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Whoosh. Air whistles against Miqo’te ears, tickling the fine hairs of her fur, as The Tyrant’s hand slams against the wall beside her head.
“Unenhanced champion,” he growls low, her namesake, at this point, despite all of the Arcadion fighters now fighting unenhanced.
“Tyrant,” U’naohmi says and cocks a grin, despite the blood streaming from her nose, the dirt irritating her eyes.
His other hand fists in her shirt; his height makes him a monster of a man, slouching down over her short stature. “It has been months since our last match. I have trained day and night, sought out the fiercest beasts of The Outskirts–I have done everything right,” he hisses, his voice dropping an octave. “I have trained diligently to relearn my own body, to fight without those accursed feral souls, and yet, you best me again. You make a mockery of me in the public eye.”
Her golden eyes flash in defiance, her smirk widening. “You issued the challenge to me. Is a champion’s duty not to defend her crown?” Her eyes roam his features, smeared with his own blood–or perhaps hers–as bruises blossom beneath his washed-out skin. Despite the proof of their heated match, it’s the blood pumping through his veins, the anger and frustration and fluster that rise to his cheeks that brings her a borderline malicious sense of satisfaction. Yet, even with him nearly lifting her off the ground by her shirt, she makes no attempt to struggle, no attempt to push him away.
The Tyrant drops her, his other hand now bracing himself against the wall. He seems to stagger, the exhaustion of their encounter showing. “Woah there, big guy,” U’naohmi says, pressing a hand against his chest and one to his side to steady him. All sense of victory seems to fade, concern flickering across her features now.
“I need no assistance,” he says, his voice losing its fire. He tries to swat her away, but U’naohmi insists.
“For someone so ‘honorable,’ your ruined pride is showing. Come on, let’s sit down–”
“No,” he demands, grabbing her wrists in his hands, pressing them back against the wall. He seems as though he’s somehow regained his balance, as if it was simply a wave of dizziness. “Listen, warrior. I had no–no qualms with losing to you during our first match, so long ago. I realized my dependency on the feral souls. I realized my desire to surpass you. Do you understand this rage that fills me so? Knowing I have lost by your hand, once more? I demand to know what else can I possibly do to rise above you.”
U’naohmi stiffens. This isn’t him being flustered, no–he’s actually demanding an answer from her. She has nothing to say, nothing to offer. She stares at him, her heart feeling pained as their eyes lock for an intense moment that dragged on hours.
His brows furrow, his body shifting closer to hers, only ilms between them now. “An answer. I need an answer.”
Her gaze shifts across his face again, ceding whatever upperhand their staredown awarded her. His sharp features, his piercing pale eyes, the white swirl tattooed across his right eye, the curved scar following it; The Tyrant was shockingly beautiful, despite the proof of their fight smeared across his skin, the pain in his expression.
The Tyrant leans closer still, and the Miqo’te’s body goes rigid as she feels his body ever-so-gently come into contact with hers. His grip on her wrists loosens and his expression softens along with it. “Please, my champion,” he says, his voice a hoarse whisper. “You cannot do this to me.”
“You gave me a run for my money, Tyrant,” she murmurs, bringing a hand up to delicately cup his jaw. “Please don’t demean your own efforts.” Her chapped knuckles brush against his skin, hot to the touch.
His gaze shifts sideways, away from hers; now he was unable to hold the Warrior of Light’s gaze, in such a tender moment. U’naohmi allows the quiet between them to linger that way, for just a moment, before her other hands snakes up into his hair. Despite the sweat and grime of it, she tilts his face ever so carefully, until he meets her eyes once more.
Next, it is lips that meet.
What starts as a divinely soft kiss–both seemingly scared to meet the other further–rough, worn lips against those equally cracked and bloodied–quickly becomes something more. The unsteady, uncertain moment between them, unknowing of what this would mean for the two fighters down the road, fundamentally changes as their inhibitions are cast to the wind. There is a thud as The Tyrant pushes her back against the wall, a sudden ravenous hunger evident in his movements as he deepens the kiss. U’naohmi’s hand drops from his hair, instead draping over his shoulder, while the hand on his cheek slides down to his open jacket, pulling him closer by one of the flaps of fabric. His assault slips away from her lips, kissing along her jaw and down her neck.
“Tyrant,” she breathes out, unsure if that winded feeling was from their earlier battle, or this one.
“Naohmi…” comes his quiet moan. A shudder runs down her spine; had he ever called her by her name, much less so intimately? How would an Eldite even know a Seeker’s culture like that–
Her thoughts cannot stray any further, gasping as she feels his leg push between her knees. It’s as if The Tyrant’s body was moving of its own accord, and hers responding to it in kind; the tension between them since their first fight had been palpable at every event the Arcadion fighters attended, and yet–
And yet–
Gods, is this really happening?
She wants to melt beneath his touch, and does, for a moment; then, she is stricken by the realization that they are in the post-match greenroom. Anyone could walk in–Yaana’s bound to any second..!
Naohmi pushes her hands against The Tyrant’s shoulders, and he gazes up at her sideways from where he was adding to the bruise-covered canvas near her collarbone. He arches an eyebrow. “Should I stop..?”
“No, it’s–” but he immediately resumes upon her confirmation, ripping a whine from her throat. “Tyrant, someone could see..!”
She feels him pause for a moment, before he straightens up and presses his forehead against hers. “Champion, you cannot snatch another victory from my hands this way. Do you really care, should someone see? Should a stray camera drone float in..?”
Her tail bristles, and her eyes flash at him. “I’m not something for you to conquer, Tyrant.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. “Not like that, Naohmi. Please–”
In an act of defiance, she quickly forces their positions to change; in one smooth motion, it’s his back pinned against the wall, her small yet muscular frame pressed flush against him. Her hands slide up and trail back down his broad chest, leaving the tiniest red scratch marks in their wake. He tilts his head curiously at her, smirking.
“You’re my conquest,” she growls, standing up on her tiptoes to kiss him roughly. “It was I who climbed the Arcadion’s ranks,” she gasps as she breaks for air.
“Did I not do the same long before you?” He laughs, his voice like song.
U’naohmi’s tail curls around his thigh as she resumes their kiss, forcing her tongue into his mouth. On one of her hand’s descents down his middle, she allows it to sink lower, palming him through his pants. Pants, mind you, that she always noticed were far too tight, even in his former feral form. The friction drags a moan from him, and there’s a soft thunk as he tips his head back. Naohmi brings her free hand up to grip him by the throat on one side, biting hickeys into his neck on the other, her hand much too small to fully wrap around it. The Tyrant closes his eyes, putty in the Warrior of Light’s hands as she continues pawing at his nether regions.
“So, t-that’s it, then,” he groans, squinting down at her through one eye. “You don’t really care if someone catches us?”
“Oh, who’s shy now?” She teases, before sucking hard at his skin.
“Would you–would you not want to accompany me back to m-my apartment?”
“As if I could wait?” Naohmi sits back, laughing heartily at him. “You’re crazy.” Her hand drops down again, both now furiously and deftly unworking his belt.
“Naohmi, really,” he tries to insist. Despite all his bold confidence, U’naohmi wanted to devour this version of him, if he would let her. “The Regency Suite is just upstairs, you know that.”
She grabs the undone sides of his belt, still woven through is belt loops, and drags him with her as she walks backwards towards the elevator. She bumps against the wall on the far side of the room, entangling her tongue with his once more as they shuffled backwards together. Her hand snakes behind her, desperately trying to feel for the elevator button without breaking away from him. After a ding, the doors open, and she quickly pushes him inside.
Despite her insistence, he quickly presses the top floor’s button, and it is he who once again has her pinned; thank the Gods this is a private elevator, no stupid fans..!
Their hands snake across one another hungrily, his hands trying (and failing) to slide her shirt up. “It’s a leotard,” U’naohmi giggles, resisting his mouth’s onslaught against hers for only a moment.
“Shit,” he grumbles, cupping her breast through the skintight fabric anyhow, lest he completely remove her pants in the elevator.
With a ding, the elevator doors slide open once again, and they stumble outwards into the Regency Suite. This place, in all reality, should have been her suite–it belonged rightfully to the crownbearer–but given her frequent travels, Naohmi gifted it to her runner-up.
They do not make it to the bedroom. She pushes him back against the couch, him falling into it as it hits the back of his knees. He stares up at her with a wild look in his eyes, and Naohmi climbs in his lap, rolling her hips fiercely into his. It draws a moan from them both.
“Gods, woman, would you get those clothes off you? Please?” He asks in exasperation.
“I do love hearing you say that,” she giggles, sliding back off of him to shimmy out of her bottoms. Only her shiny red leotard remained, and she was certainly considering the merits of forcing him to peel it off of her.
She looks back to him with a grin, and instead of climbing back in his lap, she sinks to the floor on her knees, sitting pretty between his legs. The Tyrant reaches forward to grip her long tousled braid, and a choppy purr erupts from her. He smirks at the sound; she couldn’t help it!
Naohmi leans forward, grabbing his hips and yanking him forward so that he was sitting on the edge of the couch. He seems surprised by her strength to move him so freely, but why should he be surprised, after their grand rematch just before? She begins unworking the accursed buttons that stood between her and her desires, and as soon as he’s free–oh.
Oh.
The Tyrant hisses at the cool air against his member, and Naohmi feels rather dumbstruck. What should she have expected, given his aether had fused with a behemoth, of all things..? He wasn’t going to be small.
She takes him in hand, starting to stroke him, if with a tad bit of uncertainty. Different equipment, after all. “My champion,” he hisses again, between gritted teeth. Now that was a good sound; to be addressed as the champion, not as in Hydaelyn’s champion, no–as simply the wearer of the Arcadion’s crown. As his rival–his equal.
When she first tastes him upon her tongue, she immediately notes the strong taste of salt. Hells–we’re just sweaty after the match, she chides herself, wishing her lust had allowed them a shower or something first. But none of that matters, her stomach fluttering–aching, closer to wasps than butterflies–at the sounds The Tyrant makes when she takes him deeper into her mouth.
Naohmi’s careful, at first. She doesn’t want to scratch him or nick him with her fangs. But The Tyrant still has a firm grip on her hair, and she feels his heavy hand upon her head, suggesting quite insistently that she takes him further into her mouth. And soon, it isn’t her mouth, but her throat. It’s no longer just his sounds driving her mad, but the lewdness of her own as she gags on his length.
This continues for a considerable amount of time, Naohmi’s thoughts growing hazy with desire, before he yanks her up by her braid. “Climb up, please,” he demands, his other hand grabbing at her waist and pulling her into his lap. She straddles him once more, and he slides his fingers down her navel, before she grabs his wrist.
“Tyrant,” she whispers, breath warm against his ear, “I want it to sting.”
He sucks in a sharp breath, sliding the leotard aside just enough to line up with her entrance. She sinks down on him, slowly, steadily, forcing herself beyond comfort and adjustment.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, wincing.
“Oh, really now?” She laughs, her voice hearty, yet strained. “That’s not the–ah–impression I got earlier!”
“That’s different and you know that,” he groans, his hips twitching upwards as he bottoms out inside her. “Gods, Naohmi.”
“I love the–no, I need the intensity,” she mumbles, her words starting to slur together. She leans forward against his chest, tucking her face into the crook of his neck and wrapping her arms around him as she forces her hips to grind. “I need this,” she whimpers.
The Tyrant hugs her back tightly, pressing openmouthed kisses against her neck and shoulders once more. He lets the Warrior of Light set her own pace, to take whatever she needs from him. He would gladly give her everything he is and more, but he cannot deny the agonizing level of self-restraint it takes to not flip her onto the couch, or to stand and carry her to his bedroom. She’s so unbelievably tight.
“When’s the last time you–nngh,” he groans, unable to finish his sentence. This was a woman who knew what she wanted so clearly, and it was maddening.
“Not recently enough,” she pants, continuing to ride him. Her pace grew erratic, rushed, as though her life depended on it. On this.
But, suddenly, she lifts her hips off of him, his cock sliding out completely. “Wha–” he gasps, the cold air once again shocking his system.
“Take me to your bedroom,” she says flatly, though her eyes blaze with golden heat.
The Tyrant can do nothing but nod, acquiescing her demand. He scoops her up in his arms, carrying her as she clings around his waist and shoulders, kissing him with a nonsensical fervor. He fiddles to get the door open and tosses her on the bed, landing with a floomf as her back hits the fluffy mattress. She leans up slightly, unfastening the ponytail holding her braid together, running her hands through the thick fishtail to free her scalp. As she does this, The Tyrant climbs on top of her, and as she lays back flat once more, she presses her hands against his chest. “Ah-ah,” she tuts, grinning devilishly. “Return the favor, won’t you?”
“What do you…” he trails off, frowning in genuine confusion.
“Your mouth,” she says with a teasing, lazy drawl.
The man had never obeyed so quickly. His entire career, it had been him who exerted dominance, who exerted command, but this back and forth with the Warrior of Light was divine in a way he knew not how to describe. He drops between her thighs, encouraging her to rest her legs over his shoulders, and sets to work. He tries to gently guide the mass of fluff that is her tail away, so that it doesn’t get in the way, but Naohmi is too far lost in bliss to notice.
“I–when I–when I finish, I don’t–please–don’t stop, okay?” Naohmi’s broken begging comes from above him, her words choppy as though she was on the verge of tears. His gaze flicks up, and her expression was twisted, strained. Had she gotten so close already, even from the couch..? Never mind it. He sucks diligently on her clitoris, snaking a hand up to slide his fingers inside her, pumping them in and out at a feverish pace. He feels the pinprick of claws as she tangles her fingers in his hair, her hips bucking up against his face.
She doesn’t last long, and hells, does she fall apart beautifully. Tremors rack through her body as an intense orgasm grips her mind, body and soul. She jerks her hips up still yet, and, faithful to her earlier request, The Tyrant continues as she rides her climax to its finish. He continues then for a few moments after, his champion trembling in his arms. “T-Tyrant–” she gasps, her insides spasming around his fingers.
In an excellently smooth transition, he clamors back on top of her, swapping his fingers for his length. The change in girth and size gets a joyous squeal from her, and the ridiculous wetness inside her draws a moan from him. He begins fucking her roughly, unafraid now of hurting her, now that he knew she could not only take it, but craved it. She did not need the gentle handling past partners did.
The whole experience was too intoxicating for him to truly last much longer, given her previous ferocity back in the living room. “N-Naohmi, I–gods, where should–”
“Inside,” she instantly demanded, a shock to his system. He wants to protest, but why should he? Why did he even ask? No, if he was to be her conquest, then she was to be his. He ruts his hips into hers harder, erratically, until he comes apart. His hips keep moving as he rides out his own climax, and Naohmi’s insides tense around him, wringing him for all he’s worth.
Exhaustion immediately possesses The Tyrant. It is all he can do to not collapse on top of her, drained from the combat, and now this. He smiles at the bruises along her throat and shoulders, admiring his handiwork. Perhaps the tabloids will pick out the difference between the bruises originating from their duel, and those originating from the aftermath?
Naohmi purrs aggressively, nuzzling into him, tracing small circles with one claw against his bicep. They stay intertwined for some time, both panting, simply trying to recover. After several minutes of her insides warming him, he finally pulls out, his cum dripping out and pooling on the sheets beneath her. He doesn’t leave her side yet, though, instead looking intently at the mess he left inside her as it spills out.
“I… do have to ask,” he murmurs. “Are you… on anything?”
“No,” she says softly, “but I haven’t had an issue before.”
“You’ll be the death of me, my champion,” he says, flopping on his back beside her.