Chapter Text
The shed behind the sauna. A weather-beaten, dilapidated structure that had long since fallen into disuse, little more than a handful of rickety, aged boards barely clinging to a ramshackle frame. A building, bland in its décor, and so nondescript that it nearly blended in with its surroundings. It was a surprise that the church had not bothered to tear down the mishappen shack. Perhaps its survival was owed to its secluded location. Stuffed in the narrow alley behind the sauna and one of the towering walls surrounding the monastery. The precarious walkway leading to its entrance blanketed in shadows for much of the day. A place one’s eyes would not fall upon unless they had deliberately gone out of their way to seek in out. Out of sight, out of mind. Forgotten and abandoned.
Hubert glanced down at his sheet of parchment; re-examined the clues he had collected and painstakingly decoded, making sure he had followed them to the correct spot. The furrow in his brow deepened as the accuracy of his destination was double-checked and confirmed, his gaze flicking between the page in his hands and the broken-down shed standing before him. He shook his head with a sigh, stuffed the page back in the pocket of his academy uniform jacket.
While attending the Officer’s Academy, Hubert had made it a regular hobby to unearth the monastery’s many secrets. Garreg Mach was a wellspring veiled history—some of it trite, and of little value; but other secrets held details that could unravel the very fabric of Fodlan society. He had been among the first of that year’s students to scout out one of the hidden entrances that led to Abyss; had perused its shadow library and uncovered more knowledge the central church had quietly banished. He had unearthed multiple secret passages, knew of the veritable labyrinth of hidden tunnels lay honeycombed below the tranquil grounds of the monastery. That said, he had not yet been able to sneak into the church’s most sacred vaults, said to be the resting places of the goddess and her saints themselves—or so the story goes. Most likely, the sealed chasms housed relics heralding to a time long before the current incarnation of the church was established. Perhaps a device of untold magical or technological prowess, something that could be of use to Lady Edelgard in their upcoming war.
This most recent set of proverbial bread crumbs that he was tracking had been gathered from an assortment of poorly-coded messages scattered throughout Garreg Mach. Scrawled phrases, faded with age, and etched with dried ink. Found tucked away and scribbled in tiny lettering across the shelves in the furthest corners of the library; carved into the stone walls, low to the ground of the monastery’s more obscure walkways; all the hidden places where one’s gaze would not normally linger. The words cryptic in their meaning: whispers of secreted away meeting spot that had long fallen into obscurity—that was the most Hubert could make of them.
A frown curled Hubert’s lips as he approached the forgotten shack and eyed a set of rotting planks hanging by little more than a rusty nail or two. He ran a gloved fingertip along the frame of the door, inspected the film of dust that had collected on the fabric.
The shed looked like nothing special. He would be surprised if anyone had even entered the damn thing in the last year given its desolate state. Not exactly the most enticing reward for solving such a puzzle. Still, he had followed the trail to its endpoint. Might as well see this venture through.
The door screeched in protest as Hubert grasped the handle and tugged it open. Rusted hinges grinded and shrieked, the aged wood swelled and scraping across the ground as Hubert dragged the door open.
With a heave, the door swung open, and Hubert stepped inside. Musty air choked with years of dust assailed his nostrils the instant he entered. Hubert coughed. His nose twitched, burned with the urge to sneeze. Gravel crunched under his boots with every step, the dirt and debris encrusted into the rotting floorboards. He squinted against the gloom, peering into the shadowy recesses of the forgotten building, curious to see if the ramshackle structure held any secrets within it after all.
What greeted him was little more than dust, debris, and broken tools that had been all but discarded. Rotted, and reduced to rust. The shack every bit as dilapidated on the inside as it was in its exterior. A disappointment, but one that hardly surprised him.
Hubert’s frown deepened as he surveyed the shed’s insides. Even as a place of storage, the shed was near-barren. Empty save for a small stack of crumbling crates shoved to the side, and some long-abandoned gardening tools leaning against one of the corners, everything coated in a thick film of dust. Hubert’s brow knitted together as he pried open the crates, scowling when he found little more than old sauna stones concealed within.
The shack could have been any mishappen building filled with forgotten materials that were of no further use. As far as Hubert could tell, there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary inside the shed.
Well…Almost nothing. Save for a curious hole that was carved into the wall at the far end of the shack, right beside the door that led to the adjoining room.
Hubert approached the strange opening with an inquisitive hum, crouched into a squatting position to get a clearer look at the opening.
The gap was circular, about the width of a fist, its edges filed down and smoothed –the wood soft to the touch. The hole cut cleaning through the thin, flimsy wall, creating an opening into the next room. A number of questionable stains surrounding the gap, long-since dried and marking trickling paths down dust-coated wall.
Hubert ducked, peered through that carved window, but could make out no more than cobwebs and splinters of moonlight on the other side.
It was at that point another message snared his attention. This one carved into the wood just to the left of the hole, etched with the same style of cursive that had written the very clues Hubert had follow to this very location:
- 200 coin for my hands
- 400 coin for my mouth
Hubert blinked at the scratched messages. Nearly let an incredulous burst of laughter.
It would seem his painstaking investigation had led him to none other than some crude, run-down glory hole. One that had clearly not been operated for some time, given the thick coat of dust caked on the floor and walls.
Mirth bubbled in Hubert’s chest at the sheer absurdity of his discovery. To know that someone, some time ago, had the audacity to run what was essentially a miniature brothel right under the archbishop’s holy nose.
He opened the door, drifted to the other side of the partition, the spot where the harlot had performed fellatio on their many clients, concealed behind the veil of the wall separating them. The adjoining room was small, more of a closet, really, and only an arm’s breadth in width. Just barely enough space for a dutiful attendant to sink to their knees. Grooves were worn into the floor, the wood scuffed and scratched a dulled hue from countless times its occupant had knelt there. No messages were written on this side of the wall—the whore operating such a spot would surely have memorized the prices of their own services. A sliding lock was bolted onto the whore’s side of the door, ensuring their work was not interrupted. More stains, of what Hubert could only suspect were the dried spend of so many patrons, was painted upon this side of the partition as well. There were no clues in the room to suggest as to who had been stationed in that debaucherous hidden corner of Garreg Mach. It would seem Hubert’s current search had reached its anticlimactic conclusion.
Hubert sighed—more of a huff of amusement than a sound of true annoyance; was just about to leave when an approaching noise snared his attention.
Footsteps, heavy and encased in armour, clanked their way to the shed.
The telltale steps of one of the Knights of Seiros patrolling the monastery grounds.
Hubert cursed to himself, suspecting that the grinding screech of shed’s door being pried open was what had drawn the knight’s attention. He held his breath, carefully closed the door to the tiny stall and latched the door’s lock in place. He remained statue-still. Surely, the knight would quickly discover that any noise that was heard was strictly imagined? That no trespasser had wandered into the abandoned shed. Perhaps blame such disquieting racket on the wind, or some animal that had broken in—
“I was wondering when you’d finally return. You should have left us a message, sweetheart, I would have been here sooner…” the knight rasped from the other side. The leering words oozed through the thin wall like viscous globs of tree sap. The clinking of a belt being unbuckled, and rustling of fabric could be heard from the other side.
Seconds later, a cock was pressed through the hole in the wall.
Hubert gaped at the swollen organ—fat and flushed a near purple, with beads of precum already pooling at the tip. The thick member branched with pronounced, angry veins. Heat ignited across Hubert’s face. His thoughts froze, turned to static at the sight of the demanding cock.
A heavy beat of silence filled the shed.
“L—look, if you’re just messing around and trespassing, I’m going to have to call the rest of the guards here to haul you away!” the knight growled, a thin thread of panic wavering in his voice. Yet despite his unease, his cock remained firm and pressed through the hole.
Hubert swallowed thickly, eyes still locked onto the knight’s cock, silently regarding the swollen organ as plumes of fire scorched across his face. The shack suddenly stifling, as if it had leached the damp heat from the sauna next door.
Several options presented themselves to Hubert in that moment, most of which could have been enacted with little difficulty.
Despite his words, the knight was hardly a threat. Hubert could incapacitate a single subject whilst remaining undetected with ease, and covertly make his way back to his dormitory. Or, he could use the opportunity to blackmail the other man; dangle the threat of bringing the encounter to Rhea and secure the cooperation of a Knight of Seiros for his own purposes. After all, the archbishop would be less than pleased to find out that one of her "virtuous" knights was participating in such a seedy exchange.
In the end, Hubert pursued none of those actions.
What happened next was done without thought. It was an impulse, pure and simple. One that Hubert would not be able to explain when looking back on that moment. Perhaps years of pent-up, ungratified desires, mingled with morbid curiosity?
In a blink, Hubert dropped to his knees, parted his lips, and dragged the man’s cock into his mouth.
A cornucopia of new, strange sensations flooded Hubert’s senses. The knight’s cock heavy against his tongue, pressed against the insides of his mouth with the burning touch of a branding iron. Droplets of precum oozed from the soaked head—sticky, and leaving a bitter aftertaste in Hubert’s mouth. The man’s musk suffocating and mingled with the scent of stale sweat. Overpowering, but not decidedly unpleasant. Hubert’s fingertips scrabbled, trembled to keep their grasp on the hot shaft and hold it in place.
A cracked, guttural sound groaned from the other side of the partition. The knight gasped, shuddered in response to the wet heat surrounding his dick. The cock twitched in Hubert’s mouth. Let out another spurt of precum in its excitement.
Hubert swallowed down the fresh trickle of spend coating his tongue. Experimentally, his lips sealed firmly and thrummed around the shaft. He started small, taking in only about half the length before dragging his lips back to the tip. The knight’s cock swelled even further in his mouth. Plump like an overripe fruit set to burst.
Ragged moans vibrated through the wall. The thrusts gradually growing faster, burrowing deeper. It was not long before the entire shaft was plunged into his mouth, his jaw beginning to ache around the knight’s girth. The virgin recesses of his mouth plundered by the throbbing member stabbing into him. Hubert struggled to keep the thick length contained in his mouth once the knight hastened his pace. The movements sloppy, uncoordinated. Gobs of drool oozed from the corners of Hubert’s mouth and rolled down his chin. Twice, the cock slipped from his lips, and slapped against his cheek with a wet smack. Hubert furrowed his brow in determination and latched onto the cock once more to continue his motions.
“Oh, yeah…That’s good…Ughn!—Goddess!—So good…” the knight moaned, deepening his thrusts. The partition creaking, likely from the knight bracing a hand against the aged wood, “That’s it, princess…Take if nice and deep…Fuck, you’re amazing…”
A strange flutter glowed in Hubert’s chest at the praise; one that drowned out the flash of annoyance he felt at the insulting moniker the knight had assigned him. A momentary sensation of weightlessness that hummed through his nerves in an electrified melody.
He growled to himself. Chased the nonsensical thoughts away and continued his task.
They continued their rhythm for a time. The knight fucked Hubert’s mouth to the heated tandem of his growling moans. The wall between them creaked and shuddered. Obscene, viscid clicking and suckling noises filling the small shed with every thrust. Hubert met every lance of the knight’s cock; bobbed his head and eagerly swallowed down every deep stroke.
And through it all, Hubert felt himself gradually grow hard. His own erection stirring and beginning to tent his trousers. He bit back the urge to palm himself. Kept his hands latched onto the knight’s cock, stroking and pumping throbbing shaft.
The thrusts soon turned harsh. The knight clearly of the verge of completion. He grunted, rammed his cock through the hole in the wall. Stabbed into Hubert’s mouth in a barrage of frenzied jabs. One particularly violent thrust sent the head of the knight’s cock slamming against the back of Hubert’s inexperienced throat. Hubert gagged. Eyes watering at the rough throat-fucking, but his lips remained sealed around the hot flesh filling his mouth. He shivered, a wave of warm prickles sweeping over Hubert’s flesh.
The knight roared and sheathed himself deep in Hubert’s mouth with one, firm stroke.
Cum flooded Hubert’s mouth. Hot. Thick. Startling in its suddenness and sheer volume.
Hubert coughed slightly, excess dribbles of the knight’s spend seeping from the edges of his occupied lips. Messy, and delicious in its obscenity. His eyelids fluttered, a wanton moan vibrating around the cock still in his mouth as heated tingles danced along his skin. He should have felt revolted at being reduced to such a state; berate himself for giving into the most base of urges and dropping to his knees to devour cock like two-coin rent-boy.
Instead, he felt emboldened. Euphoric. A filthy moment of invigorating rapture. The idea of being anonymously used in some dingy shed, left with only bruised lips, scuffed knees, and the taste of a stranger’s cum on his tongue the only reminders of such a depraved encounter leaving him light-headed, almost giddy.
Yet at the same time, there arose a strange sense of power in his lurid acts. Hubert may have been the one on his knees obediently drinking down a cascade of cum, but it was the knight on the other side of the partition who truly sought mercy. Begging, whimpering – the desperate, uncoordinated jabs of the fat, stubby cock still twitching and spilling rivulets of its seed down Hubert’s throat— spoke volumes of the clemency he had beseeched from Hubert’s plush lips. It ignited an electrified charge that crackled through Hubert’s blood and rolled down his spine in a wave of thrilling shivers. A sensation that surged and flared brighter with every desperate whine that was wrenched from the knight’s warbling mouth.
Hubert slurped and sucked at the offering. His throat worked desperately to swallow every drop that was poured into his mouth. The knight whimpered, his feet scuffling across the ground as if his knees were buckling and threatening to give out. Hubert grinned around the spent shaft, bobbed his head and worked the knight’s cock until the organ went soft in his mouth.
The cock slipped from Hubert’s lips with a light pop. Flaccid, glistening with spittle. The once engorged shaft now limp, almost pitiful compared to the angry, reddened length that had jabbed through the hole and demanded Hubert’s attention. Now it flopped from Hubert’s grasp: drained. Its potency sucked away by Hubert’s clever lips and tongue. Satisfaction flared in Hubert’s chest, knowing that through such simple actions he was able to reduce one of Seiros’s anointed knights into a sobbing mess.
“Good…fuck that was good…” the knight rasped between frayed, gasping pants. Another handful of sparks ignited in Hubert at the fatigued praise. He swallowed thickly at the cum coating his throat, choked back a moan at the aching pulse that thrummed along his own hardened shaft.
The knight’s cock retreated back through the hole, a fresh dribble of spend speckling the stained wall. A rustle of fabric and the clinking of armour and belt buckles echoed from the other side as the knight tucked himself away and made himself presentable once more.
“Here. For your services…”
A small pouch was pushed through the hole and fell to the ground with a clink. Hubert blinked at the offering. He plucked the purse from the ground with trembling fingers and drew upon it strings, his eyes lighting up as he took in its contents.
A sizeable amount of coin lay contained within the pouch. Glittering in the strips of moonlight bleeding through the shed’s cracks. Hubert gaped at the offering—a cursory estimate of the amount suggested that the purse contained a similar amount of coin to the price listed on the other side of the wall.
“I’ll be seeing you again, princess,” the knight chuckled. His armoured footsteps echoed as they crossed the shack floor, followed by the rusted creak of the shed’s door opening then closing firmly behind him.
Hubert’s heart shuddered in tandem to the shack door slamming shut. Shivers rolled down his arms, his breath catching in his throat with a snared, jolting stutter.
He waited, stone silent, in that tiny shack. Remained there long after the knight’s heavy footsteps had drifted way. Once he was certain the way was clear, he unlatched the lock, pried open the door a crack, and peered into the next room to ensure his visitor had truly departed.
With the coast clear, Hubert silently crept through the shadowy pathways of Garreg Mach, and slipped back into his door room.
He locked the door shut, sagged heavily against it once he reached his destination.
Hubert’s heart thrashed against the insides of his chest. A starved, rabid beast having been fed a single droplet of blood, now trying to claw itself from the confines of his bone cage. A fresh wave of shivers swept over Hubert’s skin, feverish in their intensity, a clammy chill left in the aftershocks of his sordid encounter. Nothing but static filled his pulsating corridors of his mind. A lurid, blinding haze that suffocated the lingering tendrils of rational thought.
His mind should have been sharp. Should have been full of scathing condemnations of his crass, irresponsible behaviour. That he willingly debased himself for no reason but unfettered, carnal impulse alone. A stunt could have cost Lady Edelgard and her cause dearly if he were caught—
A thin, milky rivulet oozed down his chin. Hubert captured the errant droplets with the tip of his gloved finger and sucked at the digit with a low, fluttering moan.
In a daze, he drifted to his bed and laid down on the lumpy mattress. Hubert stared at the fading paint of his dorm room ceiling, chest heaving, and the taste of the knight’s spend still fresh in the mouth.
Exhilaration like he had not felt in some time thrummed through his body. His nerves vibrating like a freshly released bowstring loosing its arrow. Molten sparks simmered along the branching pathways of his arteries. His own cock painfully hard, tenting and pressing impatiently at the insides of his pants.
Hubert grunted. Unlaced his trousers and took himself in hand. He spat on his palm, gnashed his teeth as he furiously pumped the length. Vigorous, almost violent in his strokes. He chased down the thundering stormwaves of his mounting climax. Licked away the last traces of spend clinging to his lips, and lost himself in that intoxicating memory of his own defilement.
He spilled into his hand with a brittle whine—shrill, a harlot’s song. His hips shuddered, his back arched from the bed in tandem to the sultry tune. He shoved a fist in his mouth to muffle the vulgar noises, his heart skipping a beat at the thought of his lewd melody sinking through the dorm room walls, and reaching the ears of his lady liege. The sticky rivulets of cum streamed between his fingers and leaving white speckles on the dark fabric of his pants.
Hubert’s nose wrinkled in distaste at the mess. He cleaned the smears of his own spend with a spare rag, dabbed at the stains on his pants and did his best to remove the incriminating splotches. In the end, he shucked off his trousers and smallclothes, and tossed them to the other side of his room—he would deal with them in the morning. Crawled under his covers, and tried to ignore the pounding in his chest as he forced himself into a fitful sleep.
It was a mere two nights later that Hubert found himself, once again, kneeling in that very same place. Tucked away within the decaying remains of the old, dusty shed. Alone, save for the spiders spinning their many webs in the corners of the shack.
The stains from the knight he had sucked off now dried and clinging to the wall in goopy, congealed trails. A filthy reminder of what had transpired that fateful night. The grave-marker for the eviscerated remains of Hubert’s wrecked dignity painted upon crumbling partition. Evidence of his loss of the iron-clad control that he had cultivated for so long—a loss he should have mourned, felt shame to see slip from his grasp, but only felt a titillating hum at the memory of participating in such sluttish indecency. Ravished and reduced to a warm, wet hole to fuck, pliant around the thick cock plundering its depths. The impression left a tingling singe that sank deep into his flesh and burrowed into his very marrow.
That said, he made a note to scrub the wall if he was going to be spending any amount of time in that shed.
Hubert released the breath he was holding in an annoyed huff. His fingers danced, tapped impatiently along grooves carved into the floorboard.
He had tried to put the events from that night from his mind. Seal the encounter away deep within the fortified vaults of his mind. His identity had remained concealed during the exchange; there was no reason to dwell on the incident. It was a moment of reckless fancy; nothing more, nothing less. A novel experience that was done and over with—his curiosity sated. That particular matter should have come to a close.
And yet, there he was once more. His hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Waiting to take part in an encore of two nights prior—waiting to be used by a stranger who may not even appear. The tapestry of lurid sensations that had engulfed him that night might as well have been branded into the insides of his skull. Hubert had used hands in the following days, jerked himself off to the revolving memory of being shamelessly face-fucked, even pressed slick fingers inside himself in an attempt to recapture a fraction of the electrified pulses of ecstasy that had left him dizzy with bliss and craving more.
It was never enough. The itch continued to prickle at him, unsated by his fumbling attempts to quell his lascivious thoughts through acts of self-pleasure. He hungered for more.
Hubert fidgeted in place. The chilled floorboards dug into his knees, the limbs growing numb from the uncomfortable position.
What was he thinking? Sullying himself like a wanton profligate, and risking his very reputation for some frivolous bit of self-gratification. The whole endeavor was a mistake. A lapse in judgement that went well beyond the bounds of moronic. That moment was nothing more than a fleeting fancy that could have ended in disaster—one that should never be repeated.
Hubert shifted, prepared to clamber back to his feet and leave the shed when a grinding creak stilled his movements.
The door to the shack groaned as it was pried open, its rusted hinges shrieking in protest. Hubert’s spinning thoughts came to an abrupt halt, the doubts that had been circling his mind melting away the plume of flames igniting in his core. Hubert homed in on approaching steps. Swallowed thickly. His ears perked to the treading scrapes, lightning-charged tremors vibrating just beneath his skin.
The footfalls were heavy, bracketed by the hollow clang of armoured boots. Not dissimilar to those of the knight who had paid him a visit, but the gait in the movements was different. More of a leisurely swagger than the stern, surefooted march of the Seiros knight who had used Hubert’s mouth nights earlier.
The footsteps came right up to the partition. The stench of stale ale leaked through the thin wall. A low chuckle sounded from the other side.
“Well, well, well, didn’t think I’d ever see this place up and running again,” chortled the familiar voice of the Abysskeeper through the wall.
Hubert scooted closer to the partition, his eyes locked onto the hole, the only window of connection between the two men.
A lapse of silence fell over the shack as the Abysskeeper waited for a response.
Hubert glared at the partition, tapped twice on the wall, hoping he was getting his point across without uttering a word.
“The quiet type, huh? Fine by me…Besides, I’ve got much better plans in store for that sweet little mouth of yours than yammering chatter…” a rustle of clothing, and the metallic clang of buckles being undone accompanied the Abysskeeper’s words.
“Listen up, if you’re working this spot, then you know the drill…”
A shift of fabric. A low groan. And the shuffling steps of the other man moving closer to the partition.
Just like before, a cock emerged through the hole in the wall.
The girth was comparable to that of the knight’s, but much more impressive in length. Obscenely so. The kind of exaggerated body proportions that one would see etched into drawings of pornographic artwork. The Abysskeeper’s cock jutted from the hole with the demanding aggression of a battering ram. Reddened and swelled to an intimidating thickness, milky droplets of pre already oozing and soaking the large tip.
Hubert gulped at the sight. A shudder skipped along his flesh as his mind scrambled to calculate the best way to tackle such a challenge.
The Seiros knight’s cock seemed almost miniscule in comparison. A mere worm next to the thick python hovering inches from his face. But even the knight’s stubby member had managed to slam against the back of Hubert’s throat more than a couple times during their encounter. The thick cock displayed before him looked as if it could dislocate his jaw with a sharp enough thrust.
A surprising flutter of heat burned at Hubert’s flesh at the thought of being so roughly face-fucked by such a large cock.
“Well…?” the Abysskeeper barked, impatient, “We gonna do this, or what?”
Hubert swallowed down the shivering tendrils of trepidation—embraced the same rush of frenetic excitement that had enveloped him during his first encounter.
He tapped at the wall again, signalling his agreement to their scandalous contract.
Hubert eyed the cock with a determined glint, released a calming breath and shuffled a tiny bit closer. He wetted his lips, tucked them around his teeth, and took engorged length into his mouth.
Hot flesh filled his mouth in an instant. Droplets of the Abysskeeper’s precum already dotting his tongue. Milky in their texture, more salty than that of the knight’s spend. Hubert’s lips were pried wider as the fat cockhead pushed its way in. Sharp pinches nipped at his jaw from the strained joints as they stretched to accommodate the massive length. His tongue locked in place by the cock’s substantial heft, and splotched with more dribbles of spend. Hubert’s eyes widened, noting that not even half the length had been fed into his mouth and already he felt full to the point of bursting.
His lips flailed, fluttered around the fat girth as his tongue— still pinned against the bottom of his mouth— clumsily tried to stroke the hot shaft with stilted, fumbling licks.
After a few moments of inelegantly mouthing the plump shaft, its owner let out a derisive snort.
“Must be new at this…Not nearly as good as the dirty slut who used to run this little spot,” the Abysskeeper scoffed as he lazily fucked Hubert’s mouth.
Indignation, white-hot and blinding, scorched through Hubert with the scalding touch of a heated branding iron. He pointedly ignored the way his cock twitched. The stirring hardness that already filled his smallclothes swelling with prickles of volcanic heat.
The audacity! The brazen insolence! The sheer, absolute, fucking nerve to critique Hubert’s skills in fellatio?! Coming from someone who blindly sticks their own dick into some dingy hole carved into the wall of a dilapidated shed and hopes for the best? Someone who was likely utterly incapable of arousing sexual pleasure in another, even with the aid of a detailed map and trained instructor to guide him!
He attacked the Abysskeeper’s cock with a fresh surge of defiant vigor. Approached the imposing length as if it were a foe to be bested, a challenge to be conquered. His lips dragged up and down the shaft in aggressive slurps, the length painted and repainted in slick, glossy trails of Hubert’s saliva.
He paused his ministrations. His brow furrowed as he reassessed his plan of attack, plotted a new strategic course that would have the other man begging for mercy. He let the Abysskeeper’s cock slip from his lips— still red, throbbing, and so painfully unsatisfied.
A growl of protest had begun to rumble from the other side of the partition, the sound of irate displeasure aborted and soundly cut off as Hubert licked a strip along the underside of the Abysskeeper’s dick. He licked and teased at the fleshy shaft, followed the trail of its veins, and finished by swirling his tongue around the sensitive glans.
The effect was instant. A choked groan, followed by what sounded like a strangled, moaning roar warbled from the other side of the wall. A wicked grin lit Hubert’s face at the reaction. His hands encircled the cock, brought swollen tip to his lips, and gently suckled the head. A fresh sputter of cum coated Hubert’s tongue. The partition shuddered. Another cacophony of wrecked growls rattled the shed. The cock jabbed excitedly through the hole, eager and seeking to bury itself in the luxurious moist warmth of the mouth teasing its head. Hubert gripped the cock firmly, denying it the reward of sinking deep into his throat.
“That’s it, honey. Now you’re getting into it,” the Abysskeeper chortled, punctuating his words with a sharp thrust and another gravelly moan.
Spools of fire wove their way through the branching networks of Hubert’s arteries. His blood threaded with embers that burned at the last frayed remnants of his inhibitions, and drowned him in waves of carnal ecstasy. The hardness in his pants grew. Pressure built in his abdomen, Hubert’s own neglected arousal throbbed, screamed for attention as he drank in both cock and praise alike.
A devilish smile curled his lips as he sank his tongue into the wet slit and continued to tease the frenulum, a new chorus of scratchy moans pulled from his visitor. Just like with the knight, the Abysskeeper melted under Hubert’s attentions. A flick or a swirl of his tongue, a stroke of his fingers along the pulsing shaft, applying just the right amount of suction…It was all so simple. The Seiros knight, the Abysskeeper, they were naught but easily manipulated instruments, mindlessly singing to the tune of Hubert’s ministrations.
And Void, did they sing. Filthy, wanton serenades just for Hubert’s ears. The primal howls of beasts ensnared in a mating rut, driven to near madness as they fucked relentlessly in Hubert’s mouth and so desperately sought release.
Hubert opened his mouth wide, invited the thick cock back into the soft, heated cavern.
The hot shaft slid along his tongue with silky ease. The head dragged across the roof of his mouth, gliding along the delicate palates. He choked, jolted once more as the head bumped against the back of his throat, shuddered as it pressed on further, going deeper that Hubert ever imagined. Resistance was met as the cockhead poked at the tense ring of muscles of Hubert’s esophagus, the clutch knotting, going taut at the intrusion.
The cock slid deeper, impossibly so. Slithering down his throat like a fleshy viper seeking to burrow its way into Hubert’s esophagus and make a nest of his insides. It poked at the tight furl, pried open the clenched entrance, and sank further.
Hubert flailed, sputtered, the gestures instinctual to the brief surge of panic of his airway being cut off and suffocated by the engorged shaft. He could feel his throat muscles spasm, thrash around the plundering length. His lungs burn at the sudden loss of oxygen. Saliva pooled in his mouth, the excess spittle drooling across his lips and chin in syrupy gobs. One of his hands flew to his neck, a shiver rolled down his spine as he felt the protruding bulge formed by the fat cock squeezing its way down Hubert’s throat.
Hubert paused, took a moment to compose himself. Forced himself to breathe through his nose. Gradually, the muscles in his throat relaxed, and the cock inched a little bit deeper.
The tense muscles of Hubert’s throat softened, became pliant like warm clay, surrendering to the mighty length seeking to explore their depths. The Abysskeeper grunted, sank just a little further with every heavy roll of his hips. The tight, muscled flesh of Hubert’s throat yielded under the prodding touch, moulded to the Abysskeeper’s girth, and reforged into his personal fucksleeve.
“Shit…I take back what I said…You’re a natural at deep-throating, honey,” Abysskeeper brayed, sliding his cock out to the point that only the tip remained wetted by Hubert’s lips, before plunging deep back into Hubert’s throat with a mangled roar.
Hubert moaned, drooling around the cock filling his mouth. His eyelids fluttered. A tingling glow radiated through his body that stirred the wildfire gathering in his core. Arousal gnawed at his guts, his cock aching, tenting the heavy fabric of his trousers.
Deeper and deeper the thick cockhead delved. Hubert felt the palpable bulge crawl further down his throat each time the Abysskeeper burrowed into him. Images flashed through Hubert’s mind of the cock sinking into and filling chest, pulsing alongside the racing thud of his own heartbeat. The notion was laughably preposterous, not to mention anatomically impossible. Still Hubert mewled, dazed by the lurid thought. His cock strained, aching at the idea of being hollowed out into a toy of carnal pleasure.
The member slid out then glided back in to fill Hubert once more. This time, Hubert took in the entire length. Swallowed down every inch until his lips were just a hair’s-breadth from the hole in the wall. The colossal great lance of a cock fully hilted at long last. A muffled mewl vibrated in Hubert’s chest. Triumphant. His jaw burned with exertion, his throat stretched and filled to the brink, sending ripples of heavenly agony dancing through his flesh.
The Abysskeeper’s thrusts soon grew jagged, all sense of rhythm deteriorated into a frenzied chase of pleasure. Even breathing through his nose, black spots dotted Hubert’s vision as the cock slammed into his throat. He blinked away a wave of light-headedness. Rabid, guttural growls spilled through the wall. The fleshy slap of the Abysskeeper’s ballsack smacking against the partition rang out as he rammed his cock through the hole, trying to grind as much of his dick into Hubert’s mouth and throat as possible. The barrier rattled and shook with each strike, as if trying to smash through the brittle wall.
He was close. Hubert could practically taste the other man’s soaring climax thrumming through his blood. His lips sealed tightly around the shaft sliding in and out of his mouth. Let out a low hum when the Abysskeeper sank back inside Hubert’s throat. The hummed vibrations rippled against the cock seeking to use his throat as a sheath. Another moan through the wall, another spurt of cum trickled into Hubert’s mouth.
Dragging a deep breath of air through his nose, Hubert hollowed his cheeks and sucked.
A choked, soundless cry –a pathetic, weeping noise—was torn from the bottom of the other man’s lungs as he drove himself deep into Hubert’s throat and came.
This time, Hubert didn’t even taste it. The cock shoved far enough into his mouth to bypass his tongue and deposit its seed directly into Hubert’s throat. A seemingly endless fountain of the Abysskeeper’s spend, gushing straight into Hubert’s stomach. He felt his adam’s apple bob, frantic, desperate to drink down every drop.
Cum was still pouring from the cock when it pulled out of Hubert’s mouth. The excess spend splattered across Hubert’s face, painting him in streaks of sticky white. He gasped, chest heaving with laboured breaths. Blinked as the droplets rolled down his cheeks and dripped from his chin. He could feel it the milky fluid soak into his hair, matte the fringe of curls that hung over his right eye. Hubert coughed, more of the Abysskeeper’s spunk dribbling from his fuck-swollen lips.
Never had he felt so filthy; so ruined. Bathed in the evidence of his seedy desires. Sopping and soaked in another man’s spend. The flares of arousal burned to a crescendo. Dizzying, and all-consuming in their raging inferno.
“Not too bad…You may have a career in sucking dick after all,” the Abysskeeper chuckled as he tucked himself away.
A jingling noise sounded from the other side of the partition, and another pouch of coin was pushed through the hole seconds later.
Hubert watched as the purse flopped to the ground with a loud clink, one of the coins spilling from the overflowing satchel, rolling across the ground, and coming to a stop by Hubert’s knee.
“Keep at it. That sweet little mouth of yours has got some talent. I’ll be seeing you again soon…”
With that, the Abysskeeper departed, his heavy boots dragging across the old floorboard, a cheery whistle ringing through the old shed. The door screeched open and was slammed shut, leaving Hubert alone once more.
Tremors rolled down his limbs. His hands shaking as he reached for the bulge in his pants that had been ignored for far too long.
This time, he didn’t bother waiting to return to his dorm room. He tore at the laces of his trousers, yanked his cock free from the confines of his pants, and began jerking off right there on the floor of that shack.
He pumped his cock in rough strokes. His head thrown back in rapture as he basked in the myriad of sensations crashing over him: The burn in jaw. The thick fluid coating his throat and face. The Abysskeeper’s seed sitting heavy and satisfying in his belly.
Hubert came with a shriek, spilling over his hands and splattering onto the floor.
A single strip of moonlight filtered through broken paneling, bathing Hubert in its silver halo. A mocking spotlight from the heavens. Had Hubert been a man of faith, he may have believed that the goddess was spying on him in that very moment. A voyeur to Hubert’s most lascivious secret.
He turned to face the celestial glow with a sneer, his lips still stained with the Abysskeeper’s cum.
Tell me, goddess, what do you think of me turning a corner of your most sacred temple into a den of sin and debauchery?
As expected, no bolt of lightning nor sluice of purifying flames plunged from the heavens. No divine retribution rained down from an infuriated deity.
Instead, the door to the shed opened. A fresh set of footsteps made their way to the partition, and a new cock poked through the hole, waiting to be attended.
What started off as a brief moment of fancy –an uncharacteristically whimsical flight of spontaneity and self-indulgence, soon became a common occurrence.
Many nights, while most of the monastery was quiet under the thick blanket of slumber, Hubert would creep from his dormitory to that forgotten shed. Drop to his knees in his hidden nook, and quietly take dick after dick into his hot, willing mouth. And with each night, Hubert’s roster of clients grew. One or two sessions a night quickly bloomed to three or four, and sometimes up to a half-dozen visitors a night.
Long nights awake were hardly a rarity. Hubert did his best work during the hours the sun was at rest, drew strength from the veil of the night’s shadowy dim, and the newly-discovered talents he was developing with his mouth were no exception.
During one such instance, Hubert had been so engrossed in his task, servicing a sizeable number of visitors to his quiet shed, and sucking dick until the first rays of dawn began to filter through the cracks of the ramshackle hut. A reckless move. One that he was sure not to repeat lest he risk his debaucherous activities be discovered.
Whispers of Garreg Mach’s most talented whore soon rippled through the masses. Knights, students, and monastery staff alike exchanging hushed stories of their encounter with the enigmatic harlot with the enchanting mouth. They would muse amongst themselves. Trade theories in an attempt to puzzle out the identity of their favourite rent-boy as their eyes darted through the crowds, unseeing. A futile, fruitless search. Their gaze would sweep right past him without a single trace of recognition. Not a single soul would dare suspect the glowering heir of House Vestra was the owner of the sweet mouth they had taken pleasure from. It would be far more in character for him to bite their cock off (though, truthfully, Hubert had been tempted to do so with some of his more obnoxious clients) and not service them like an obedient whore.
Such anonymity, however, was completely one-sided. Despite the partition separating him during such acts, Hubert knew full well of the identities of his increasing list of patrons. The moans and groans ripped from their lungs. Animalistic, shrill sounds drenched in embarrassing levels of neediness. The way they thrusted into him—rough, or timid, and everything between. The scent of their cologne that lingered in the air and seeped through the cracks of that stale shed, every detail was carefully catalogued and committed to memory as he swallowed each of their lengths to the root. Within a day, Hubert was able to identify any new client who sought the services of his mouth.
The encounters left an electrified thrill thrumming along Hubert’s nerves. Ignited a hunger in his core. Awoke a ravenous beast that pulled him back to that spot, night after night, to feast upon the many offerings thrust before him.
Those who were among the ranks of the Knights of Seiros were among his most loyal clientele. Their armour clanking loud and brash as they made their way to that inconspicuous shed just behind the sauna. They always made a spectacle out of their encounters. Issued threats that his not-so-secret operation would be exposed to the archbishop should he dare reveal that they had paid him a visit. Hubert always rolled his eyes at such bluster, and smirked with smug satisfaction as their self-righteous resolve crumbled in a cacophony of warbled, incoherent moans the moment he took them in his mouth.
Older students from all houses frequented his sordid corner of the monastery as well. Full of bravado and a puffed up sense of pride over their own sexual prowess. They always came quickly. Embarrassingly so. Their spend flooding his mouth before Hubert’s lips barely had time to wet their cocks.
The devout holy figures that floated around the monastery grounds in robes of pristine white, and adorned with silver embroidery of their revered saint’s crest, were no exception. In fact, away from the archbishop’s watchful eye, they often revealed themselves to be the most depraved of his devoted customers.
A bishop, likely even older than Hubert’s own parents, and often seen praying in the cathedral, had visited him three nights in a row.
“Take it slut! Take it all in your whore mouth!” the bishop had grunted savagely, growled as the head of his cock slammed against the back of Hubert’s throat in harsh, violent thrusts.
The bishop had come with a low moan and a gasp of “Goddess, forgive me!”
A sizeable pouch of coin had been pushed through the hole moments later.
Of course, not everyone was so enthused with Garreg Mach’s newest entrepreneur. Seteth could often be seen stalking the grounds of the monastery, awkwardly trying to interrogate different individuals about what they knew of a certain sordid figure who was trading indecent acts for coin. Red faced and fuming, his questions often veered into circles, talking in stilted code—an attempt to extract intel of the debaucherous operation, while carefully avoiding the mention of said operation in the first place. Needless to say, his investigation was going nowhere, and Hubert’s schedule had never been more busy.
And with every encounter, his coin purse swelled further. A steadily growing set of coffers away from the strict surveillance of Adrestia’s corrupted ruling class. Although procuring weapons, supplies, and hired swords for Lady Edelgard and the upcoming war remained a precarious task, the extra income had opened new options as to whose aid they would seek out. He could afford to be picky. Perhaps even recruit enough mercenary aid, bolster their military power enough that they could put some distance between themselves and Arundel’s wretched lot.
Hubert smiled to himself at the idea. Pictured the look of indignant surprise on the putrid slug’s face. Twisted with fury but tinged with the sinking dread of inevitable, crushing defeat as Hubert sinks a blade into the vile maggot’s throat.
A wishful thought, to be sure. But one that felt tangibly within his grasp as the piles of newly obtained wealth continued to grow.
Hubert plucked one of the coins from a nearby stack. Pinched the glittering piece between his fingertips and turned it over with a slight frown.
The coin was certainly not distasteful, but there were other forms of currency that Hubert valued far more:
Information and political connections.
The coin would certainly procure top-tier hired swords—something that would be quite useful for when they finally lay siege to Garreg Mach; however, unravelling the intricate, iron-clad webs of Fodlan’s tainted social order would take more than a mighty sword arm. There was matters that required a more delicate touch. The bludgeoning blow of a blacksmith hammer could only accomplish so much, after all. Especially during instances that necessitated much more precise instruments –those of blackmail, bribery, intel that could incapacitate an army or obliterate an aristocrat’s political career with a handful of whispers; tools of the covert, wielded by those unafraid to sully their hands and wade through the darkest corners of Fodlan society.
Such delicate tools of shadows and subterfuge were a specialty of House Vestra. Ones that Hubert had been made quite aware of and subsequently trained in since he was a young child. That said, there was no way he could go through the usual channels, utilize the same tactics and resources, as those employed by the House Vestra’s extensive spy network; not while that vile, bottom-feeding maggot that called himself Hubert’s father remained at its head.
A bubble of amusement stirred within him at the idea of his father finding out about his sordid extracurricular activities. The boiling, red-faced affronted fury as the marquis sputtered and roared with outrage, demanding an explanation from his dutiful eldest child.
But dear father, did you not always say a Vestra must do whatever is necessary to complete a mission?
Hubert smirked at the imagined exchange. Tossed the coin into their air and nimbly caught it between his two fingers.
Hubert could always set up the exchanges himself, claim he could offer the services of a talented night worker who would reward their cooperation with carnal delights. Then it would just be a matter of sneaking back to his hidden spot to uphold his side of the agreement, veiled by the partition while he sucked his business partners off, without anyone ever finding out just who’s lips were wrapped around their cocks.
Of course, that would raise many questions as to why the heir of House Vestra had allied himself with some anonymous whore in order to obtain favours and intel to begin with; and, inevitably, why Hubert was conspicuously absent when said whore was performing their duties. His clients would have to be absolutely bereft of braincells to not put together such obvious clues.
Hubert scowled at the coin clutched between his fingers. The image of goddess emblazoned on that sparkling bit of currency stared back at him, mocking in her regal serenity.
No…it was far too risky for Hubert to conduct such negotiations himself. Obtaining such secrets and alliances through his current arrangements would be nearly impossible without tipping off his identity.
At least, not without some sort of proxy to set up the arrangements.
Someone who could set up the parameters of the exchange, negotiate what will be traded in payment for Hubert’s mouth. Perhaps someone posing as an agent of the church or alliance’s covert operations. A puppet with a fabricated identity far removed from any tangible connection with the Vestra family. The proxy would be the one to meet with the persons of interest, handle the formalities and details, while Hubert remained safely tucked away and concealed within the shed.
Though, that raised the difficult question of who would be best suited for such a role. The agents within the Vestra’s network of spies were still loyal to Hubert’s father. Even if Hubert did successfully managed to sway one to his cause, the slightest amount of pressure from the old marquis would cause them to crumble liked an aged bulwark.
No, it had to be someone with absolutely no ties to the Vestra family, yet at the same time, someone Hubert could easily control. A puppet that would dance to his command without question. Perhaps someone he could exert leverage on, through blackmail, bribery, or mere threats of bodily harm.
Hubert let out a sigh, the coin slipping listlessly from his fingers and bouncing on his desk with a series of light clinks. He scooped the mounds of coin up, deposited them into their purses, and hid the pouches away in locked chest—sealed by key and magic hex alike—that was tucked under his bed.
He flopped onto his bed with a weary groan. Pinched the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to stave off the oncoming headache.
There was still plenty of time fine-tune such details and sort out his future arrangements. He need only have a little patience.
The night bells tolled through the monastery, signalling the start of the curfew and requiring all students to retire to the dorm rooms for the night. Hubert returned to his room, made a paltry effort of working on his assigned homework, all while watching the candle on his desk melt down a respectable amount, allowing for enough time to pass for the night’s shroud to blanket the monastery grounds. Finally, he packed away his parchment and quill, crept from his room to make his way to the shed.
It ended up being quiet that night, only two had come seeking his services—one of the market blacksmiths, and a cathedral guard. Hubert drummed his fingers across the battered floorboards with a hum of boredom.
He was just about to leave his post for the night when the door to the shed opened, and a set of footsteps crept their way inside.
Hubert dutifully shifted into position, on his knees, eyes carefully watching the hole, awaiting his new client to make the first move.
“Hey…you still taking on customers?” whispered an irritatingly familiar voice from the other side of the wall. A voice he had heard plenty of times since enrolling in the Officer’s Academy, eschewing of his many disastrous amorous escapades with numerous women, whilst lamenting that he was the one hard-done by with theatrical overdone dramatics that would make even the most loyal connoisseurs of saccharine opera and novels cringe and bury their faces in embarrassment. A certain voice he had been sorely tempted to silence on many occasions by dumping a sluice of Mire down the imbecilic braggart’s throat.
Sylvain Jose Gautier. Heir to House Gautier and holder of its much coveted crest. Student of the Blue Lion House and one of Prince Dimitri’s childhood friends. And quite possibly the only person in Garreg Mach who has serviced more people with his mouth than Hubert himself.
Hubert had bite back a growl of annoyance. Gnashed and grinded his teeth until the taste of enamel filled his mouth.
With word spreading to all corners of the monastery of the beguiling services being offered at the abandoned shed, it was only a matter of time before Garreg Mach’s most notorious fuckboy showed up as a client. Truthfully, Hubert was a little surprised that Gautier hadn’t stuck his dick in Hubert’s face sooner.
Hubert released a fuming exhale of air. Although it would not be the first time he had serviced someone he found personally grating, listening to Gautier croon and spew a never-ending monologue boasting of his mediocre sexual prowess, and whatever rambling nonsense he believed was “enthralling” dirty talk through the wall while shoving his cock into Hubert’s mouth was a migraine-inducing notion that Hubert had little desire to subject himself to.
Still, Gautier was a noble with coin to spend. Hubert was more than happy to relieve him of his financial burden. And besides, making Gautier suffer a little may prove to be amusing.
Hubert tapped twice on the wall, signalling his confirmation of the arrangement.
“Guess you’re not the chatty type, huh?” the Faerghan chuckled as he worked at unlacing his uniform trousers, “That’s fine. Far too many people drone on and on and have absolutely nothing to say.”
What a shocking bit of self-awareness?! Hubert mused with a full-body eyeroll. Too bad Gautier did not have the sense to ever follow through on his own advice…
Hubert tapped again with another irate huff.
“Alright, alright! Almost there! Damn…you must be hungry for it!”
The prickling tendrils of annoyance seared deeper. Hubert had to bite down on his tongue to keep his retort sealed behind his lips. Fortunately, his mouth was about to become rather preoccupied.
Sylvain’s cock pushed through the hole. The length was generous in size, but not to the point of absurdity. Gratifying in both girth and length—a cock that would fill Hubert’s mouth quite pleasantly. The member was flushed a rather pretty rosy hue, with a slight curve to its shaft; the head glossy with pearly droplets of precum. As far as cocks went, Gautier’s was, without a doubt, aesthetically pleasing…Annoyingly pleasing.
Hubert spat on his ungloved hands and began palming the shaft with little fanfare. If even a fraction of Gautier’s reputation was to be believed, the Faerghan would be just as happy to get off by fucking a bail of hay. Gautier’s tastes were far from discerning, and Hubert’s hands and mouth were just one set of many. There was no reason to put any substantial effort into the task.
Gautier shivered under his touch. Released a hiccupped moan that rattled through the wall’s decaying fibres. The scalding shaft swelled and thickened against Hubert’s palm.
He encircled the length in his hand. Squeezed the pulsating shaft. Gripped it tightly and give it a firm pump. A rough tug, really. As if attempt to rend the organ from its owner.
“Fuck—hngh!—shit! That’s good…Fuck!” Gautier whined, babbled. Fresh beads of precum pooled along the glans as the sensitive organ was manhandled with rough indelicacy. The wall shook as his hips stuttered, the pawing, padded sounds of hands scrambling for purchase radiated through the shack.
Hubert tilted his head to the side, hummed with curiosity as he eyed the weeping crown looming before him, and swiped a magic stained thumb along the head. Another strangled cry, another excited jolt rippled against his touch. Precum sputtered and oozed, leaving a sticky film along Hubert’s palms. The glans silky under his touch, completely soaked with the Faerghan’s arousal. Hubert pressed his thumb against the slit; teased and pinched at the sensitive frenulum.
The cock in his hand quivered, twitched as he tormented it with hands and fingers. Each action rewarded with high-pitched, aspirated whimpers from his client. Sweet little melodies that brushed against Hubert’s ears with an enticing hum.
Hubert growled to himself. Snarled away the errant thought, reminding himself of just who he was currently giving a handjob to.
“Shit! Fuck! Ughn!—Macuil’s flaming dick—You keep doing that, I’ll blow my load long before I get close to your mouth,” Gautier rasped, breathless.
Hubert smirked. Released his hold on the cock without warning. A dark flare of amusement warmed his chest as Gautier whined and stumbled against the wall. He left the Faerghan to wallow in unsatiated torture for a moment, watching with amusement as the reddened cock jerked and continued to leak.
Hubert grabbed at the length once more with no warning; a sharp gasp vibrated through the wall in response. He steadied the cock in this grasp, pulled the glossy tip to his lips, and began feeding the length into his mouth.
The length glided inside like wet silk, smooth and slick. The shaft heavy against Hubert’s tongue and near-scorching to the touch. A column of burning iron that filled his mouth and stretched his lips.
He started by taking in half the length. His lips forming a tight seal around its girth as he slid up the shaft. A well-practiced maneuver that many of his clients had appreciated.
“Yes…Fuck, yes…” Sylvain moaned, leaned into Hubert’s mouth, and soaked in the sensation of wet heat surrounding him.
It wasn’t long before Gautier rolled his hips, rocked forward to meet every bob of Hubert’s head.
The pace the Faerghan set was gentle. Calm. The thrusts easing in and out of Hubert’s mouth in an almost soothing cadence. The motions of a considerate lover; infuriating in the mercy they offered.
Hubert growled around the cock. Bobbed his head aggressively, devouring the length in savage gulps.
“Guess you like it a little on the rough side, huh?” Sylvain teased, “I can work with that…”
Gautier’s hips snapped forward. The head of his cock slammed against the back of Hubert’s throat.
Hubert shivered; eyes hooded as buzzing shockwaves scorched away his thoughts. The cock pounded into his mouth. Relentless. A jousting lance surging forward and smashing its target into splinters. Several times the cockhead slammed against the back of Hubert’s throat. Hubert met each strike with fervor, his gag reflex long since tamed into submission. A heated weight coiled in his core. His own member twitched, started to fill. Hubert’s toes curled; a low, indecent moan hummed around the length filling his mouth.
He pulled back from the cock with a gasp, the shaft glossy with Hubert’s spit. Sylvain whimpered at the sudden loss of heat engulfing him. Hubert teased a magic stained finger along the veins, following their pulsing trails. He leaned forward and tended to the sensitive head with a series of kitten-like licks. Lapped at the droplets of cum as if they were an offering of fine wine.
One thing he had learned since he began servicing the glory hole, was that the taste of his clients’ spend varied just as much as the appearance of their cocks. Usually bitter, with a touch of saltiness, or an acidic bite. True, there was a large degree in overlap, but no two were exactly the same. Some carried a taste that was undeniably pleasant to Hubert’s palate; others could not be spat from his mouth fast enough and left a soured aftertaste on his tongue for hours after.
Gautier’s spend, much to Hubert’s chagrin, firmly found itself in the former category. A delicate balance of muted bitterness mingled with the faintest undertones of sweetness. Hubert found himself suckling at the creamy droplets with an embarrassing degree of enjoyment.
Hubert continued to bob his head. Matching the harsh pace of Sylvain’s hips. During one motion, he pulled his lips back. Let his teeth scrape lightly across the shaft. The action ripped a low moan from Gautier, his cock twitching in Hubert’s mouth and releasing another small spurt of cum.
“Fuck…do that again…” Sylvain gasped.
A huff of laughter rumbled around the dick filling Hubert’s mouth. He dragged incisors down the delicate flesh. Let the sharp points of his canines dig just a tiny bit into the shaft. The urge to sink his teeth in the hot flesh and taste the blood flowing within flared within Hubert, his cock stirring at the notion. And with every soft scrape of his teeth, Gautier groaned, shivered with delight, and thrusted harder.
They continued their pace for a time. Sylvain’s thrusts gradually growing more haggard as he neared his peek. Hubert smirked around the cock, sucked deeply at its head, and revelled in the shriek of agonized pleasure that bled through the wall.
Cum poured into his mouth. Hot, thick, it pooled on Hubert’s tongue in creamy puddles. He swallowed it all down. Sucked at the length until every droplet was milked, savouring their texture and taste upon his tongue.
The cock slipped from Hubert’s mouth, spent. A glistening strand of spittle connecting the tip to Hubert’s lips.
He sat back on his heels, let out a sigh of contentment. He licked at the smears of cum still clinging to his lips with a pleased hum, watched with satisfaction as the cock he had sucked dry flopped limply from the hole.
Gautier’s panting filtered through the wall. His softened cock retracting back into the hole and swiftly tucked away.
“Fuck…You’re pretty good!” Gautier rasped.
Hubert rolled his eyes. Tapped impatiently at the partition.
“Right! Right! Your payment,” he grunted, the tell-tale sound of clothing being readjusted filtering through the wall.
A heavy pause sounded from the other side. His customer going uncharacteristically quiet. Hubert tensed, frowned at the strange deviation in the Faerghans’ usual behaviour.
“Hey…why don’t you let me take care of you. You’ve been so busy looking after everyone else. Let me help you out.”
Hubert froze. Blinked at Sylvain’s words.
No one had ever offered to return the favour. Given a second thought to Hubert’s pleasure during the secretive exchanges. The idea was ludicrous. A whore was paid for their attentions with coin, not saccharine gestures and promises of reciprocity. Hubert was a silent, unseen operator of this seedy, little shed—known only by the sensation of his mouth wrapped around the cocks of his many clients. A hot, wet hole to fuck, nothing more.
Hubert quietly scowled at the hole. Knocked at the partition again and waited for Gautier to take the hint, give Hubert his damn money, and leave.
“I’ll pay extra,” Sylvain added. Quiet. Almost pleading.
Hubert had to bite his tongue to stop himself from doubling over with laughter.
Sylvain wanted to pay Hubert for the chance to suck his dick?! Once again, illustrating the reality that many of Fodlan’s nobles had more coin than sense, even ones from a country plagued with frequent financial hardships like Faerghus.
Hubert drummed his fingers against the partition, his lips pressed into a thin line as he pondered his next move.
Rejecting Gautier’s offer would only raise suspicions. Perhaps even make him seek out the elusive harlot who spurned his generous advances—an irritating distraction that Hubert certainly did not need, not with the war approaching and the many preparations that still need to be made.
Besides, it was about time Gautier put his obnoxious mouth to good use.
Hubert silently clambered to his feet. He eyed the hole with the wary suspicion one may view a snake pit with. Without ceremony, he unlaced his trousers, took his cock in hand, and pushed it through the opening.
Hubert grimaced at the touch of cold air against his bared dick. Shifted from foot to foot in a gawkish dance that radiated oceans of discomfort.
It was strange, being on the client’s end of the arrangement. His cock pressed through the hole and at the mercy of the man on the other side. An unsettling vulnerability sank into his flesh, clammy like a night terror’s chill. His stomach tensed and knotted with unease. It was almost enough to make him pull out and retreat.
Fingertips were the first thing to touch his cock.
A crackle of lightning crashed through Hubert’s body at the feathery touch. He jolted, gasped. A hand braced on the partition wall to keep himself upright.
Hubert’s cock had only ever known the touch of his own hands. The sensation of being stroked by another had ignited a barrage spiralling, electrified wildfire. Hubert’s thighs quaked. His breath hitched, blunt fingernails clawing at the wall. A quivering, breathless whine escaping his throat.
Hubert’s eyes snapped open, horrified at the sound. He slapped a hand over his mouth, whimpered against his own palm.
“Easy…” Sylvain cooed, soft, though with an amused hum in his voice, “I’ll take good care of you…”
The soothing cadence Gautier used was not dissimilar to the gentle tone the cavaliers often used to calm a spooked horse. A flash of outrage burned at Hubert’s face at the implied comparison. He gritted his teeth, biting back the snarling retort burning against the tip of his tongue. Blowing his cover over some petty squabble with Gautier would accomplish nothing of value.
He dragged in a gulp of air. Released a shuddering breath and forced the tendrils of rising fire to cool.
Sylvain fingers stroked and glided along the contours of Hubert’s shaft. Lance-calloused, the scarred roughness leaving a delicious friction against the delicate flesh. Hubert shivered, leaned into the contact with a soft whimper.
That scarred hand soon encircled Hubert’s cock. Held the shaft in a loose grip and gave it a teasing pump.
Hubert gasped. Knees buckling, the muscles in his legs reduced to gelatinous goop. The scarred palm felt divine against his cock. He bucked into hand with a gritted snarl, desperate. Demanding.
“That’s it…” Sylvain cooed as he continued to stroke Hubert’s shaft, “Just let me take care of everything…Responding so nicely to my touch…”
Hubert wanted nothing more than to punch Gautier smug face through the partition wall.
The hand at his cock tightened his grip, the length tilted slightly upward.
A touch of wet, warm, softness glided across the tip of Hubert’s cock—Gautier’s tongue, Hubert’s brain belatedly realized. Sparks exploded in his vision. A wave of static flooded his brain. His legs wobbled, threatened to give out under the cascade of sparks that seared his flesh. Hubert clung to the partition wall, shoved his fist in his mouth to stifle his own moans.
“Liked that, huh?” Hubert could hear the insufferable grin on Gautier’s face. The tongue lapped at the weeping cockhead once more, suckling at the droplets of pre.
Another ragged cry was ripped unwillingly from the bottom Hubert’s lungs.
Then Sylvain began to devour him. The Faerghan’s surprisingly soft lips clung to Hubert’s shaft. Plush. Teasing in their fluttering touch. Magma engulfed him as those lips seeped their way up the length of Hubert’s shaft.
Hubert’s fist slipped from his mouth, braced against the wall to keep himself upright. Mewling, unmuffled, his limbs shook like brittle reeds caught in a cyclone at the sensation of sinking into moist satin.
“So pent up…” Sylvain cooed, Hubert’s cock slipping from his mouth. He licked a strip along Hubert’s shaft and gently sucked at the tip once again, “Nobody’s taken care of you before, have they, babe?”
Hubert’s lips curled back into a snarl, his hands curling into fists at the enraging term of endearment. It was marginally better than the “princess” moniker that Hubert’s first client bestow upon him, but hearing the saccharine epitaph from Sylvain’s lips made him want to tear out the other man’s larynx with his teeth. Fortunately, their current position allowed for plenty of other ways for Hubert to keep Sylvain’s tongue from flapping.
Hubert bucked his hips, heedless of the other man’s comfort as Sylvain took him into his mouth again. He thrusted, stabbed into that wet heat with bestial fervor. He wanted, needed to sink the entirety of his cock into that intoxicating moist heat. Plunge deep into the cavalier’s throat until he was choking on Hubert’s length.
And with what was clearly well-trained precision, Sylvain relaxed his throat, and accomplished just that. Drank in every inch of Hubert’s cock. Surrounded him in a sheath of volcanic satin. He could feel the other man chuckle in triumph, the vibrations from his throat strumming the sensitive nerves of Hubert’s cock as if they were the strings of a masterfully played lute.
Shrieks, cries, noises so pitched, so wanton, they were unrecognizable to Hubert’s own ears despite having been sprung from his vocal cords. They warbled, mindless and desperate, from his trembling lips. Thankfully, the tone was so far removed from its usual timbre that his visitor would not be able to pinpoint the identity of its owner either.
“Singing so pretty for me, babe. It’s too bad I can’t get a look at your gorgeous face while you’re serenading me with all these lovely arias,” Sylvain hummed, “I bet you look breathtaking when you come.”
Hubert’s latest chorus indecent melodies were abruptly cut off with an enraged growl.
Of course, leave it to Gautier to manage to talk nonstop while still giving (infuriatingly amazing) head!
Clipped, birdlike chirps squeaked past Hubert’s throat. He tried to smother the noises, clamp his lips and teeth shut to latch them in place. Yet each time, his crumbling defenses eroded, and a fresh wave of melodies erupted from his lungs.
“That’s a hell of a siren’s song you're performing for me,” Sylvain pulled away from Hubert’s cock and purred, “Your other clients don’t know what they’re missing…I could listen to your pretty voice all day…”
Would Gautier just shut the fuck up already and—Sweet fucking spectres of the Void, how was he that good?!
Hubert screeched, clawed at the wall, near-delirious with pleasure. A small flare of jealousy burned at his chest as Sylvain deepthroated him once more.
Perhaps Gautier should have been the one on Hubert’s side of the partition, on his knees, and sucking cock like a greedy harlot! He certainly had the aptitude for such a position.
Hubert’s balls seized painfully. Mashed firmly against the wall to feed as much of his cock through the hole and into Sylvain’s slutty mouth as possible. The pressure in his core broiling, surging to a bursting point.
Suddenly, like an overdrawn bowstring, the heated pressure building within snapped, and Hubert’s orgasm exploded through him. He came with the frayed screech of shredded silk. A mosaic of white blazed before his eyes, blinding in its intensity. A sundering quake that enveloped his lithe frame as pleasure, like he had never felt, vibrated through every fibre of his being. Spend gushed from his cock and poured directly down Gautier’s throat as a flurry of wrecked shrieks flew from Hubert’s parted lips.
Obediently, Sylvain gulped down the rivulets of spend. He pulled Hubert’s cock from his throat, just enough so that the glans rested comfortably on his tongue, and gave the crown another good suck.
Another battered cry clawed its way out from Hubert’s lungs. Another gush of spend burst from his cock and filled the Faerghan’s mouth. Hubert’s hips bucked weakly as Sylvain drained every bit of his release. Lips of plush velvet pulsed around the shaft, the length twitching upon Sylvain’s silky tongue as every droplet was milked from it.
Finally, Hubert’s cock slid, limp, from the warm confines of Sylvain’s mouth. The Faerghan gave the spent organ a gentle, loving caress. Placed a tender kiss on the very tip before releasing his hold and allowing it to slip back through the hole.
Hubert slumped down the ground, boneless. His flaccid, and painfully oversensitive dick still hanging out of his trousers. He panted, pressed his forehead against the wall, as tremors continued to wrack his body. Prickling. His nerve ends pleasantly singed, a welcoming heaviness sinking into his flesh.
“Damn…that was…that was pretty great…” Sylvain gasped. Had Hubert been able to see his face, there would no doubt be a daze smile upon it. The Faerghan’s usual smarmy visage decorated in the milky splatters Hubert’s spend—a mental image that appeared quite alluring to the more libidinous corners of Hubert’s mind.
A beat of silence fell over the cabin, broken only by the rasping breaths of the two men seeking to compose themselves. The fogged whisps of bliss finally cleared from Hubert’s mind. His thoughts solidified, sharpened into a knifepoint. With a flash of annoyance, he rapped loudly against the wall.
“I know! I know! You’re money…I didn’t forget!” Sylvain chuckled between panting breaths.
The familiar rustle of fabric rippled through the wall. Sylvain fumbled through his belongs, a curse muttered under his breath, taking far longer than should be needed to fish out the requisite coin.
“Ah…shit…” Sylvain mumbled.
Hubert clenched his fists, grinded his teeth together to keep himself from snarling, knowing very well what Sylvain was going to say next. It took every ounce of willpower not to fire a Dark Spike through the wall.
How very fucking typical…
“Listen, I’m good for the payment, I swear!” Sylvain insisted, the first threads of panic starting to spin, “I forget my coin purse in my dorm room. Just…give me a few minutes and I’ll run and grab it!”
Hubert stifled a groan. Rolled his eyes and shook his head, but he tapped at the wall to signal his understanding. What else was he going to do? It was not like he could confront Gautier personally (though blasting him with a cloud of Miasma did sound tempting in that moment).
“Okay, great! Just…wait here then! I’ll be back in no time!”
With that, Sylvain dashed out of the shack, the door clanging shut behind him.
Hubert sighed. Tucked himself back into his trousers, and rolled back into a kneeling position.
Time passed, and there was no sign of Gautier. Not patter of hurried footsteps, no creaking of the shed door being pulled open.
Hubert squinted through the gaps in the shack’s walls, noting the soft indigo the sky had brightened to.
Dawn was approaching dangerously close. If he wanted to return to his room undetected, he had to leave soon.
Hubert scowled, his glaring eyes darting between the hole, and the quickly brightening strips of nighttime sky.
The idea of Sylvain wriggling his way out of their arrangement without paying sat unpleasantly in Hubert’s stomach. This was likely his damnable plan from the start: seek out the services of Garreg Mach’s famed whore, flounder when it came time to pay, then turn around the next day and brag to those around him that the skilled glory hole attendant sucked his dick without asking for a single coin. As if swallowing down a mouthful of Gautier cock was some sort of esteemed privilege. An honour of the highest order, one that a lowly harlot should be thankful to have bestowed upon them. Hubert seethed at the thought.
That said, waiting around until the brink of dawn on the off-chance that Sylvain would reappear with coin in hand was beyond foolhardy. He could always deal with Garreg Mach’s notorious philanderer in a discreet manner if he ended up becoming a problem.
Besides, Gautier’s mouth had been gratifying enough. Perhaps that would suffice enough in terms of payment for the time being.
With a sigh of resignation, Hubert dragged himself to his feet. He groaned, his joints popping in protest as he unfurled himself from his kneeling position, his legs still number, and a tender ache sinking into his jaw. Tingles of warmth continued to flutter through his limbs and brush against his heated skin. Gratified. His hunger quenched for the night. He unlocked to the door leading to his side of the partition and slipped into the main room of the shed.
Morning bells were but a few hours away. Hubert could still get some rest if he quietly crept back to his dorm room. The door behind him clinked shut as he moved to cross the shed and head outside.
It was just as he was reaching for the other doorhandle that a certain noise pricked his ears and made him freeze in his tracks.
Horror, like a sluice of ice water, surged through his veins as footsteps echoed down the walkway and made their way towards the shack in a brisk stride. The door to the shed opened, and a familiar figure stepped inside before Hubert could scurry back into hiding.
“Hey, sorry I took so long. Seteth’s got guards patrolling all the walkways, so I had to take the long way around,” Sylvain mumbled absently, his focus on the pouch in his hand, “I added some extra coin for your trou—”
The Faerghan’s words screeched to a halt as his gaze flicked up and locked onto the no-longer-mysterious figure who had been swallowing down his cock with ravenous gusto.
Sylvain’s eyes went wide. His jaw dropped, and the coin purse slipped from his hands and hit the ground with a loud, jingling “clink.”
“HUBERT?!”