Work Text:
The student’s obstinance knows no bounds. A wisp receptacle is a simple enough device, and yet Myrna has talked herself into circles explaining the energy flows to this young man. All the while, a twitch brews in the corner of her eye, gaining strength with each new failed attempt.
This is why she quit teaching, she gripes to herself, wishing Emmrich would complete his journeys and return to his classroom posthaste. Even the advanced students drive her to madness, this one in particular. He is a man grown, and yet acts with the understanding of a babe fresh out of his leading strings.
A breeze traverses the otherwise empty lecture hall as she grits her teeth through another pointless description. In their sconces, the green flames flicker and stutter before leveling back out. But then, all at once, they are smothered, darkness swallowing up her sight.
Through the blackness, a familiar warm mist wraps itself around her calf, ribboning its way up her stockinged leg.
“Watcher Myrna?” the young man asks fearfully, his clothes rustling in the dark as though he is spinning in circles.
“Give it a moment. The lights will return,” she says warningly, and a silent, rumbling vibration around her legs answers—Vorgoth laughing in secret.
But they acquiesce, the braziers coming to life once more, and Myrna notices the last slip of grey smoke tucking itself beneath her skirts. She is grateful for the desk standing between her and… Maker, she really cannot remember the lad’s name. But his vision is blocked at least.
“You have the textbook, yes?” She tuts even as there is a tendril of heat climbing higher, working its way through the split seam of her bloomers. She flattens her palms atop the desk, subtly widening her stance.
Their attentions lack the pressure she craves, their form too incorporeal without their animated gloves. But there is a damp heat, and it teases her clit, flicking across it. Back and forth. Over and over. Teasing. Thrilling. Torturing.
She swallows heavily as the student fumbles over his words, anxiously flipping to the appropriate pages. She reaches out to close the cover.
“Very good. Now, take it to the library, and discuss it with Audric. Perhaps he can clarify it for you in a new way that I cannot. If he does not give you the answers that you need, find me again tomorrow.”
She feels a bit guilty at his dejected look as he gathers up his things. She sighs, although the exhale has more to do with the maddening sensations between her thighs than it does any true shame. “The fault is mine for not being a better teacher. I'm sorry you are not able to benefit from Professor Volkarin this semester. Good luck.”
Myrna merely requires the student’s absence. Immediately.
The moment the door closes behind him, she releases the sharp gasp she’d been holding in, her arms shaking and her spine arching towards the ceiling. “Vorgoth,” she hisses, rocking on her feet.
“YES?” the soothing rumble somehow plays coy.
“What are you doing?”
“IT SHOULD BE OBVIOUS.”
Cheeky fucker, she grins to herself, biting her lip.
“I was in the middle of a lecture. Your timing requires improvement.”
“NO.” As if to emphasize their opinion, a tendril slips inside her. It pushes and retreats in an agonizingly sedate rhythm, a heated force that molds itself to her form. Her legs quiver under the measured onslaught.
“Yes,” she groans, and if it is in rebuttal or pleasure, only the Maker knows.
“CLASS WAS DISMISSED. AND WE COULD HEAR YOUR STRESS FROM THE HALL. RELIEF WAS NEEDED.”
“So you invited yourself in, did you?” Her eyes drift closed as the pleasure builds. It slips through her like a trickle of water, slow and steady and settling into every available crevice. Their mist capitalizes on teasing rather than force to drive her over the edge, and Vorgoth can keep their attention focused on her for hours. Is, in fact, quite elated to leisurely break her down along that fine line between pleasure and madness. They’ve done it before.
The couple is not, however, within the privacy of their own chambers, and Myrna is relieved when Vorgoth seems to understand that another class—and with them another professor who will want this desk—will soon enter the lecture hall. Their magic encircles her legs, locking her firmly into place. She pushes against the metaphysical restraint, savoring the strength as they chuckle at her, and a charged, tingling sensation licks along her flesh. She knows the minor dance of electricity is as much of a warning as it is meant to send her higher.
They always balance her along the edge so very deliciously.
“CALM YOURSELF, PET. LET US TAKE CARE OF YOU.”
As they speak, the ribbon of her smalls is pulled loose. She only has a brief moment to wonder at their plan before a column of silk lacing circles over her clit, the unexpected sensation making her keen aloud. Vorgoth and their ingenuity, she silently praises.
They press harder, the fabric dampening as it drags over her bud. She welcomes the friction; it is a satisfying divestment from the featherlight caresses of smoke. Sparks echo the path of ethereal fingertips, tracing the planes of her skin and coming closer and closer to her center.
With bated breath, her body goes utterly still except for the faint tremors in her thighs. She needs release, needs the rush and the fall.
“SUCH A PRETTY PET,” the worshipful rumble comes from beneath her skirts, and her fingers dig into the desktop even as she wishes they were wearing their robe. It isn’t quite the same as pulling on a lover’s hair, but making it wrinkle and sit askew over their shoulders is very much enjoyable. She relishes every little indicator that she leaves them as discombobulated as they make her.
“Vorgoth,” she hisses, “make haste.”
“AS YOU COMMAND,” they acquiesce. “COME FOR US, PET.” The wrapped fingertip over her clit sparks, a perfectly executed jolt straight to her very core. Her jaw drops in a silent scream, her ponytail falling over her shoulder as her spine curls. The tendril inside her continues its back and forth journey, coaxing her through the peak of her pleasure.
“Maker,” she pants, eyes blinking open and fingers flexing. Under her main skirts, the bloomers are carefully put to rights. Then grey smoke levels itself to her gaze in front of the desk, two bright stars shining where eyes might live.
“NO—VORGOTH.” Their self-satisfied smirk is readily evident despite their lack of lips. She can hear it in their voice.
“Vorgoth, indeed,” she sighs with a little, pleased grin of her own.
“DO YOU FEEL AT PEACE NOW?”
“At peace? Sure, ya big lug. We can call this feeling peace,” she says, closing her eyelids once again. They have quite handedly sundered all tension from her, including the now absent irritation. “I think I could sleep for an age.”
The warm mist skims over her hand, and a magical tug pulls the appendage from the desk. “TO OUR ROOMS THEN,” they command, and she lets herself be half carried through the halls, their magic lightening the burden of her own bodyweight.
She collapses upon the bed, and moments later, familiar brass tipped gloves are sweeping her bangs from her face. “SLEEP. WE WILL BE HERE WHEN YOU WAKE.”
Of course they will, she knows. It is a truth as certain as the rising of the sun. It comes in the morning, disappears in the evening, and Vorgoth will follow her anywhere, her own personal second shadow.
“Love you,” she whispers into the dark.
“AND WE YOU. GOOD NIGHT.”