Khadgar/Reader – established relationship
In the hero-ing profession, biological necessities are put on hold. You exchange regular meals for trail rations, baths for quick wipe-downs, and heats for unwise quantities of suppressants. The only one of these that truly gets to you is the infrequent bathing, because you can only stand the smell of your own sweat and grime for so many days before you have to beg a freshening spell from an arcane traveling companion. The lack of heat doesn't bother you—in fact, you're happy to forget that you even have a uterus—but depending on your current location, the quality of said potions can be… dodgy at best.
Khadgar does not look amused at your explanation.
"You bought suppressants from a traveling goblin merchant?" His eyebrows are drawn in a way that suggests a storm is brewing. If he didn't have such an ironclad control on his powers, you'd look out the window to check for lightning.
You give a shaky shrug. "I was in a hurry. He drove a good bargain."
"A—bargain?" He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head in disbelief. "You could have died!"
You still feel like that's an option, honestly, but you're not about to open your mouth and tell him that.
"I've lived through worse." As soon as they leave your mouth, you want to retract the words.
Khadgar's eyes fairly flash. It's close enough to the aforementioned lightning that your shoulders start to migrate toward your ears. Khadgar has spent enough of his life mentoring young mages that you know he's gearing up for a felfire and brimstone lecture.
"I know you galivant around saving all of the known worlds, facing innumerable dangers and slaying countless enemies—that is your choice to make, and I commend you for it. But when you are brought to me, half dead and smelling of poison—" He stops, seeming to reign himself in. "Stars, do you know how frightened I was? I am a mage, not a healer!"
"You did heal me, though," you point out.
"I provided the antidote, nothing more." He rubs his mouth. "Actually, you should be checked over by a professional. I'll send for someone." He conjures an orb, relaying his message into it and sending it out with a muffled pop.
You sink further into the fainting couch—a piece of furniture that has never been so aptly named as after your episode today. You feel like you've been scrubbed with steel wool from the inside, your skin and joints achingly tender. Your eyes burn with the desire for rest, but to close them now would be admitting weakness, and you are strong, dammit.
Your jaw pops with the force of your yawn.
Khadgar's eyes soften. "I'm sorry for what you've been put through. How do you feel?"
"A bit thirsty, actually." You opt for the easiest route—distract the worried alpha with a tangible need.
Khadgar conjures an ornate glass in his hand. You look past him pointedly to the pitcher and glass set on his desk, but he ignores you and presses the sweating cup into your trembling fingers, curling his around your own until you get a firm grip. The first sip is hard to get past your throat, swollen and clicking-dry as it is, but the next few pulls are a balm. Khadgar sits beside you, brushing his hand over your forehead, first checking for elevated temperature, and then stroking back into your hair.
"I have half a mind to keep you here and bar the doors, but even I see the hypocrisy in that."
You roll your eyes. "Noble."
"Do you have any idea what it's like to see you walk away and know that you are knowingly going into the heart of the melee? Usually, I calm myself with the knowledge that you are incredibly skilled and surround yourself with equally capable people, but on days like today, I am reminded of how little it takes to snuff out the flame of a life—even one as bright as yours." His other hand comes up to frame your face. "I do not relish feeling helpless."
You bring the hand not holding your (now empty) cup to one of his. "Neither of us are helpless. We're the masters of our own fate."
He quirks a tiny smile, his expression shifting from stern to wry. "The latter is a sentiment I question, but regardless—today, we have averted crisis. Put a stopper on the inevitable, if you will." He leans in to kiss you, gentle as if it is your first.
You finally allow your eyes to slip shut—only for a moment, you tell yourself firmly—and enjoy the casual intimacy. You've missed this, missed him and his parchment-and-magic smell, the scent of spent arcane energies lingering on him like electric dust. It almost makes you sneeze, but long exposure makes it easier to be near him without wrinkling your nose. You're sure that you still smell a fright.
Behind you, a door opens.
"Ah, I believe the healer has arrived." Khadgar straightens, and you see the Archmage mantle fall heavily onto his shoulders. It must be exhausting to have such a high-profile public persona. As a traveling "hero," not much is expected of you beyond the reach of your blade. There is no requirement to be mannerly when you are willing to sell your sword to the crown, and you are free to be rough and travel-worn. It's an anti-expectation you do well to live up to.
The healer, a priest, manages to soothe most of your lingering pains, burning away any remaining impurities in your blood. It leaves you, if possible, even more tired than before. It is just as well that both healer and alpha demand that you rest. You put up a token complaint—your companions are still out in the field, after all—but Khadgar quells you with a Look.
"Your friends have been put up at the Legerdemain. They will remain until you are fully healed."
You slump into the cushions, entirely relieved. You truly don't want to leave, and you are glad to know that your friends are safe in a neutral city.
"I suppose I'll stay here, then."
"Yes, I suppose you will," Khadgar says, and to his credit, his tone isn't mocking. Just his words. And his eyebrows.
The healer leaves, and Khadgar bundles you off to a bathtub—sweet, sweet scented bath salts—and then to bed. He curls around you, warm and safe, and you sleep soundly for the first time in weeks.
It is to your displeasure, then, that a hot cramp wakes you at third bell.
You are confused at first, sleep-dumb and slow, but when another cramp twists low in your belly, and you feel a tell-tale ache between your legs, you realize what must be happening. You're a bit surprised, actually, that no one mentioned this as a possibility. Or, in fact, as an inevitability. Your last hit of suppressant turned out to be poison, after all, and then two bouts of healing cleansed any trace of potion or impurity in your blood. You are as clean as you've ever been, suppressant-wise.
Your body is hungry.
Khadgar has drifted away from you in the night, which is just as well, as you can feel the heat radiating out from your body. The sheets under you are twisted and damp. You consider waking him, but he looks peaceful, relaxed, and you would hate to spring this on him in the middle of the night. You'll keep until morning, and then you can both see about breakfast—your sexual appetite isn't the only thing curling in your belly—and maybe some athletic rutting around his quarters. You're sure the couch in his office is good for more than just fainting.
You settle back in, kick off the remainder of your covers, and tell yourself firmly to go back to sleep.
The minutes tick by. You are acutely aware of every single one of them. You count sheep, then dragons, then wolpertingers. Unfortunately, the last reminds you of bunnies, which reminds you of how you would like to make like it's Noblegarden and celebrate life. And the making of life.
You look at Khadgar again. He puffs quietly in the still darkness.
You roll to the side, facing away from your sleeping mage, and resolve to take the edge off yourself. Sleep will come easier after an orgasm, and your lover can get a full night's rest. One of you ought to.
Your bedclothes are scant—you keep spares here, but there's hardly a point in covering up; Khadgar has seen all you have to offer, and the room is always mage-fire warm. You toss your shirt and underthings on the floor, happy to be rid of them. You are heating up in earnest now, and the cloth was starting to feel like a hinderance. You consider starting slow, teasing your way down to where your heart beats an insistent rhythm between your thighs, but there hardly seems to be a point; you are as slick and wanting as you could hope to be. Indeed, you are more slick and wanting than you hoped to be. That's the crux of the issue here.
The first touch to your folds is a relief. You sigh, quiet and soft, before slipping down to your clit. You feel your nipples tighten as you trace your thumb down and press. It's not what you truly crave, but it does make your toes curl. You are already wet enough to hook two fingers inside, curling up against the soft spot that wants nothing more than to feel the press of a knot. You can't give yourself that, but you can rock into your hand, fingers thrusting until you are panting into the bend of your elbow, teeth making divots in your lip.
You can feel yourself nearing completion, muscles tightening, but it's not… it's not enough. You're a cart with a gimp wheel, stuck halfway up the hill and slipping. Your breaths are ragged and unquiet, and the wet sounds you're making are no less subtle. It's just—you have to—
"Allow me."
The sound you make then is one of sheer relief.
Yes, Khadgar—steady, capable Khadgar, with the literal magic fingers. You make to pull your hand away, but then his own hand is there, his front pressed to your back—you don't mind the heat so much when it means imminent relief—and his palm is covering you, fingers tracing down yours, where they disappear into your heated flesh.
You sob when the first finger presses in, sliding against your own.
"Ohh." Your hips twitch, two hands following, intimately joined.
"Were you going to suffer over here until daylight?" Khadgar breathes behind your ear. "Silly girl. I would have helped you sooner."
"Helping… now," you stutter.
His thumb brushes yours aside and starts rolling circles over and around your clit. "Nice and easy, shhh."
You want to say that you've been trying to take it easy, but that hasn't been working for you. Khadgar can be damn stubborn when he wants to be, though (so… always), and when he sets a pace, there is no deviating from it. He lets you move your hips, but any movement of your hand is stymied by his, and you are confined to the slowly building tempo that he's laid out for you. Another finger works its way into you, and with your own it is a stretch. You breathe between thrusts, and Khadgar presses his nose to your hair, keeping pace.
Khadgar gradually picks up speed, and like a pot set to slow boil, you finally feel close—so close—so close—
He grazes a blunt nail down your clit, fingers curling against your sweet spot, and you're gone, vision spotting, body seizing around both of your digits. You clench tight, instinctively seeking something to hold onto, something binding. Khadgar curls his knuckles, and it is almost, but—not quite.
You shudder through the last of your orgasm before Khadgar pulls away.
He kisses behind your ear. "Better?"
You nod against your pillow.
"Do you want to sleep now?"
It's sweet of him to ask, as you can feel him pressing against you through his sleep clothes, but you haven't quite gotten what you want, and it's within reach, so…
You rock your hips back, pressing against the length of him. "In a bit," you say.
Khadgar divests himself of his trousers while you watch, languid and comfortable. He crawls back over you and dips down, kissing as slow as his earlier pace. You're unhurried now, the edge of your heat having abated with one orgasm and the promise of more. You curl your tongue around his, humming contentment.
Khadgar laughs lightly against your mouth.
"Hm?" you ask. Words feel like too much.
"Oh, nothing. Just… this must be what you're like during heat."
"I am in heat," you say. That seems fairly obvious.
"No, I meant—" Khadgar huffs again, gently amused. "This. You. You have less edges like this."
You blink. "…For such a smart man, you are occasionally very dumb."
"I have heard that accusation before," Khadgar says. He seems to take no offense though, kissing you again, drawing the breath from your lungs with practiced finesse.
Academics. They'll make a study of anything.
His hand is between you again, seeking, teasing, and you curl a leg over his waist in invitation.
He takes the hint.
The first touch of him against you is slight, a stroke up and over your clit, but then he guides himself to your entrance. The initial press feels so good that your legs clench, muscles tensing in anticipation. He stops, the head of his cock pressing right where his knot will swell inside of you, and gives a shallow thrust.
"Kha—oh gods, Khadgar, please—"
"Whatever you need," he says, finally thrusting home.
The stretch is more than your fingers and his, and it is exactly what you have wanted since waking. There's no pinch, no sting of pain, and you tuck both legs over him and meet his second thrust, tilting your head back into the pillow at the liquid glide. Yes.
Khadgar rarely feels any rush in bedroom matters, taking time to taste every stretch of skin, to trace every scar and mark. Even in the face of your first heat together, he takes his time to mouth your nipples into firm peaks, to knead your aching breasts with careful fingers, listening for the change in your breaths and moans. He plays you like a quiet symphony, the sounds of your joining an accompaniment.
It is good—amazing, even, but you are edging forward too slowly, and you want to feel alive.
You claw your hands into his shoulders and tug.
"Please, Khadgar—please go faster—"
You don't expect him to comply. He is methodical to a fault, and enjoys the build-up like no man you have ever known.
So when he draws your legs up further and drives into you without a word, you are left breathless. He bottoms out with each jerk of his hips, a sound wrenching free from low in his throat. His hands find your hips, gripping them to better guide his thrusts, and you have to scramble to find a new rhythm. There doesn't seem to be one, though, and you rush to meet his hard thrusts, your body singing with use.
Khadgar is close now, you can feel it in the swelling knot at the end of his thrusts. You want it inside of you more than you have ever wanted anything, want to bear down and hold him close. There's a certain sense of urgency that comes with heat and rut, a need for intimacy and comfort as well as sex, and you want it all.
Khadgar has never left you wanting in anything.
His knot presses in, not quite swollen enough to lock, and you keen.
"Khadgar—Kha—yes—" Nothing feels as sweet as an orgasm in heat. You tip over the edge at the promise of his own completion, the feel of it like a flash of magic shivering from stem to stern.
His knot catches while you flutter around him, the hot, throbbing press of it sending you back over in electric aftershocks. He fills you, a spill of molten heat that has your knees locking around him, your hands clenching uselessly at his arms.
He continues to rock into you, little movements, while you both come down, his knot riding against your sweet spot.
"Oh my—Khadgar, have—have mercy," you gasp. You're not sure if you can come again without more stimulation, and you're certainly not up for the effort.
He stills, gently shifting you both so that you are side by side.
"Too much?"
"Or not enough," you huff out on a laugh. "That was…" You blow a breath out through your mouth.
"I quite agree," he says. He smooths your hair back and leaves his hand at your neck, thumb stroking. "I would enjoy seeing you through future heats, if you will permit it."
You wrinkle your nose. "You haven't even seen me through this one yet! One round does not a heat make."
"I suppose we'll just have to take it one day at a time, then," he says, and you're not sure if the slight rock of his hips is intentional or not, but it zings up your spine nonetheless.
"Sleep first. Then breakfast. Then… trial heat?" you burrow into him, regretting the lack of blanket now that your sweat is cooling.
"A trial—as in a test?" He laughs, and there is promise in it. "Oh, I'll have you know that I am an excellent study."