This was the second NSFW request written for Eldarya Sin Week May 2017 on Tumblr, and the first smutty fic I wrote entirely from the male POV. Kind of fitting then that it stars Valkyon; he's not much less of a beginner. ;)

The exact request consisted of exactly two words: Valkyon + Fluff. Normally, I like to return vague requests, but it was the 'please' tacked on in the end (as well as my own track record of giving straight-man Valkyon grief in all the fics on my blog), that convinced me to give it a shot.

...I still gave him a bit of grief at the beginning. Old habits die hard.

Lead, and I will Follow

His dark vest pulled heavily across his skin as he shucked it off, damp with sweat from three hours' labor in the forge. The heavy leather apron followed: rolled up and tossed matter-of-factly to the edge of the workbench, falling in the exact corner where he liked to leave it for the past few years. This forge was Valkyon's second-home inside the city, and it never bothered him to use the space for personal routines as well.

Clad in only his boots and trousers, he strode to the second trough on the far corner of the forge, cupped his hands into the cooler water and lifted. The well water—almost a tepid temperature now, slowly warmed by the distant breath of the forge—splashed his furnace-seared skin like a late benediction, rinsing off the first layer of soot and ash. He poured it again over his hair, dousing it generously until it was damp to the roots, the silver mane sticking to his scalp like a bright helm. Droplets ran in little rivulets down his neck and shoulders, dripping down the length of his naked back and shivering over the expanse of his bronzed chest as he doused himself a third time, liberally, mechanically, with no greater pleasure than at the first kiss of water. The lye soap from the nearby granite-cut shelf—worn down to a cake that fit half again into the span of his broad palm—slipped into his hand, disappeared under a pungent froth as he worked a stiff sea-sponge over it, then slipped again onto the edge of the trough as he vigorously, meticulously scrubbed at the pitch-dark grease still coating his fingers and sticking under his nails. His dripping back remained turned to the door.

Truth be told, Valkyon knew he didn't have to linger here for as long as he did. But there was the matter of a certain young woman still working near the door of the forge, twisting the last lengths of wire around the new hilt of her dagger. If he could avoid walking past her tonight, let her leave before him, he would even wash his vest and reorganize the armory after this.

She was awfully insistent on conversation, consulting him several times tonight on the best materials to rebalance the hilts and pommels of her short-range weapons. Even when they both knew full well that she already knew what to do. So he kept his advice short, and to the point, and did his best to stick to his corner of the forge all night.

Extra bodily contact would have made his situation much more tenuous.

It had been a few weeks since Valkyon agreed with—or rather, admitted to—the Guardian that they were seeing each other in… a non-platonic way. And already, she was making him… physically anxious. A mere touch from her was enough to spark wildfires rolling across half his skin; the smell of her hair clouding the front of his mind in a warm fog, answered by an ominous stir from the base of his being. But every time her arms encircled his chest, in welcome, farewell, or simply because the mood struck her (which happened disturbingly often), Valkyon refused to initiate his own touches. To do anything more besides lightly clasping her around the shoulders, his chest locking into stone, waiting for her to release him again, and privately turning his thoughts to matters very far removed from pleasure.

Because the truth was that every time her curves pressed against him, and he allowed his mind to skip a few hours into the evening, an iron pendulum swung him hard to the present, then plunged down into his gut, rooting him to the floor: he had no idea what he could do to please her once her body finally opened for him.

Now he was no innocent in matters of the body. His time in that mercenary company before El— rubbing shoulders with his bawdy, randy ex-comrades– saw to that. But his old mates who regularly championed virility and raw force, to whom bragging rights and status were directly equated to how many heads were collected each month, the girth of one's loins compared during unavoidable group rinse-offs in streams and tavern bathhouses, or the general volume of seed spilled between bloody campaigns— into recipients in town, preferably, who would be later be the subject for improbable stories and speculation swapped around the fire… they weren't the best tutors. Those early years spent enduring their collective attitude had reduced Valkyon's shame for the physical body to zero… and ruined sex for him.

Now, his knowledge of bedroom acrobatics was limited to a straightforward, mechanical solo—quick, joyless, silent, and routine—to maintain his health in the privacy of his bunk. Or else was defined in the language and routines of gross masculinity, where only raw power and volume were respected. And neither was what she deserved.

He couldn't imagine hurting her, even if this current of lust filled and stretched his skin every time she stood near enough for the smell of her hair to reach him. Nor could he bear to disappoint her on their very first night together, to see her turn her face away when he entered her, to watch her dress the next morning with a taut smile and polite laugh, searing into his chest the knowledge that he had failed again for someone who mattered.

So here he was, the grizzled Commander of the Obsidian Guard, trying to avoid his woman by scrubbing religiously under his nails for grease that was vanishing into gray suds far too quickly. Musing on whether he needed to do his laundry here as well.

The problem was that the Guardian was growing bolder lately. Now slipping her arm through the crook of his elbow and massaging the taut knots in his hand, the softness of her breast pressing coyly, insistently against his forearm. And other times, sliding her fingers deep into his hair as she combed it, rubbing teasing circles into his scalp, before a surprise kiss alighted onto the back of his neck, fire stamped onto his skin, an invisible brand. And other times, slyly slipping her thigh between his, brushing the inside of his knee as she looped her arms around his shoulders, her breath painting his collarbone with heat and the smell of white tea. And always, meeting his closed-off eyes with that sideways tilt of her smile, which confessed to leaving innocence far behind in the dust.

They were fast approaching an impasse. Two weeks into this new game, and Valkyon was already running out of emergency mental imagery whenever she brushed against him. In all honesty, he never thought he could stay hard while reviewing the four stages of infection for Black Dog bites.

He picked up the nugget of soap again, began scrubbing under his nails for the third time. And he was only faintly surprised when he suddenly felt her bare arms wrap around his waist again, his fingers still coated in ashen suds. The moist warmth of her lips marked the center of his naked back, her apple breasts pressing against him through a shirt quickly growing damp and pliant from his dripping skin. And within moments, his member stood to attention, rising hard, rebelling against the heavy fabric of his trousers. Tenting it; he knew even without looking down that there was no way to hide this one. The life-saving cover of his leather apron was currently rolled up and sneering at him from the far corner of the workbench.

Once again Valkyon froze, locked himself into stone, and did not try to touch her. He waited for her to give up, to curse him for his taciturnity, to loosen the snare of her arms and walk out of the forge, finally giving time and space for his arousal to die down. And another night to keep his pride intact.

But the Guardian refused to move. Instead, incredibly, she pressed more slow, lingering kisses up the line of his spine, the heat of her tongue licking up the droplets that slipped and shivered down his wet hair and onto his back. Her fingers—chapped and hardened from twisting and molding wire, from the snap of bowstring and sinew—grazed up and down his navel like the strings of another instrument. His abdomen shuddered once from north to south, tensed.

"What are you doing?" he finally asked her, his voice stiff with tension. Below, the front of his pants continued to constrict painfully. The cake of soap in his hand had folded beyond all recognition.

She avoided his question. "…You don't like this?" she asked from his back, arms still wrapped around his waist, that soft, dewy cheek resting against his upper back now, warm breath ghosting over his spine and setting it alight. He could feel the flutter of her eyelashes against his skin. Almost like an afterthought, her knuckles lightly grazed the line bisecting his navel. His abdomen shivered dangerously again.

The truth was both a resounding yes and no. And answering either way would result in his ruin and her hurt. "It's unusual," Valkyon said at last, semi-honestly, keeping his voice as flat and heavy as the head of the anvil he had struck just moments ago. He dropped the crushed cake of soap into the trough, and dared to lower his hands again into the cool water, gray clouds swirling out from his fingers, his back curling forward to deny her hands access to still more vulnerable places. "Still, I would prefer it if you stopped."

At last, those torturous hands at his middle stilled, though they lingered on the waistband of his pants. Her voice when it came was small, yet instead of the hurt he was expecting, there was only calm. "Valk, are you just not ready for us?"

Now that was the question he had spent weeks dreading. Even under the fire still roiling up his chest, a cold fist closed around his heart, compressing it down to the size of a thimble. He could hear the doors that had swung open in his chest so recently begin now to close, bar, and freeze over again.

With great, deliberate effort, he straightened his back, removed one water-slicked hand from the trough and placed it over hers, still resting below the plane of his stomach, all playful sensuousness now gone. With the gentlest squeeze, he tightened his grip over her fingers, so small beneath his.

"In truth, I would like you to stay," Valkyon murmured quietly, his eyes on the cloudy water of the trough. "But there are some things that I fear I can't give you just yet. Would you give me time?"

She was silent for a moment, still pressing her cheek against his back, not pulling her hand away from beneath his. Then, incredibly, a laugh. "…Are you saying that you're worried about doing well for me?" she asked.

Sometimes silence was the best response. Cinders were coiling around his neck, the skin around his mouth and cheeks catching fire.

The shape of her smile pressed into his back. "You know, I think I made the right choice if you're putting this much thought into us."

Valkyon didn't want to know what her other choices might have been. Nevra's pointed grin flashed across his mind's eye, that lascivious squint under half-hooded eye, and for the first time, his fists felt ready to close around the vampire's throat.

A tiny, pleased chuckle from the Guardian broke all plots of murder. Her free hand swept up again, and traced, unerringly, the largest scar running down the left half of his chest. "Valk, it doesn't matter to me how many tricks you know, or don't know. I'll be happy enough to see that it's you smiling up from my sheets this time."

His throat closed, what voice he could have had now too full to escape. Then another slow kiss met his shoulder-blade; her hand rose still higher, palm tracing the contours of his pectoral, nails gently grazing the ring of one dusky nipple, erect and throbbing. His shoulders immediately hunched forward; the words trapped in his throat curled into a groan, and he bit down hard on his lip to keep it from leaving.

"Although, if it helps take some pressure off you… there are one or two tricks I could teach you."

"…And what might those be?" he finally chanced, his voice low and rough, stretched and strained over the force of his want. Pain was blooming in the front of his pants. He didn't dare let go of her other hand, for fear it would only join the assault on his body.

Her free fingers promptly dropped south, past his navel, pushing down the hem of his trousers. Finally finding—or confirming—the strength of his arousal when the hem snagged, refusing to drop lower. Delight laced her voice. "Didn't you always say it's better to show rather than tell?"

He finally released her other hand.

It joined its sister to unlace the front of his trousers, soldier's knots surrendering under the energy of her fingers. Within seconds, she freed him, and when her hands wrapped around his warm shaft, a soft gasp broke out from behind him.

"What? What's wrong?"

"…Nothing," came her answer, in a shallow, tremulous gust of breath against his heartbeat. "It's nothing. Good god, Valkyon… Turn around. Let me see you."

He obliged her. The bright wash of flames playing across the far wall of the forge illuminated the thin shirt clinging to her front, turned ghostly from the damp of his back, revealing the contours of her brassiere, and the rise and fall of those breasts. Her cheeks were painted with a brilliant flush; her lips moist and glossed with desire, parted as her eyes—drawn wide and dark—slowly, adoringly took in every inch of him.

She looked beautiful.

When she dropped to her knees and brought those lips to his erect member, a low groan ripped from his throat, and he braced his hands on the edge of the trough, knuckles pale as the slick warmth of her mouth played over the head of his manhood. He forced his eyes open, through the wave of white fire roiling up his body, clenching every muscle, to watch her as her hands slid up the insides of his tensed thighs, cupping and massaging his balls, every knead sending more sparks flying up through his legs, buckling his knees further. He kept watching as the sinful pink of her tongue drew across the length of his shaft, from root to tip. And when she brought one hand twisting, squeezing, around the base of his slick shaft, her lips folded warm and tight over the head, and her eyes rose to meet his, it was all he could do to avoid coming into her tongue right then and there.

She sensed the fracturing of his control and released him, stopping to strip his abandoned trousers from around his ankles, to kiss him once on the flushed flesh below his navel. Then she rose, and her arms pulled him hard against her, moistened hands twining at the back of his neck. "Take me to the workbench," she whispered against his mouth.

Valkyon didn't need further instruction. His hands hooked around the backs of her knees, and in one fluid movement he hoisted her legs up around his waist, the warmth of her sex rubbing teasingly against his middle. She hummed, low and appreciative from behind closed lips as her thighs locked around him and she pressed herself full against his broad chest, her mouth nibbling at his collarbone. The sound reverberated through him, igniting the space deep in his belly as he crossed the forge to the workbench in urgent strides.

There were schematics, pliers, bits of wire, his forgotten apron, and a half-loaded scale still littering the nearest end of the tabletop from their last job. One quick sweep of his arm solved the issue, and he laid her down on the polished granite surface, his callused fingers—still wet from the trough– pulling away at her pants, at the sodden shirt.

The Guardian giggled, arched her back, and stretched when he tore away her brassiere, and instinct more than forethought drove him to bend down and envelop the bud of her breast with his mouth, sucking at her hardening nipple, his hand squeezing around the twin, fitting so easily into the span of his hand. Her laughter dissolved into a long moan, lower still than when he had hoisted her flush against his chest; her fingers dove into the wet mane of his hair, reaching down into the roots, bunching and pulling as his tongue swirled around her nipple. But the sting of pain through his scalp sent lightning coursing down his spine to his sex, and he tensed, groaned, the muscles of his back and buttocks knotting, his hands contracting tight around her breast and hip.

The sound of her yelp broke the spell like a hammer to a glass floor. Valkyon's head shot up; his hands flew away from her, scattering to plant themselves firmly, inoffensively, on the flat of the granite slab. Under his eyes, the prints of his hands on her breast and hip had already flushed red.

"I am so sorry; are you all right?" he gasped, but what he was seeing was ready to belie any denial. By tomorrow, her skin would be home to fresh bruises. He had barely started, and already, he had hurt her.

But she only nodded, sucking another breath through her mouth to brace herself, resisting the urge to massage the abused flesh. "…Just fine. Though I couldn't have guessed that you liked getting your hair pulled." A wry smile flashed at him, and he felt his horror begin to ebb.

"It… hasn't come up before," he admitted through gritted teeth, blood pulsing anew through the whorls of his ears. "Are you sure you're all right?"

She chuckled and raised both her palms in a sign of peace, but splayed and naked as she was on the bench, it looked vaguely comical. "Well I'll be careful if you'll be careful." A pause; her eyes flicked at him up and down, to the wane of his arousal, and her smile softened. "It's all right, Valk. Now come here; you take the bench."

His eyebrows shot up, and it wasn't until he saw her hand slap deliberately on the surface of the table that he realized what she had in mind. He backed up, let her hop off the table, and with another sweep of his arm cleared the debris to make more room for himself, then gingerly laid himself down on the granite slab, his knees sticking out over the edge of the counter. Feeling—in this open, vulnerable position—just a tad ridiculous.

That feeling vanished when the smoothness of her naked thighs slid between his as she joined him on the table, straddling his leg, grinding her hot core against the tightening flesh of his thigh. Her hands, feather-light, stroked and teased his member back to attention. And when she brought the moist warmth of her mouth to its head again, her eyes never once leaving his, her fingers pressing tortuously into the perilous nerve behind his balls, the full pain of arousal returned through his turgid sex, lancing through him, robbing him of breath.

Bright spots were still dancing before his eyes when she rose again onto her knees, and guided the head of his shaft into her core. At that first push into tightness, the hot, velvety folds of her sex closing over him, Valkyon's eyes snapped wide open. His hands flew to her hips to steady them both, but he didn't dare to dig his fingers deep into the inviting flesh of her hips again, instead channeling the sudden, wire-taut tension of his body into the curl of his elbows, the arch of his back, the angle of his hips as they met hers oh-so-slowly, the craning of his neck as he took in the way her eyelids fluttered, her face pinching as pain met pleasure, the pinkness of her mouth as her lips parted in a silent cry.

Eternity could have come and gone by the time she sank to down to his hilt, and the steaming warmth of her core consumed him completely. She wavered once above him, until the tension spilled out of her like water through the crack of a dam; her back shivered, bowed, and she bent low over him with a soft groan, kissing the warm plane of his chest.

"…My god, Valkyon. You're a gift," she whispered, each print of her mouth forming a fire trail burned into his skin.

"Well I'm glad you're feeling better," he quipped, through the heat suffusing his throat. And when her laughter shuddered through him, tickling him gently through his base, he realized that he was mistaken before. There was no other time in the world when she looked this beautiful.

"You can say that again. Now come here, wise guy," she breathed, and her hands guided his again to her breast, where the flesh was still bright and unmarred, and the other to the space where they were both joined. She crooked the knuckle of his thumb right against the mouth of her womanhood. "Keep it right there, and move with me."

And once again, he obliged her.

Shadow tongues of fire licked across the ceiling, merging with the dance of her silhouette thrown high against the wall as she rocked and swayed above him, hips gyrating, breasts bouncing, little cries escaping her with every timed thrust from him that sank his member just a fraction deeper into her furnace-warm core, and back again. Her hands wandered: now braced firm below his navel, pushing into the sensitive flesh above his pelvis, now rising, cupping around his hand as it kneaded her breast, holding him against her, now rising higher still, pushing back her sweat-slicked hair as it fell into her eyes, clearing them so he could see her gaze, hooded with pleasure, with want, with laughter as she rode him in the flickering lights of furnace and crumbling embers.

She set the pace. And though he could have taken control, could have unleashed his strength and thundered into her from below, hands possessing her hips, driving them fast to the brink until she could only gasp helplessly above him as her body was sweetly impaled to his own rhythm, he chose not to.

If he did, he would never see the lithe dance of her body above him, slick with sweat. Of her back bowing, arching, shivering as she found that mysterious sweet-spot inside her, her hips rising and rolling forward over his, grinding against where his knuckle grazed the hot nub at the entrance of her womanhood, each brush flexing the walls of her core tight around him. Or the sparks of ecstasy lighting her face as he held her steady from below, and gave to her, and did nothing but.

And when the roll of her hips reached a new crescendo, and she cried out his name, her hands over his clenching tight, fighting for support as the waters of her passion, rose, filled her, overflowed, the slick walls of her womanhood suddenly pulling, squeezing tight around him, narrowing his world and imprisoning him far inside her depths, an answering shout burst from him. And he finally thrust full into her, hips bucking, raising them both from the table over and again, the ember-lit world winking out around them, his passion stoked, inflamed by hers and incinerating his body from within as his seed found its way home in her.

Silence, when it closed over them again, was warm with promise.

Her breath gusted cool and quick against his chin and neck as she lowered herself flush against him, chest against chest, still holding him inside her. His arms rose, bundled her into the warmth of his chest, and when she sighed again he kissed her full upon the mouth, each soft pull of her lips a silent thank you for what she had given him tonight.

"So," she whispered languorously as she tucked herself against his neck, her sly fingers tracing idle patterns around his collarbone. "How much time do you need before you're ready to try again?"

"No more or less than you, I would think," he replied. Another little joke, but this late show of bravado sent a ripple of laughter through her chest once again, and pooled a light, liquid warmth in his stomach. Valkyon pressed his mouth against her forehead, taking in the smell of her damp hair that no longer held mortal danger for him, but promise, and pleasure. He dared to give the narrow span of her shoulders a careful squeeze inside his arms.

"Spoken like a very brave man," she giggled. Another pliant kiss, against his shoulder. "Because after this, I just remembered that there's a lot of… confidential information I'd like to review with you. After hours. Or during, if you'd like."

Valkyon could already see the paperwork piling up on his desk. Maybe it was time to finally get that administrative assistant.

His callused fingers gently brushed away the last strands of hair that stuck fast to the curve of her dewy cheek, sweeping those eyes clear.

"Just say the word."

FIN

Disclaimers:

- If you're a highly-observant Valkyon fan, you might have already noticed the little goof I made with his wardrobe here. :( In the game, his pants have buttons, not drawstring. But let's just say he had a minor wardrobe change for this scene. His usual trousers are in the laundry.

- Valkyon's past is still a real mystery to us fans. But I like to imagine that he spent time with some... rough company before entering the Guard of El, which might give more credence to how colleagues and superior officers were suspicious of him at first.

- Given Episode 17's (hilarious) revelations, Valkyon definitely has been around... and experimented enough in bed to suggest that he has picked up a few tricks from his flings. This story, unfortunately, was written before the debut of Episode 17, when his sexual history was still a mystery to fans. So let's just call this one an alternate history, in which Valkyon still hadn't uncovered the secret to charming women, and decided to let Nevra lay sole claim to the title of El's Ladykiller.

Anyway. If you enjoyed this piece (and even if you didn't), feel free to leave a review. I'm always open to feedback. :)