted despite this being her Muse’s first attempt at making such a thing.

Pretty is really the only word that fits.

Blaire smiles, pleased. She looks like a hungry beast this way, with carnivorous intent in every atom of her being. It’s terrifying to feel so preyed upon; so wanted.

“Yours is almost as nice,” Blaire says smarmily, despite admitting that her own genitals are based upon Freya’s. “But you ARE right about ONE thing!” She crows, volume rising once more as the moment ends, “I don’t HAVE GENITALS! This baby,” she gives her lips a hard smack, something which would have Freya yowling, “isn’t real! I just shifted some parts around on my body, shifted some bricks away, put in some random bodily fluids, and BOOM WHAM POW, I have a human PUSSY!”

That makes sense, she supposes. She believes Blaire mentioned once in passing that her species’ procreation wasn’t something 3D beings could participate in. Freya hums, peering at Blaire’s cunt, and asks an inquisitive, “will you feel… anything, then? Pleasure, I mean? If it just looks like genitalia, does it act like it, too?”

“I can feel the pressure, and it’ll feel NICE, but I won’t SQUIRT ON YOU if that’s what you’re asking! It isn’t real, and it’s more for show than anything PLEASURABLE. But I figured you’d rather have something SOFT to grind against instead of something HARD,” Blaire further explains, her fingers leaving her folds and grabbing on Freya instead, beginning to situate them.

“Interesting,” Freya says, fingers itching a little, hoping she’ll remember the important parts of this conversation for her journal. Or… perhaps she should put it in a separate journal. That may be wise. “So what else can you—”

“Let’s save that for LATER, pal! We haven’t even gotten to the good bit yet!” Blaire shushes her, scooting forward a little more and using her hands on Freya’s body to tug her closer as well. Their legs rub together as they sit close enough to feel the other’s warmth, which has Freya’s breathing picking up slightly.

Freya’s right leg is swung up and over Blaire’s slant, resting on a leg that nestled underneath. Her other leg is underneath Blaire’s, allowing her Muse control of the situation. She ducks her head, pressing her chin to her chest, eyes wide, chest heaving, feeling the heat from Blaire’s body seeping into her own. Her hand tingles where it holds tight onto Blaire’s slant, nervous.

Their cunts are so close together, practically a good shuffle apart. Completely opposite colours, yet exact copies. Freya shudders a nervous exhale.

“Let’s not let that sensitivity go to waste, shall we?” Blaire croons, and heaves herself that last bit closer.

The first drag of Blaire’s own warm, slick lips against Freya’s own is heavenly. A wet, velvety glide, a warm drag of liquid medicinal pleasure. Freya sighs sweetly at the touch, certainly a little too sensitive, shifting backwards only for Blaire’s possessive hands to grip her waist and shoulder, keeping her close.

“Don’t make me HOLD YOU DOWN again, pal,” Blaire says, holding her tight.

Biting her bottom lip, Freya tentatively rocks her hips forwards when Blaire does, and the resulting pressure is enough to have her mouth falling open, eyes lidding heavily. She’s burning with warmth, her face and neck and shoulders surely red enough to be a cause for concern in any other situation.

It’s a lot, and the pleasure is almost nerve-wracking in its intensity. An itch she both needs to scratch and fears over-scratching.

She hunches over on herself as she and Blaire fall into a sort of stuttery rhythm. Blaire isn’t nearly as affected, as predicted, though her eye is certainly lidded, consistently locked onto Freya’s body with a fuzziness to her pupil. Her inability to blush doesn’t stop the extra heat coming from the space just under her eye, nor the slight furrow to her brow.

She’s affected, even if it is to the slightest extent.

“B- Blaire,” Freya whimpers as the pleasure begins to bleed together, as their pace begins to pick up, overstimulation giving way to desperation. There’s not a single second where their cunts aren’t kissing, constantly in contact.

The wet sounds emitting from their slotted legs and rubbing clits is slick, though not as bad as when Blaire had a tongue pressing through her. The pleasure is hot and molten, different to the press of blunt pleasure filling her up from inside, though no less enjoyable. Both of her hands scrabble at Blaire’s surface, nails catching on brick seams and nearly catching on Blaire’s bowtie.

“You really don’t do this often, d’ya, kid?” Blaire asks nasally, her hand slipping from Freya’s shoulder to grip at the roundness of her hip, claws digging in tightly. She gets a good handhold and forcibly begins dragging Freya into her own body, grinding in cruelly at the same time. She grins openly at Freya’s fragmented gasp, of a name and a plea and a desperate sob all in one.

“Fuck,” Freya bites in turn, eyes going glassy at the too-much sensation. When her hips stutter, trying to momentarily stop, Blaire forces her to keep going, moving without pause. There’s a burning in her belly, in her cunt. An overwhelming sensation, though any attempts at slowing down has Blaire gripping her hard enough to break skin, forcing her to keep going.

Just the slick drag of Blaire’s lips on hers is enough to have her shuddering like a dog in the rain, head bowing, shoulders rising, teeth grit. She’s ducked down far enough she’s inches away from giving Blaire a face-first ticket to her thicket of hair.

A new hand appears even though there are still two hands tightly holding Freya, coiling into her hair and tangling within the short, curly strands. Even though it’s done so very slowly, Freya doesn’t connect the dots until that hand takes grip, then yanks.

Freya grunts, eyes flying halfway open as her head is yanked up and then back, forcing her spine into a backwards arch courtesy of Blaire’s stretchable and summonable arms. The pain aches, and it feels almost as bad as it does when she catches the bristles of her hairbrush in her curls, but there’s something different about now that makes it much easier to handle.

Makes it almost decadent, the pain pricking and pulling due to her tensely held hair, yet leaves her wanting more. She tries to push into the hand holding her, to lessen the sensation that’s just toeing the line of too much, but Blaire just pulls her a little harder, worsening the pressure.

“Aww, you’re all blushy wushy,” Blaire coos in a soft tone that insinuates kindness, but with just enough of a mocking drawl for it to burn. Like a handprint etched into Freya’s face from a raging hand. “Is my little genius getting a little overwhelmed?” Her hand tightens slightly just to watch Freya squirm, hips rising, and then loosening to allow her to fall back down.

The Muse bucks her hips, sending Freya all out of the careful rhythm she had amassed. Blaire peers at her struggling face with nothing short of a gaze that makes the human feel strewn apart. Like she’s been vivisected and dissected and surgically taken apart, and every single layer of her body is on display for Blaire to appreciate.

“Ngh— not—” Freya gasps weakly, practically hiccuping over the words, ruddy face so far from the calm and collected scientist she prefers to masquerade as. It almost feels like there’s nothing else to hide, not when she’s been stripped and ruined.

Her gums itch, the nerves inside of her teeth itching. Like when she eats specific foods and her teeth themselves feel as though they need a good scratching on the inside, though impossible to achieve without bloody results.

She shakes off Blaire’s loose hand that’s allowing her scalp a momentary rest, surges up, then bites. Clamps her teeth nice and firm on either side of Blaire’s very slightly 3D slant. The solid texture and the harshness of her jaws coming together has her brain rattling around inside her skull, eyes squeezing shut as her teeth ache slightly.

It’s like biting a bulletproof stained glass window. One which is very slightly malleable.

Her teeth sink in the slightest bit with the pressure she exerts, though there’s no cracking sound within her mouth that a solid surface breakage would entail. It just kind of feels like biting clay that’s very nearly completely dry, though still slightly soft.

She relinquishes her mouth with a panting sigh, registering the fact Blaire has gone eerily still — including her hips — and leans away. Her Muse is staring at her with her one unreadable, wide, bulging eye. Shiny in the firelight and yet sending slight shivers down Freya’s spine.

“Oho, you wanna play rough, d’ya? You wanna be my CHEW TOY?” Blaire growls, and reacts.

She grotesquely stretches her polymer-clay soft body to stretch up and over Freya’s shoulder, eye morphing into a mouth and chomping down with the same intensity as Freya. Her entire mouth is big enough to swallow Freya’s entire skull if she wanted, but she instead seems to want to envelop Freya’s entire shoulder within that gaping, dripping maw.

Canines sink into soft skin, sinking deep and causing sharp bursts of pain-pleasure to take over Freya’s fire-lit nerves. She feels like an apple as Blaire sinks her teeth in as deep as they’ll go, gums touching Freya’s skin, wet tongue laving over her aching shoulder.

At the same time, her hips force Freya’s own into action again, which she eagerly allows, if only to have the pleasure balance out the pain, which it very much does.

Freya almost screams from the bite, though her neck subconsciously stretches to the side to allow Blaire more room to work her teeth deeper, if she desires. Which she seems to, biting down like a dog aiming to kill.

Blood seeps from the puncture wounds, little crimson rivulets flowing down from Freya’s shoulder, down her arms and back and her chest, smeared into her skin. Blaire lifts off nicely, satisfied, slow enough for Freya to feel every inch of her lengthy canines leaving her skin, and more blood comes pouring out from the unblocked puncture marks, which Blaire eagerly wastes no time in cleaning with her tongue.

She purrs as she licks up every drop, getting as much as she can into her mouth.

Freya is left breathing even heavier by the end, the sharp pain from the many-pronged bite leaving her tingling and a little dizzy. She whines as Blaire irritates the wounds, making them spill more blood while she moves away.

“It is hard not to just bite you as much as I want!” Blaire comments with a mean little grind that has Freya threatening to keel over. She feels fever-hot, burning up with the desperation of a woman-starved. “My teeth just sink RIGHT IN! With the perfect crunch and everything! Everything about your body is great as a stress toy, y’know that? And THAT’S hard to achieve! I really think I will swing by sometimes and give you a nice little squeeze here and there! For MORALE.”

As though proving a point, Blaire reaches out another new hand to begin groping Freya’s sizable chest once more, heedless of Freya’s bowing back trying to escape the stimulation. Blaire’s left hand comes into the fray to grope at a completely non-sexual part of her body, her thighs, and begins kneading that amount of skin there despite her little whimpers.

The idea of Blaire groping her whilst she works is only a little bit worrying, though not because of any workplace etiquette or the like. It more so stems from the fear that Freya may startle and break something.

“Fair point!” Blaire chimes, apparently actively rifling through the absolute mess that is Freya’s brain, grinning lecherously. “Maybe I’ll tone it down to only groping you when you’re working with something breakable.”

“I’d prefer— hngh— Muse– p- prefer you do it on a break,” Freya stammers back, wincing openly at the rusty iron wince of her voice. She’s so wrought with pleasure she barely notices the warmth of saliva on her lip, threatening to dribble slowly down her chin. She’s losing herself to the pleasure, and it is wonderful to give in.

“HA!” Blaire barks, body jostling with the force, “you don’t take breaks!”

If Freya were feeling especially adventurous, she might dare to call Blaire’s tone a pout.

“I can- I can take some for— for you, my Muse.”

Blaire makes a pleased, low sound, seemingly liking that as she bends down to envelop Freya’s right breast this time, moving aside her hand to sink down. It’s just as brutal and deep as the last one, edging too-painful but never quite crossing over that thin threshold.

Freya’s eyes go glassy with tears, peering at the surprisingly soft, rounded bend of Blaire’s body, somehow managing to hinge despite her body being solid brick. She bites twice at Freya’s chest, hauling her close to both grind firmly against her and bite once more over the already made bites, deepening them.

She finally rises back up once there’s blood flowing, teeth that rise out of her waterline red-tinged and pressing against her aqueous humour, tinging it pink.

Blaire bares these teeth at Freya’s open mouth, drooling, blinking rapidly as though that would help her collect herself. Any progress is ruined by a nice, warm grind of wet lips against her own soaked cunt, hands possessively kneading her body like warm dough.

“Cutesy little thing with a dumbed down brain, aren’t you? No harm no foul, brainiac,” Blaire purrs, and starts leveraging herself upwards, “you needa have that overworked brain turned off sometimes! Even the smartest minds need a way to cool down.”

Freya is toppled over with Blaire’s shifting weight, scrabbling hands doing nothing to lessen the tilt of her body, nor the brief separation of their cunts. She tries to use her stomach muscles to stay upright, but a clawed hand is placed on her straining abdomen and she’s pushed the rest of the way down.

A rush of air escapes her as she falls flat on her back, slightly propped up by some pillows against the couch armrest. Blaire moves atop her, nearly straddling Freya as her own dripping cunt comes back into contact with Freya’s. It feels like more, just from the position change.

“Or is that heat up?” Blaire asks smarmily, a hand resting along the gaping, glassy-eyed cheek of Freya’s face, red-hot and failing to look unbothered. “I could probably cook at least a hundred eggs on your skin with the heat you’re letting off! Don’t go into cardiac arrest! Well, not RIGHT NOW at least.”

Freya truly is practically burning up, sweaty and exhausted and desperate for rest, but her desire to reach her growing orgasm is stronger. Cardiac arrest or not. Plus, now she barely has to do any of the work as Blaire practically rides her, grinding on her with slow, firm thrusts, shoving Freya’s own hips into the couch.

“Muse, my— my Muse,” Freya whimpers, barely able to worry about the sounds she’s emitting as she’s ridden into the couch. Blaire’s expressions are impossible to avoid, lit up as she is by her own portable glow. This way, Freya gets a first-row seat to Blaire’s half-lidded eye, pupil slit intensely, focused entirely on the human beneath her.

It’s impossible for her to blush considering she’s allegedly made out of light itself, but the mild heavy breathing Freya has to strain to hear tells her that her Muse is feeling something.

“You’re mine,” Blaire hisses at her in a sharp tone change, two hands above her shoulder sprouting from the seams of her bricks, planting themselves on Freya’s breasts, eyeless palms rubbing over dusky, bloodied nipples and sensitive flesh. Her other hands grip Freya by the waist and thigh, further pressing it towards her belly, allowing Blaire to get as close as she wants.

She’s all hard angles and bright, blinding light, but she’s soft where it counts; where they grind together, syncing breaths chasing a peak that Blaire cannot reach. Possessive nails dig into Freya’s skin from the hands littered across her body, digging claws deep enough that she feels them taking root within her epidermis.

The pace picks up, almost violent and cruel in how Blaire grinds down on her, Freya’s pelvic bone and clit both aching underneath the pressure. Things still manage to stay soft and smeary as her pleasure continues to rise, beginning to peak, as her moans rise in pitch. She writhes like a creature in a snare underneath her Muses’ weight, unable to escape the pleasure.

“Do you hear me, Pines?” Blaire hisses, a new hand gripping Freya by her chin, shaking her head side to side to catch her undivided, wet attention. Blaire has leaned in closer, forcing Freya’s legs wide, pupil burning. “You’re mine. You’re not FIddlesticks, or anyone else’s that you’ve managed to meet or somehow make like you. You’re my property, my charge. MINE.”

Freya nods breathlessly, wincing at the pleasure and ache of her hips, only for Blaire’s hand around her chin to tilt, pressing her head back into the couch cushions, eyes angled towards the ceiling which, previously unnoticed, is full of stars and galaxies.

Blaire distorts her body in order to nudge into Freya’s neck, delivering a quick, sharp bite right over her jugular, a rather possessively charged action. Not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to remind Freya of the danger of the god above her.

“Say it,” Blaire coaxes as she lifts herself from Freya’s neck, tweaking at a nipple, pinching at the skin of her belly, fondling her hips, her tone harsh, but in a pleading sort of manner that’s impossible to ignore. “Say you’re mine.”

“Yours— fuck-” Freya curses, her blunted fingernails clawing at Blaire, hips humping, burning, liquid pleasure tainting her marrow for whoever gets to feast on her bones. “I’m yours, my Muse!”

“That’s right, good girl,” Blaire croons, voice abandoning its mania as she puts more weight on Freya’s body. Her claws take to slowly dragging at her, digging deep gouges into the plane of her belly. “My pretty little genius, handling me so well, too! A perfect fit for me, aren’t you? Made for me.”

Her eye won’t leave Freya’s body, an attention she preens underneath. Every exhale, every gasp, every stutter of her heartbeat and trembling muscle is all taken in. Filed away for safe-keeping.

There’s an inferno in Freya’s veins, building and building as her noises build in volume. She’s practically thrashing underneath her Muse’s weight in order to cum.

“Please, please, please, please!” Freya sobs, practically squealing. She’s barely even aware of what she’s saying, so drunk on pleasure, on the touch of her Muse, of the peak that she’s steadily working towards. “Lemme— I want to-”

“You want to… what?” Blaire asks, leaning back a little so she’s no longer firmly grinding their cunts together. A drooling strand of slick connects them for a moment, breaking off and slapping wetly back against Freya’s clit. She stays just out of reach despite Freya’s desperate sob, trying to rock her hips up. “To cum? Is that it?”

Freya nods desperately in turn, unable to make herself go completely still. She can’t help the small twist of her hips, or the arch of her back, seconds away from humping on air if she wasn’t so sure she’d get in trouble.

Blaire snorts at her, gentling the press of her fingers on Freya’s chin to allow her face to tilt back up. She blinks terribly wet doe eyes at her Muse, who’s gracing her with her touch, and yet being so cruel by denying it.

“Do you even deserve it if you can’t say it, doll?” Blaire purrs, taking great pleasure in the tears teasing Freya’s waterline. She looks like a wreck, with a probing headache to match.

“Please, my Muse,” Freya tries again, but Blaire just clicks her tongue at her, audibly heard despite being inside her body.

“That’s not gonna work, kid,” Blaire chides, fingers resting gently yet threateningly along the column of Freya’s throat, across her bleeding jugular. “Go on, then! Say what I want to hear! You know I could get whatever I want this pink little mouth to say with enough time, and, unlucky for you, I have time.”

Freya’s mouth feels like it’s burning. Like even though she’s certainly an adult she’s going to have her mouth washed out with soap for even daring to utter such an expletive. Which is terribly silly. It’s just a word.

It’s just the connotations of it. Saying it feels like she’s really setting in stone that she’s been completely ruined. She whimpers quietly.

“I can wash your mouth out with soap if you don’t say it, would that reverse the trauma?” Blaire offers, though the constant laughter that tinges her words betrays her endless amusement.

“It’s not trauma,” Freya spits, hackles rising like an alert mutt. “It’s— it’s just—”

“You don’t do this kinda stuff much,” Blaire concedes with a mild nod of understanding, finger squeezing teasingly at the undersides of Freya’s heavy breasts once more. Just rimming her areola with a sharp claw. “See, I get that, but if you just throw caution to the wind and say it, Sixer, you’ll get to cum! And I think that should be your top priority right now. That and saying what I want, but they kinda go HAND in unlovable HAND, don’t they?”

Freya’s mouth opens, though it’s a real mystery what she would have said as Blaire drops in a little closer, engorged clit rubbing against Freya’s, the pleasure slick and velvet. Even better after being teased. Her hips judder upwards only to meet nothing.

She’s barely able to swallow a sob in time.

“Don’t you give me those puppy eyes, they aren’t gonna work,” Blaire sighs at her fuzzy vision, of which Freya hadn’t even been aware she had been making such a face. “So? What’ll it be, toots?”

God, her tongue is so heavy, leadened and weighted. Blaire is watching her expectantly though, and the simple thought of Blaire’s praise in reaction to Freya’s acquiescence is good enough for Freya to attempt.

“I— my Muse, please, please let me… me orgasm…”

When she looks up at her Muse, however, she looks remarkably unimpressed.

“Do you have any idea how to say it like you’re not teaching a questionable sex ed class?” Blaire asks, and Freya’s blush worsens.

“I can,” Freya protests weakly, feeling humiliated and hating herself for how it’s affecting her.

“Prove it,” Blaire grunts, and presses Freya down by her neck. Not enough to cut off her oxygen completely, but enough to thin it. To make her breath raspy and a struggle to swallow, to make her voice tinny. “Prove you can say the word ‘cum’.”

Freya squeezes her eyes shut tightly under the bore of Blaire’s single pupil, somehow holding more intensity in that one eye than two. It takes one last sweet little touch of Blaire’s cunt to her own for her to finally break down, the words coming easier when she’s not looking at her Muse.

“Let me— please let me c… cum. I need— I need it, need you. P- please? I-it would be an honour to cum by your- your ha- ah! -and.”

Blaire’s expression curves into a vague smile, much more impressed than last time, and Freya warms under the pleased look she’s given.

“That was much better,” Blaire purrs, which has Freya relaxing into the couch despite the hand already holding her down by the base of her neck and collarbones. “You even threw in something a little extra there at the end! How could I not help my sweet fidget-toy of a human make a mess? I think she’s earned it.”

Blaire practically slams back down on her, quite painfully, if Freya is honest, and gets right into grinding into Freya’s cunt. It’s a lot quite suddenly, and more than it was previously. It’s overwhelming, and even further when Blaire’s eye rolls away and she begins stretching over and around Freya’s body, planting bloody bites wherever she can reach.

It’s painful and lovely and Freya presses into the wherever Blaire plants her mouth, looking for more of that satisfying pleasure. She’s going to have teeth marks all over her body.

“My good girl, my human of intellectual and anatomical delights,” Blaire purrs as she bites Freya to hell and back, not a piece of skin left unblemished, “with her smart head and her pretty bird noises. You know, it’s such an irritant to only be able to touch you properly in that damned room.”

Her teeth sink inwards at Freya’s waist, burying deep and going still.

“I don’t think I’ve ever hated my lack of physical form as much as I do RIGHT NOW,” she hisses, ripping her teeth free a little messily, tearing at skin and ripping a cry from Freya’s throat. The next bite is more of a nip, maybe an apology, “but don’t you worry. Once I’m there, I’ll fuck you over ANY and EVERY surface in that shack of yours. Ideally until you’re braindead!”

That would sound enticing to Freya even if her brain wasn’t halfway off the planet, weakly arching up, gasping and heaving for breath, a litany of smothered pleas escaping her apple-bitten lips. Too quiet to respond to.

She thinks of being fucked over her the desk, the dining table, the damn floor, taken wherever Blaire decides to have her. Maybe even on a proper bed. A rush of heat slides through her like an arrow to the heart, crying out.

“There won’t be a MOMENT where you aren’t stuffed full of me, Pines,” Blaire purrs, hands grabbing and squeezing and winding around limbs like snakes. Blaire tilts a little so their clits are both rubbing primarily against each other, and Freya writhes exhaustively, unable to do much but wriggle. “I’ll figure out a way to cum in you, shouldn’t be HARD! I think you’d take ANY SORT of bodily fluid I pump you full with, huh? Which is great, because I think I’d be too lazy to figure something out sometimes, HAHA.”

“Blaire— Blaire I’m gonna– I’m gonna cum, fuck- please!” Freya jabbers, grabbing onto her Muse tightly, trying to hold her close, as though Blaire couldn’t easily pull away from her.

“Alright, kid. You sound close to bursting! FINALLY! Go ahead, it’s all yours this time, no party foul. Lemme hear you wail my name, though, doll. I know you’ve still got some ear-worthy cries in you!”

Freya’s body, as though waiting for permission, reaches its peak seconds later. She arches her hips into Blaire’s body, back bowing like a rubber ruler, her eyes squeezing shut and mouth opening wide to release the loudest noise yet. Her orgasm rocks through her, devastating her body as she feels herself cum again, though thankfully not squirting.

Blaire continues rocking gently onto her to prolong the already intense orgasm, forcing more sharp pleasure through her, blending in with her peak. She wails just like Blaire said to, though it doesn’t last long as her mouth contorts into a soundless scream, sound dying off inside the back of her throat.

Everything comes down to this one point in time. To the warm flames in her crotch, to the pressure in her gut, to the bodily pleasure she’s being practically attacked with. She hears nothing but the rushing of her own blood, body almost completely still as though frozen in time. She starts shaking halfway through, legs trembling, body threatening to buckle. She stops breathing for the entirety of her orgasm, and only begins gasping for thready breath when the wave of endless pleasure dies down enough.

“Blaire,” she whines petulantly as her Muse drags her back to reality through the painful usage of overstimulation, lazily rocking over her weak hips, holding her steady. “Stop.”

“You never let me have any fun,” Blaire pouts, finally getting off of her and flopping heavily backwards to sit down.

“I let you do what you wanted with me for… what, an hour?” Freya gasps, her eyes slowly blinking open, chest heaving, finding Blaire’s blurry body sitting just ahead of her.

“Nearly three!” Blaire informs her chipperly, her vagina closing back up and hardening, though slick remains on her bricks. Freya watches it go with the moroseness of someone who just lost a close friend, tongue running over her teeth in thought. “I would have gone for ANOTHER THREE but you seem pretty close to passing out. Another time!”

Carefully, and once she feels ready, Freya closes her legs and props herself against the armrest, sitting up and slouching more than she should. Her fingers pat over the couch cushions, searching for her glasses with feeling hands, making a small huffing noise when she can’t find them.

“Here, smart gal,” Blaire says, holding them out in her hand.

Freya smiles, a little softer than she means to, and reaches out to grab them. “Thank you, my Muse,” she says, fingers just brushing frames when Blaire twists her arm around to grab her wrist instead. Freya isn’t exactly surprised, she’ll be fair.

“Now, just a recap. You didn’t forget who you belong to, right, IQ? I’m REALLY hoping the meat of that interaction wasn’t LOST on you,” Blaire says slowly, dangerously, looking serious even despite the fuzz of her figure.

“O-oh, no, of course I remember,” Freya stammers, having not expected that.

Blaire tilts her head slightly, brow raising, and Freya, finding it much harder to do when not in the throes of pleasure, manages, “I– I am yours, my Muse. I’m yours.”

“Mine,” Blaire hums in agreement, pleased. She lets Freya go, satisfied, and lets her have her glasses too which she quickly places back on her face. It’s wonderful to see they’re not cracked or damaged.

“Great! Now, if you accept any more gifts from that hanky panky country girl I’m gonna lose it,” she says very seriously despite the rather polite way she’s sitting across from Freya. “Or gifts from anyone for that matter. Especially candles! Do not use another type of candle again, capiche? Plus they just DON’T match with the beeswax and I will NOT have things that don't MATCH.”

Freya nods jerkily, knees drawing up to her chest, very eager. “Absolutely not,” She agrees, having learnt her lesson. It was an honest mistake in the first place, but now she knows the importance of the candles. “I’m sorry about that again, my Muse, I—”

“Eh, water under the metaphorical London Bridge or whatever! You’re only human, aintcha? I can’t expect you to be perfect, all of the time, kid,” Blaire waves her off before she can properly apologize. “‘Sides, you did enough grovelling tonight for me to be satisfied either way! Nice job with that, by the way!”

A small, distant, breaking sound is heard, and Freya and Blaire both look to their right, where part of the wall has disappeared. It peers into white nothingness, cracked and splintered, and threatening to get worse.

“Aw, snap. Time’s up, pal,” Blaire says lounging back against the couch. “‘Fore you go, don’t forget what you said you’d do when you woke up! I’d just hate to make you do it myself.”

Freya furrows her brows together, confused, ignoring another part of the wall breaking to peer at her Muse in befuddlement. “I’m sorry, what did I say I’d do?” She asks, a little alarmed to not remember and to be mildly threatened.

Blaire shrugs at her. “Guess it wasn’t that important, huh, Freya?” She says with a sad note to her voice. “No harm! But if you don’t do it when you wake up I won’t be very nice when I have to make you do it myself, alright?”

“My Muse—” Freya tries, panicking a little.

Blaire sighs, rolling her giant eye in exasperated irritation. “Get outta here kid,” she says, reaching over her hand to flick Freya dead center in her forehead, knocking her out of her mindscape and into reality.

Freya wakes up immediately upon being flicked, eyes blinking open widely, finding herself on a red painted hardwood floor, warm underneath her heated body. Her body, which is even more sore than the one in her brain, tacky and sticky with fluid between her thighs and underneath her body. On the bright side, the numerous teeth and scratch marks Blaire had given here don’t seem to have transferred over. Her skin is back to being smooth, albeit sore. She’s cold, and left in a rapidly dimming room where most of the candles have melted completely down.

She really was busy for three hours, wasn’t she?

Grunting, she places her hands palm-down on the floorboards, slowly pulling herself up to sit, pause, and then push herself into a stand. She’s completely naked, and her clothes are all left in a pile in the corner, underneath one of Blaire’s tapestries.

Glancing to the ground underneath her socked feet, Freya freezes.

There’s a sizable mess on the ground, obviously from her first orgasm. A pile of slick, left where her legs had just been lying. It comes rushing back, then, the off-comment Blaire had made about her cleaning up after herself, about licking up the mess on the floor with her tongue.

Oh, moses. That’s what she was talking about.

Suddenly, Freya feels as though there are eyes on her. Peering, slit pupils staring at her from every corner of the room, expectant. Excited to see what she’ll do.

Well, Freya did say she would, didn’t she? She made a promise.

Trembling from both anticipation and the slight cold despite rapidly reheating, Freya doesn’t bother with her clothes, gently lowering herself onto her knees and hands, bending at the hip. She has to take off her glasses as they threaten to slide off her nose at the odd angle, making the pile of liquid appear more glossy than it is.

She squeezes her eyes shut as she slowly dips down and, sighing, drags her tongue along the floor, through the small pile of cum and slick. It’s pooled all over the floorboards, seeping in the wood, and sits heavy on her tongue as she drags it back into her mouth.

She closes her eyes, swearing she can feel the ghosting of hands over the muscles of her flexing back as she slowly begins cleaning up her mess. Lips at the shell of her ear, whispered words of dirty encouragement that she can’t quite make out keeping her going.

She can’t say any of that stimuli is actually happening, but it certainly aids in giving her some enthusiasm in cleaning up her cum.

It doesn’t taste very good, honestly. A taste and texture she finds herself not very partial to, but not absolutely hating. The actual worst part is the temperature. It’s been sitting on the floorboards for well over an hour or so at this point, and it’s dead cold, not warm and pleasant so Freya can imagine she’s licking up something almost buttery.

It’s just unpleasant, and it coats her mouth in thick droplets. She swallows and shudders through each gulp, feeling her own cum sit heavy in her belly, little bits of fire warming her chest like she took a sip of whiskey.

Her desire to be good keeps her from stopping, and, eventually, the pile is completely gone. There’s drool down her chin and a hand patting her head and Freya feels like she could go again if only something would touch her.

She has to get out of here.

Something runs through her hair in praise and Freya struggles her way into her shed clothes. She grabs the cooled lump of candle Fiddleford had given to her, much more melted than any other candles. She wonders if Blaire perhaps had something to do with this, but she can’t find it in herself to be peeved.

Adjusting her clothes one last time and fixing her hair, Freya finally leaves her worship room, knowing Fiddleford will ask what she was doing in there for 3 hours tomorrow.