Dull. Dull, dull, dull, dull-
It was too early for food; of that, at least, he’s... fairly certain. Well, there’s hardly any light down here, and the guards don’t appear to have any regular schedule, so who knows.
In any case, his suspicions are confirmed as one said guard speaks up. The heavy door muffles most of it, but his ears are sharper than ever after hours of nothing. “Lady Robin, why- …tician, what could you…”
“I see… ...ry well.”
Oh my, would he be getting a visit from his third favorite person in the castle?
It seemed so: the blackened wooden door of his cell creaks open, admitting the figure of the Ylissean army’s famed strategist. Behind her, the blue-clad guards glare suspiciously at him but, interestingly, do not follow the robed woman as she enters the cell... and closes the door behind her.
He doesn’t bother to hide his sharp grin. “Well, well, the master tactician herself. I’m honored! I would bow, but, well...” The tyrant shrugs with perfect nonchalance, loudly rattling the chains that fetter his arms to the wall above. He considers the twitch under her eye a win - gods know he could use one right now.
The woman shakes her head, wild locks further tousling with the movement. “I don’t know why I expected anything else.” She steps closer. Close enough for him to spit on, if the fancy took him.
He’d probably end up black and blue if he tried, though.
He meets her gimlet gaze with another easy, sleazy smile. “So, to what do I owe this most auspicious honor? Your first round of interrogations?”
She shocks him with a laugh, harsh and mocking. “Gangrel, do you really think anyone here is interested in what you have to say?”
His good cheer dissolves instantly. The fallen king leans as far as the chains let him (not very) and hisses, “Big talk for someone who couldn’t keep her eyes off me every time we met.” This grin is just a slash of teeth, a predator going for the throat. “Well, the lower half of me, in any case.”
Her blush is nearly invisible, but he’s always had a keen eye. His lip curls in a victorious sneer. “Heh. No bluster? No denials? You-”
“You’re a fine figure of a man, when you keep your mouth shut.” She meets his eyes without hesitation, and damn… her severe expression softens into something almost seductive. “Yes, like that. Although I could do without the bulging fish eyes.”
She steps closer, close enough he can feel the heat of her - and he’s grateful for it, this dungeon is DAMN chilly and he’s always been cold-blooded. For a moment all he can do is stare down at her, and then finally manages to find his words. “Oh. OH. Are we doing this? I’m going to need my hands free if we are.”
She smirks up at him, her eyes glinting faintly in the dim dungeon light. “I didn’t get the title of Grandmaster by being an idiot, Gangrel. Besides, I’m sure you can be… creative.”
“Damn straight, I can,” he hisses, trying not to show his sudden impatience. Gods, he wishes these chains were just a bit longer: at this point, all he can do is angle his hips forward and hope.
That should probably not turn him on so much.
It takes more composure than it should, not to jolt when her hands firmly grip his hips. It’s not like there’s much more of him to immobilize. He is a little more surprised when she purses her lips, murmuring, “Now, are you really alright with this?”
“Beg pardon?” He manages not to drop his jaw or pant like an animal, so that’s something. She trails one gloved finger over his chest, the other still firmly pinning his hip.
“You realize you’re not getting anything from this, right?”
“Except you?” Her faint flush is enough for him: the deposed tyrant laughs breathlessly. “Darling, that is more than enough for me. Now... are you going to come up here, or should I go down there?”
She knows the offer is empty, as does he, and just rolls her eyes before leaning up. He didn’t actually expect her to kiss him, but he’s not about to complain.
A hiss of air escapes him when his back runs up against the wall, but he hardly cares because she’s hooking a thigh around him and... oh, that’s smart, using the nearby bench for height. She slings one arm around his shoulders and grinds up and fuck being cold, there need to be fewer layers involved.
The tactician doesn’t seem to feel the same way, more focused on slipping her tongue into his mouth and just rubbing her goddamned tantalizing body against him. The former king grinds one leg up between her legs, hoping she’ll take the hint already.
She pulls back with a smirk, and licks her lips before reaching down. She fumbles only momentarily with the buckle, and then her gloved hand is wrapped around him. The trickster hisses and arches against the wall, wishing his own hands were free. Gods, he wants to touch her, wants her moaning and shuddering under his fingers.
It’s not the reversal, so much as the inability to act, that drives him madder; unfettered, he’d certainly have her climaxing at least once, this far in.
Instead, all he can do is writhe, trying to grind against her a little better with the same leg, and... ah, she just bent at a good angle. The former king grins before leaning down, as much as can be done, and kissing her neck.
Judging by the sharp hiss, followed by a moan stifled against his chest, he’s found a hotspot.
Well, the strategist may have as many vantage points to work with as she likes, but seeing as he only has one area available to him… he begins attacking her bared neck, jaw and throat with kisses and long licks. He can feel her moaning through the shirt, the shaking of her shoulders and hand. It’s when he catches her ear gently in his teeth, though, that he strikes gold.
“G...ah, oh gods...” Sure, he could be disappointed by her hand slowing, but he has other things to be disappointed about. Besides, now he can (mostly) trust himself to talk without slavering like a youth.
The trickster pulls back, eliciting a whine from the strategist, so that he can whisper hoarsely into her ear instead. “Come now, Robin… say my name.” He doesn’t give her a moment to respond, instead leaning back in so he can trace the edge of her ear with his teeth.
He’s rewarded near instantly as she collapses against him, barely able to huff out a few words. “Oh, gods yes, Gangrel, ah-”
Suddenly, she pushes back and off of him. He tries not to groan, missing both her warmth and contact.
The strategist begins shucking off her thick robe and underlayers, and by the gods, he did not expect the figure she presented to him, form no longer veiled by dented armor. She meets his eyes and smiles coyly. “Like what you see?”
“Fuck yes,” he manages, desperately wishing for freedom once again. At the very least, he wants to go down on her, but the chains prevent that as well. He rattles them in annoyance as she steps out of her pants and moves towards him.
The hand that clamps around his dick once more is still gloved, which is a bit of a surprise, but he’s beyond caring. More important matters fill his mind. “I want you,” he hisses, rubbing his knee against her thigh in hopes of getting his point across. “Gods, I want you now.”
She pauses, clearly thinking. After a moment, she releases his cock to grab his shoulders. “Let me know if this starts to hurt.”
“Sure,” he mutters, really meaning hell no, like I want to stop you? Her weight does pull him against the cuffs a little more, but she’s easing herself down him, and he can’t hold back a gasp when he slides fully inside of her. “FUCK-”
It might be the position, but he can’t remember the last time he had a fuck this good. She’s more than strong enough to make up for his stilted thrusts - strong enough to clamp tightly on him just with her movements, making his vision grey out at moments. Gods, maybe he should have been having enemy prison sex this whole time.
Her upper body is curled against his, arms wrapped around his shoulders. He can’t reach her ears anymore, so he settles for kissing and lightly biting her neck and shoulders instead. What he can of them, anyways - her tousled mane has shaken free over her back, his neck - hell, he can even curl his fingers in it with a little effort. It blocks what view he had of the proceedings, unfortunately, so the deposed monarch just lets his eyes slide shut and focuses on the sensations.
The sliding of warm skin under his lips, the muffled press of her breasts against his clothed chest, her hot breath on his neck... and most importantly, the wet schlicking of her cunt around him. He angles his hips up as much as he can, trying to get some pressure on her clit. His remaining armor comes in handy, it seems, rubbing against her to elicit the loudest moan yet.
The tactician clamps down, hard. It’s just as well his eyes are closed; there’s no way in hell he’d be able to see after that. Speaking of which…
He lets her ride the climax a little longer before grudgingly opening his eyes. With a sigh, he says, “Y…you’ve gotta... stop.” Damn, when was the last time his speech got slurred after just a quick fuck?
She freezes against him, pulling back to blearily meet his eyes, and he manages a rictus of a grin. “‘’Nless you WANT me t’ finish in you, which, hey...” He trails off, unsure what to say, but it doesn’t matter. She slides off of him, making him wince with the sudden chill. He blinks, confused, when she grabs her robe off the floor - she doesn’t seem the type to just leave him - and is struck with sudden understanding when she kneels on the cloth.
Instead of her mouth, like expected, she presses his aching length between her breasts, sliding her tongue over the head. It takes only a few strokes before he arches back against the wall, stifling a cry.
He recovers to find her half-dressed, wiping a few specks of fluid away with a handkerchief. “I…in a bit of a hurry, aren’t you?” Okay, he wasn’t expecting cuddles or anything, but still…
She smiles at the trickster, surprisingly sweet, as she pulls a shirt on. “I have work to get back to, I’m afraid. Don’t worry, you’ll see me again.”
“I’d better.” He grunts as she buckles his belt once more. The tactician steps back to study the effect, making sure she hasn’t missed anything, before trying to run a hand through her hair. She winces and shakes her head almost immediately, which isn’t much surprise - she’d probably be better off with hedge clippers than a pick, at this point.
She pats his thigh, giving him a saucy grin, and saunters out of the cell. The guards peer in once more, but if they can tell that their prisoner is now bright red and breathing hard, they don’t say anything about it.
Well, that’s that.
The trickster shakes his head, wishing he’d had more time to enjoy the afterglow. In any case… he counts to ten. When nothing happens, and no one comes back, he uncoils his fingers.
The hairpin makes a tiny clink against the manacles, and Gangrel grins.