Tasty Alphabet. (Patreon)

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🔞 NSFW – Suggestive content, body proximity, emotional and physical tension. This post is for mature audiences only.


Coming with him to restock was a bad idea. Not at the time, but definitely now, when you're both running away from a quartet of city guards. Who'd have thought they didn't appreciate Orcs?

Corden has such a charming personality.

"Here..." growls Corden.

You open your mouth, but there's no time to speak.
Footsteps echo behind you—armored boots, quick and purposeful.
You don’t have time to think.

Corden grabs your arm without warning.

The next instant, your cheek slams against a stone wall, your palms splaying out to soften the blow.
You didn’t even have time to protest.
In two strides, he’s pulled you into the deepest shadows, where the stones are cold and the alleyways too narrow for soldiers’ swords.

Then you feel his chest against your back.

Solid. Burning.

You freeze, a remark on the tip of your tongue that he quickly silences by pressing his hand against your mouth.  His body crashes against yours. Too close. Much too close.

"Don't move," he whispers in your ear, in a low, dry, cutting tone.

His thigh slides between yours.

His hips lock yours against the wall. And you close your eyes. Silence closes in behind you, swallowing your hurried steps and jerky breaths. Only the voices of the guards still echo, distant but too close for you to let your guard down. You try to concentrate, to assess the threat, but your hearing is saturated by Corden's heartbeat against your shoulder blade. The sound of the metal buckle of his belt sliding against the rings of yours. Barely audible in reality, but it seems to have the power of a cannon blast to you. You're overwhelmed.

You feel his arms closing around you, like a vise... or a too-well-honed embrace. One of his hands rests against your belly, the other anchors itself against the wall, right next to your head. His breath is warm against your ear. So is his skin. You're used to lukewarm, regarding Corden, but here, this warmth cuts through every layer of fabric as if it's searching for your skin. You inhale sharply.

Bad idea.

"Shh," he says sharply, hugging you tighter.

You try to make yourself even thinner, to disappear into the stone itself. All in vain. Every part of his body seems to find yours. His arms, his hips, his thigh... Nothing moves, and yet you swear that every second brings your two silhouettes a little closer together.

Nonsense.

There’s no more room. You occupy it together, completely, entirely.

A short breath escapes your lips. You turn your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of his face. For your eyes to meet.

Corden doesn't flinch. He stares straight ahead, jaw contracted, eyebrows furrowed. But you see it, that nervous throbbing under his temple. That breath he's holding, that barely contained tension.

And then he turns his head. His eyes meet yours.

There, in that narrow alley, your breathing stops.

A muscle twitches in his cheek. He swallows. And you feel, deep in your belly, the moment when something inside him gives way.

“Shit...”

Corden tries to step back.

It's a bad idea.

In the narrowness of the alley, his movement causes him to slide - or rather, to press even harder against you. A clumsy thrust of his pelvis. A friction too slow, too precise.

You stiffen. Is that...his dagger?

He freezes.

Then you both try to move. Hard. At the same time. And each attempt makes it worse.

Another friction.

Another sigh.

Corden lets out a strangled breath.

“By the gods...”. he sighs faintly, in a hoarse, strained, desperate voice.

His hand pulls away from your lips, as if burned, and his name escapes more languidly than you'd like. Tense, dizzy as you are by the proximity. You're human, at least half, and it's him.

Him.

Who could blame you?

“Shit.”

You're not supposed to go looking for it. You're not supposed to shiver for him. Your relationship isn't even what you'd call friendly yet, and still...

He says nothing. He doesn't move. But you feel him quiver, there, against you. A wave of heat pulses through the fabric, where his thigh brushes yours. His skin... burning. Hotter than yours. You find yourself wanting more.

You inhale too fast, too short. Too hard.

"I'm... too hot", you gasp.

Your words fall between you like a confession. Her eyes widen. A blink, hesitant, almost lost. Then his gaze slides to your mouth. It's only an instant, but you see it. You feel it.

"I..."

He closes his eyes. His jaw tenses further, and when he speaks again, it's only a whisper:

"Damn it... We've got to get out of here."

But none of you move.

And in this dense immobility, in this clammy silence, every second becomes a battle against the slightest movement. Because the slightest movement would trigger the irreparable. Or the too pleasurable.

You're breathing again. Bad idea. The air is saturated with him.

And he... he starts breathing again. Long. In fits and starts. Each triggering a movement of pelvis, a sound of belt against belt. Fabric against fabric, almost skin to skin.

“You're driving me crazy,” he murmurs, this time almost to himself.

You don't answer. You can't answer. Your throat is dry, your stomach is in knots, and your heart is pounding too hard for a single word to pass your lips.

You want to run away. Or kiss him.

But to move would mean more contact. And more contact means...

You close your eyes, too.

“Corden,” you gasp, not sure if you're begging or warning him.

He grunts.

And this time, it's no longer friction. It's a shiver, electric, burning, that runs through you both, united in this mistake of space and breath. In this little nook against the wall.

And if you don't move now, if he doesn't either...

It won't be his fault.

Nor yours.

Who could blame you?