Bar of Soap — Lance & Vallen (Mature)

Blue hair spills over your palms.

It's soaked in water, the strands clumped together in the kind of undulating weighty mass that hairs do when they're wet. The universal smell of soap fills the tiny room — the scent of cleanliness, of scrubbing your soul from the sins the world has stained upon you.

Lance closes his eyes with a content sigh.  

You smile, kneading his hair. Water drips onto the towel you're kneeling on and splashes the front of your shirt, soaking into your skin. It's warm enough to seek through flesh and get to the bone.

Maybe that's why Lance melts into the tub. "Ah, that is the spot," your bard mumbles, his voice raspy. You scratch his nape again, and he groans into the heavy air. "You'll have me kicking my leg if you keep at it."

You laugh, imagining Lance twitching like Chouriça does when you scratch the back of her ears. "Is that a promise?"

His soft laughter mingles with the steam and tingles your skin. You feel the hairs on your arms stand to attention as a wave of nameless affection seizes you. "Would that delight you, mercenary?" Lance asks, his accent heavier the raspier his voice becomes. "For me to be made into your lap dog?"

The light of dawn travels within the steam as well, but it seems as if it's lost. It twirls in the same place, condensed, like a stream of live paint that dances above your head. You lean forward, resting your chin on his bare shoulder. "Tempting," you whisper beside his ear. "But I think I prefer you as a man."

You spy his tilted smile. "It has some advantages, yes?"

You laugh again. "Many," you muse, grabbing the washing cloth and scrubbing it on the thyme-scent bar of soap until it foams. You carefully rinse his left shoulder, massaging the muscles with tender fingers, and then you sweep the cloth across his collarbones to his other shoulder.

Lance rests his head against you. "You are dangerously good at this," he tells you, mouth close to your own.

"At what?" you tease.

Spreading the cloth wide, you sweep it across his arm. With the same soothing movements, you go down the entire length of his left forearm, until you spread your thumb on his palm, and push tension out of his knuckles. Lance turns into putty in your hands, letting out a barely audible moan. His toes stick out of the bathtub in utter relaxation.

Smiling, you put his arm down and grab the other, repeating the process. His skin is tan from the shoulders down, as well as his face and, amusingly enough, his ankles. But when you scrub down towards his chest, the skin goes from a healthy glow to a paleness that tells you it has never been touched by the sun. You wonder if, in his days as a monk, Lance was this pale all over.

The thought sits unwell with you. Your lover was made for sunshine.

You wash his chest in wide circles, paying attention to his ribs and the softer skin of his belly. Lance hisses when you pass the cloth over one nipple, but you feign ignorance, simply moving along to sweep down his sternum. When you go to the other side, you pass the cloth over his other nipple and linger there, your thumb drawing small circles around it.

Lance tightens his jaw. "So, this is what we are doing?" he rasps, his hands clinging to the tub.

You turn your head and kiss him gently on the jaw. "Depends," you say, thumb pressing a little more on his nipple. "Do you want it? Or do you just want to bathe?"

Lance pauses, his painted blue eyebrows knitting together. He's flushed from the bath, and it makes his grey eyes look a deep blue. "I— what would you gain from it? I cannot reciprocate in this position."

There it is. It would break your heart to hear him speak like this if you weren't used to it by now. "Lance," you say, forgetting the cloth to hug him tightly. "Don't be an idiot."

Lance opens his mouth, but you nibble on his throat, and it turns into a groan. "What would I gain?" you repeat, lapping at the skin to remove the sting. After, you carve a path of snowdrop kisses from his throat to his jaw. "Are you blind?"

He gulps, turning his head on your shoulder to face you. Lance's eyes struggle to focus. "What is it I am supposed to see, my moon?" Lance asks, lifting a hand to cup your face.

Your unoccupied hand sprawls on his chest. You slowly start to move it down. Lance sucks in a breath when you get to his lower stomach, your own breathing deepening. "Yourself," you reveal and lean in to kiss him.

Lance meets you halfway. His hand tightens on the back of your head, almost pushing you to him. His lips engulf yours, but he sucks your tongue into his mouth as your fingers dip lower still and grasp his hardening member. "Shit," Lance curses between fevered kisses. He slacks his jaw, panting when you circle your fingers around him. Slowly, you move them up, glancing down to see his swollen tip over the water.

Your mouth gets dry. "You're beautiful," you say, panting with him. You sweep your thumb over his tip, and Lance arches into you. "Just seeing you like this..." You give an open-mouthed kiss to the side of his mouth and nibble on his bottom lip. "It's enough to drive me wild, Lance Silverthread."

Your bard doesn't seem capable of answering. You move your fingers down and then up again in a quick, jerking manner. His thighs spread as you kiss his mouth again. Lance stays slackened, feebly kissing back, but as you keep a steady rhythm, so he starts to come to his senses. One minute he's slumped on the tub, the next his arm shoots out and grabs your chin. Lance's tongue dives into your mouth, then, move it at the same time you pump him.

Your head feels light and dizzy.

You go faster. Lance sucks out the air from your lungs.

You pause. He stops.

You tease him, going maddingly slow, and he sucks in your lip between his teeth and bites.

*if female

Your other hand joins, cupping his balls, and Lance half-turns on the tub to play with your chest. His hand grabs your dripping wet shirt, pushing his palm against your breast, kneading it roughly as his kiss gets sloppier and full of teeth. You moan into his mouth as desire pools between your legs. "Lance," you pant.

*if male

Your other hand joins, cupping his balls, and Lance half-turns on the tub to grab onto your wet shirt. He twists it in a fist, pulling you roughly against him. His kiss turns sloppier, needier, full of teeth and saliva, and you feel yourself getting harder. “Lance,” you pant.

-

His hips jerk to meet your fingers now, the pace so fast that water spills over like a waterfall. Lance closes his eyes, the coordination in his kiss gone as his mouth falls open once more. You push your foreheads together, gazing into his closed lids. You drink in his face, his expression, the pleasure on every inch of his features.

Lord, but you could fall in love with him.

With a shudder and a quiet groan, Lance spills over your fingers. You keep pumping him softly, slower, and slower, while you leave tender kisses along his face. You murmur gentle reassurances and quiet praises until Lance winds down, and his eyes creak open.

He stares at you.

You stare back.

"Dangerously good at this," he says, grabs your hips, and throws you, clothes, and all, into the bath.

"Lance!"

"Shh, mercenary," he hushes, boxing you with his elbows as he lowers himself on top of you. "It is my turn, yes? To, what was it you said? Be driven wild."

- - -

Vallen halts at the sound of dripping water.

Her ears do not twitch, for she isn't a deer, but the effect is almost the same. She cocks her head, straining her hearing, and then slowly turns in the direction of the dark, deserted stables.

With slow, deliberate steps, the type that makes the kind of noise only a cat would hear, Vallen of the Red Guard advantages. In front of the stables, there's a porch, and beyond that, protected by a fence the size of a toddler, a narrow street leads to the watering trough the group has been using to wash themselves.

Vallen did not guess you would do so under the light of the stars, but it is when one is almost always guaranteed privacy.

Almost, of course, being the critical word.

Vallen steps over the useless fence and moves carefully down the side street. The stables are eerily quiet, the stalls inside falling to decay, but the rainwater is fresh, and the abandoned inn has been a welcomed respite from the harshness of the road.

Vallen stalks closer to the back wall until she rounds it, and her hazel eyes find you. You have your back to her, thankfully, because it would be such a pity to spoil the fun so early. You're grabbing onto a large bucket, and – she quickly observes – your shirt is missing.

Your boots are too. Everything is except your bottom underwear.

Vallen presses herself against a rotting pole, ignoring the smell, and watches you with round eyes. Shadows fall over her face, hiding half of it in darkness. Darkness too rises from her stomach, and licks at the nerves along her spine. Vallen feels her chest constrict, as her gaze narrows on you.

She tastes something on her tongue. Others, not her, would call it possessiveness.

You dip the bucket under the watering trough, lift it, and drop it over your head. Vallen sees the muscles of your back spam as the freezing water spills over your almost naked body. Your shoulders stiffen, as do your legs, and Vallen notes the dimples at your lower back.

You shake your head like a dog, sending water droplets everywhere, and then, you reach down for a bar of soap.

It's when you start soaping your arms that Vallen makes her move. She wouldn't have minded watching, once ago, before Vallen had gotten a taste of you. But now, she has, and simply watching from afar was unacceptable. You hiding this from her was unacceptable.

She slips out of her boots and walks barefoot across the wet cobblestones. You're moving from side to side, washing yourself with the soap. As Vallen comes closer, she picks up on the quiet melody you're humming to yourself.

People often call her adorable —but never has Vallen wanted to use the word to describe anyone else. Until now.

You hum, spreading your fingers to rub the soap between each digit. Vallen gets so close, she can feel the chill radiating from your skin. The soap smells of peppermint, but underneath, she can smell you. The unique, addictive scent of you.

"... oh sweet she was, and pure and fair," you sing-song, cleaning under your armpit. "The maid with honey in her hair." You toss the soap in the air, bringing up your other hand to catch it.

Vallen intercepts it.

"The fuck—"

You flinch and start to turn around, but Vallen would prefer you wouldn't. With her arm sneaked under yours, soap in hand, she pushes it against your stomach while her other hand grabs the back of your neck, nails just slightly sinking into the flesh.

She's locked you in place, but you are no untrained commoner.

Your right foot moves between hers, and you're about to sweep her feet from under her when Vallen brings her lips to the shell of your ear. "Were you singing about me?" she asks in a tone that drips with honey. "Or do you know any more maidens with honey on their hair?"

A pause. "Vallen?" you ask in a poisonous sizzle. You try to crane your neck to the side, but Valen tightens her hold on your nape, squeezing you in a warning.

"Who else?"

You let out a breath of air. It sounds like a growl. “I was about to rip your spine out through your throat,” you say, your lips torn into that half-mad smile that Vallen goes weak in the knees for.

Vallen giggles. “Promises, promises.”

You grab her wrist, the strength in your fingers making her pupils grow darker. “What are you playing at?”

"You didn't answer me," Vallen points out, ignoring your question. With the bar of soap still in hand, Vallen starts to draw little tantalizing circles around your stomach. Your smile grows, sharpening. “Who were you singing about?”

For a moment, Vallen thinks you’re about to push her hand away, but your fingers slacken on her wrist, and you slowly cock your head, watching her with mild interest. “It’s too cold for games,” you ruff out.

*if female

It is cold. The night's chill air makes goosebumps on Vallen’s skin, and when she cranes her neck, she notes that your nipples are hard. Slowly, Vallen soaps up your stomach to the valley between your breasts and starts to wash your collarbones. "What maiden fair were you singing about?"

She stops touching you momentarily to soap up her hands. The bar of soap is rounded from use, and it's easy to make bubbles and foam after a few scrubs. Then, when her hands are soaked, Vallen puts the bar aside to cup your breasts. Peeking over your shoulder, she sweetly massages the flesh, weighing them in her palms, drawing tighter and tighter circles until, at last, she gets to your heaving nipples.

"Hmm?"

Your laughter rumbles through your spine to her breasts. Vallen bites hard into her lower lip. “No other honey-haired woman has my tits in hand.”

Vallen smiles brightly. "Oh! Really?" She says innocently but rewards you appropriately. Her thumbs and pointers envelop your nipples, and Vallen pinches them gently. You hiss. Her lower stomach flickers. "I've never had anyone sing about me. Do it again. Please."

Her soaped hands knead your breast until you slackened your head on her shoulder. Vallen kisses your throat, tongue darting out to taste the little beats of your sweat. She squeezes, making you jump slightly, and whines beside your ear. "Pleaseee."

"Sweet she was," you sing in a gravelly voice, "and pure and fair."

Vallen giggles once more. "Sweet?" she says, hands trailing down your sides, soaking every inch of your skin. Your whole body is wet and soft beneath her hands. You start to undulate your hips, but she holds you tightly to her. "How do you know I'm sweet?"

"I've tasted you," you answer, breathing heavily on her cheek. Vallen wants to kiss you, but she also wants to watch as she grabs your underwear and pulls it down your thighs. "Sweet, menacing Mariam."

Vallen's head snaps up at the name. Her hazel eyes are alight with desire. "Sing," she commands, barely recognizing her own voice. She dips two fingers into you and drinks in your moan with a greedy, sloppy tongue.

*if male

It is cold. The night's chill makes goosebumps on Vallen's skin, and when she ducks her head under your armpit, she sees you already growing half-hard. She giggles at the sight. She loves knowing how much you want her. "What maiden fair were you singing about?" she asks, voice tilting in a sweet singsong as, slowly, Vallen soaps down your stomach to the bones on your hip and lowers your underwear until it falls to the ground.

She stops touching you momentarily to soap up her hands. The bar of soap is rounded from use, and it's easy to make bubbles and foam after a few scrubs. Then, when her hands are soaked, Vallen puts the bar aside to run her fingers along your inner thighs. Your muscles flex beneath her palms as she grazes the hair above your pubic bone.

"Hmm?"

Your laughter rumbles through your spine to her breasts. Vallen bites hard into her lower lip. “No other honey-haired woman is about to have my dick in her hands."

Vallen smiles brightly. "Oh! Really?" She says innocently but rewards you appropriately. Snaking her hand down, she skitters her fingertips along your length. You hiss, the sound making her lower stomach flicker. "I've never had anyone sing about me. Do it again. Please."

Her soaked hands play gingerly with you, giggling when you grow harder. Vallen ducks under your arm to put her face against your shoulder blades, tongue darting out to taste the salt on your skin. "Pleaseee."

"Sweet she was," you sing in a gravelly voice, "and pure and fair."

Vallen giggles once more. "Sweet?" she says, her hands moving past your neglected member to grope down, soaking every inch of your skin. You start to jerk your hips, but she uses her free hand to squeeze your chest hard. "How do you know I'm sweet?"

"I've tasted you," you answer, breathing heavily. Vallen wishes she could kiss you, but you're taller, and all she can see is the wide expanse of your back. But she can smell you. She can feel you. "Sweet, menacing Mariam."

Vallen's head snaps up at the name. You're looking over your shoulder, your smile tearing open the bottom half of your face. "Sing," she commands, rinsing on her tiptoes to crash her lips to yours. She pumps you firmly now, drinking in your groan with a greedy, sloppy tongue.