Next time , he thought. I'll break you open.'
The Death Stalker continued to shriek, claws raised as it inched backwards into the cave.
They ran.
The terrain narrowed. Sensing their back turned, the creature attempted to follow, but its size turned into a weakness. Pyrrha fired a round back into the cavern ceiling. Rock collapsed—dust covering their escape.
Silence.
Then gasping.
Then shaking knees.
Jaune slumped, ribs aching, his arm throbbing with aftershock. The blade was gone, but its hunger still lingered. His Aura drained to repair the last of the damage.
Pyrrha sat beside him, panting.
"We're alive," he murmured.
"Barely."
"We didn't kill it…"
"No." She looked at him. "But you hurt it."
He nodded.
It would remember.
And next time—Jaune would finish what he started.
The wind scraped across the hill like a blunt blade, dry and dragging. Twigs crunched beneath their boots as they staggered forward, half-dragging, half-guided by pure gut instinct until they found it—a small clearing tucked beneath a black-branch tree, the kind that grew low and hard against the sky. It was far enough from the cave's edge to feel safe, but not far enough to forget.
They collapsed there, not out of relief but necessity.
Jaune dropped first, limbs folding awkwardly onto a patch of moss mottled with old leaves. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. Beneath his skin, his Aura flickered like a failing lightbulb—dim, and unstable.
Pyrrha didn't sit. She stood for a moment longer, hugging her arms to her ribs, her gaze fixed on the darkness below—the cave mouth yawning like the broken jaw of some ancient corpse. Her lips were drawn in a thin line. Her whole body trembled—not just from fatigue, but from calculation. From the weight of what they'd just survived.
"That thing," she murmured at last. "It wasn't just a Death Stalker."
Jaune looked up. " Death Stalker? What do you mean?"
She shook her head, the red of her ponytail trailing with the motion. "I've fought them before. Slayed one in the Megalon Enza last year. But that…" Her voice dropped. "Huge. And it did not just move—it hunted. It planned. It was waiting in that cave like it knew someone would come. I… I have never seen that before."
Jaune exhaled slowly, arms draped over his knees. "And we still have to go through it?"
After briefly looking around, Pyrrha nodded grimly. "It's the only passage that heads north. If we want to reach the relics before sundown, it's the shortest path."
"There's no way around?"
"Theoretically, there is," They both turned, gazing down the slope that curved gently toward the forest basin. They could go around. Over. Maybe even double back and try scaling the eastern ridge. But they already knew the truth.
"It's too far," Pyrrha said, voice low. "Even if we ran, we'd be late."
"And Professor Goodwitch said—"
"Don't be late," they finished together.
A breeze caught Pyrrha's hair. "We have to go back through the cave."
"Yeah." Jaune rubbed the bridge of his nose, voice dry. "Y'know, I wanted to impress Beacon's staff on my first day. Didn't think it'd be with masochism. "
She huffed a breath—half-laugh, half-sigh.
"You hurt it," she said suddenly.
Jaune blinked. "What?"
She nodded toward the cave. "You struck true. That crack… it wasn't just a scratch. It's leaking."
Jaune's right arm flushed with something unfamiliar—something small and warm. Satisfaction.
"Mid-spine," he murmured. "Just under the tail root."
"The armor was thick," she added. "But that… that was real damage. Deep."
"We go back through," Jaune said, "we don't start from zero."
Silence settled between them.
"I've got ideas," he added. "Collapse another part of the tunnel. Try to draw it toward one wall while the other slips past. Maybe even drop your spear in the seam—force it to retreat deeper so we can—"
Jaune stopped as she raised her hand to stop him. A very long pause followed
Pyrrha knelt beside him finally, eyes still scanning the tree line, then the horizon. "Even if we tried to come up with a plan—detonate something to distract it, or rig a slope to collapse—it wouldn't matter."
He blinked at her. "Why not?"
"Our Auras, yours took a hit, yes?" Seeing him nod, Pyrrha continued. "We're drained. Mine's hovering around twenty percent. I couldn't hold a proper shield, let alone mount a coordinated attack. And without Aura…"
"We're just meat in the dark," Jaune finished.
They sat in stillness for another moment. The hum of the wind through broken branches. The distant rumble of something large retreating underground.
And then Pyrrha's expression changed.
Her eyes were no longer watching the woods. They were watching him .
Face flushed, not from exertion, but from thought.
A visible warmth climbed her neck, tinting her pale skin crimson. Fidgeting, Pyrrha then knelt beside him—one knee down, the other bent, keeping her slightly above him. It was careful. Formal. A courtly kneel. A Mistrali offering pose .
"Jaune," she said softly. Her voice wavered just enough to betray nerves. "Can I… suggest something?"
He looked up, dazed. "If it doesn't involve me getting eaten alive, I'm open to suggestions."
She gave a nervous little laugh. "No. Not that. I mean... something that might help."
Pyrrha gave another shaky laugh, followed by taking a deep breath in preparation, maintaining her posture.
"It's about the Aura problem," she said. "We don't have hours to meditate or sleep. If we're going to get through that cave, before sundown, we'll need to replenish. Fast."
He nodded. "So… what, like breathing exercises? Aura channeling?"
She hesitated. Her cheeks flushed red. Then deeper. Then nuclear.
She lifted an arm in a slow, deliberate arc, as if painting calligraphy in the air. A pale red trace of light followed—sumi brush stroke meets amphora silhouette. "It's a Mistrali ritual—what we call the 'Duōkan'—a union of form, breath, and intent. We channel together—heart, body, aura."
"Sort of." Her cheeks flushed down her neck. "I-Its a technique. A Mistrali technique. Passed down in old circles—between elite partners. For… synchronization."
"Union?" He prompted.
Pyrrha mumbled. "We'd… need to resonate. Deeper than before. Stronger. And… I think that might require something a little more... physical."
Jaune's brow furrowed. "Physical?"
"I mean—" she rushed, "—not that I'm saying that , just—no, I mean, yes, it could help—but not just that—I mean—oh gods, this is coming out terribly—"
Jaune could only look on in confusion.
Pyrrha inhaled slowly through her nose, visibly centering herself in a meditative rhythm. "Resonance through… physicality. Intimacy. There are ways of aligning body and soul… through touch. Through closeness."
Her eyes lifted to his.
"I think," she mumbled, voice barely audible, "if we do something… sensual together, it could strengthen the bond we've already begun. Accelerate it. And our Aura might… respond in kind. Maybe even regenerate. Through emotional resonance. Positive feedback."
She buried her face in her hands.
"I know how that sounds. I know this is way too fast. We're new partners. I shouldn't even suggest it, but—Jaune, that fight nearly killed us. We're not going to make it otherwise."
Jaune blinked again.
A beautiful girl. Apparently the most respected student warrior in Mistral. Red-faced. Fumbling. Asking him to—
What?
He scrambled for words
"Sensual?" he dumbly repeated.
"I don't mean sex!", her voice sped in awkward bursts. "Not—not unless it's what we wanted. But just… closeness. Skin to skin. Guided breath. I-Intent. We… would stay clothed. But we'd feel , let the feeling move through us—and it could spark some regeneration! That's how it's supposed to work."
Jaune was lost for words. Pyrrha waited for the earth to swallow her whole, still with bouts of red in her cheeks. Her hands trembled slightly, fiddling with her sash.
"So… it's just… for survival?" The sentence left his mouth before he could stop it.
The moment turned cold.
Pyrrha's breath sharpened. Her eyes flicked up—and saw the way his shoulders had slumped, the minute way his face had fallen.
That wasn't what he wanted it to be.
And suddenly, everything in her rebelled against letting that misunderstanding stand.
"No," she said—quiet, but eyes fierce with honesty.
Jaune looked at her, startled.
"I know how it sounds. We've only known each other for a day. But Jaune…" She looked back up. "You've made me feel more seen in a few hours than I ever have surrounded by thousands. You care —and you fought with me like your life depended on it. Like my life did."
"I'm asking you," she said carefully, "because I want to. Not just because we need to. I would've said yes even if we were safe in a dorm. Even if we weren't about to risk harm. I'm not… using you."
He didn't speak. His throat felt dry.
"You're kind. You're brave. You're not like anyone I've met. And maybe I shouldn't be thinking about you like this after one day—but I am . I'm not ashamed that I want this," she whispered. "Even if it's just to survive… I want to feel it with you ."
That admission fell between them like a stone dropped into water. His face warmed. His chest tightened. And still—he didn't fully believe it.
Jaune—heart pounding—finally found breath again. But he nodded.
"…Okay," he said hoarsely. "But… when we tried resonating earlier, you said you couldn't even reach my Aura."
Pyrrha hesitated. Then smiled—small, but steady.
"Maybe not your Aura," she said, lifting her hand toward his chest, just above his heart. "But I still felt you. "
She placed her fingers gently over where his heartbeat thudded. "And even if your Aura is buried… your soul isn't gone. I think that's what the Duōkan needs most. Not perfection. Just… each other."
Pyrrha let out a slow, controlled exhale—the patter of a ritual pause.
Then she shifted her way toward him.
Jaune stiffened—visibly, in more ways than one.
Pyrrha noticed. Her blush deepened. But she didn't stop.
With Mistrali grace, she rose slowly and straddled him. Her thighs closed around his hips like closing petals at dusk. The position wasn't lewd yet, not yet pressed. But it was intimate. Deliberate. She sat upright on his lap, regal yet shy, hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders.
"This is okay?" she whispered, breath fluttering across his cheek.
Heat in his chest overruled language. He nodded mutely—not trusting his words to be enough.
Pyrrha guided his hands—not forcefully, but fluidly—to her waist. Her palms ghosted up his arms, encouraging him silently. She guided Jaune's hands under her sash, the obi‑inspired folds tickling as they passed under.
"Touch me," her lips ghosting his ear. "Not roughly. Just… let yourself want to. Open yourself to me."
And so he did.
His hands moved with slow reverence. They didn't grab, but they did explore. He lightly traced the curve of her waist, the rise of her hip, the taut pull of muscle beneath soft skin. The small of her back was beaded with sweat. He could feel her breath stutter under his touch. Could feel the strength there, wrapped in grace.
Looking up,—eyes scanned her face. The closed eyes, the way her lips parted softly as his thumbs brushed her ribs. Her freckles danced in the afternoon glow like tiny constellations. Her hair was flushed to her skin from the heat between them. She was breathing him in.
His gaze dropped—timid, unsure—and caught the rise of her bust beneath the tight curve of her armor. The line of her breasts pressed upward with every breath, held in place by battle-forged cloth that clung tighter from sweat and movement. Not overly large. But perfect. Hers .
Swallowing hard, his hands trembled on her sides.
"B-Breathe with me."
They inhaled—together. Held. Exhaled. Together.
It wasn't perfectly synchronized. But that didn't matter in the slightest.
Something between them began to spark. Their auras flickered together—bare light gathering into tentative motion. She lowered herself slightly, grinding her clothed sex against the bulge in his pants.
Jaune's world narrowed to that pressure.
Then she began to move, in a ritual that was dance, script, and embrace all at once.
A gentle sway of hips. A slow roll of breath and body, wetness gliding against the hardness between them. Her damp heat kissed the underside of his cock through the layers. He couldn't stop the buck.
A jolt of lighting went through both of them. Jaune—spine arching. His hands gripped her tighter without meaning to.
"Pyrrha—"
"Just relax," She leaned in, brushing her nose to his, eyes lidded. "Feel me. Let me feel you. "
A soft tempo like a current of breath and movement, hearts and pulses slowly syncing. Slowly at first. Bodies swaying together. Hotness grew with each brush, each press. The drag of her soaked underwear against the stiffness in his pants was torture and bliss. Her body seemingly danced on instinct. And Jaune's soul was not prepared for the sight of her moving for him.
Her hands squeezed his sturdy shoulders for support, face flushed with sweat. His breath stuttered against her neck, as she ground herself a little bit harder. Her chest pressed to his as she fell forward, as the part of her stomach beneath her belly button twitched. Pyrrha's body trembled as she bit her lip, but she didn't break rhythm. She moved with barely restrained control. Each motion feeding the fragile bond.
Jaune couldn't look away. She was gorgeous. She was letting him see her like this.
And he couldn't believe it.
Then—
Something clicked. Not physically. Not even emotionally.
Spiritually.
Jaune's Aura shimmered—barely. Faint auric lines traced his ribs beneath the surface.
Pyrrha's echoed—scarlet tendrils wrapping around his neck, his chest.
Their Auras flashed. Their light twined together like strands of silk in water.
Resonance.
Jaune's Aura flared, suddenly fierce. It activated with no warning. He gasped as something inside him reached for her—like a tide dragged toward the moon.
And Pyrrha—
She cried out. Not in pain.
In pure pleasure.
The sudden connection slammed through her, raw and electrifying. Her teeth gritted. Her thighs locked around him, and her whole body bucked as if possessed. Her core clenched. Her hands buried themselves in his hair, pulling—not to control, but to anchor herself to the moment, to him.
A burst of wet heat rushed through her center, her hips dragging her drenching pussy across his ramrod cock even harder. She bucked a little erratically, as if something sacred had been shattered.
All the while Jaune, eyes wide, hands still trembling on her waist—watched her come alive .
Their lips met hers without thought. Their mouths crashed together, sloppy and desperate. The kiss wasn't practiced. It wasn't controlled.
It was a raw need.
And for Pyrrha, it was everything .
Toes curled in her boots. She moaned into his mouth, her body jerking as if strings had been cut. Her nose inhaled fiercely as Jaune stole air from her mouth. Muscles locking, her legs trembled on either side of him, unable to bear being anywhere else.
"Oh—" she groaned, eyes fluttering closed. "It's—oh, Jaune —"
The resonance spiked.
Her back arched. She moved harder now, desperate for friction, for completion, for connection, even through layers of fabric. Her thighs squeezed around him. Every hump sent an almost unbearable squeeze through her walls. Her Aura throbbed—harmonizing with every roll.
Jaune's hands instinctively grasped her ass, fingers sinking into her plush combat shorts, reinforcing her every grind. The fabric resists at first—tight, athletic, built for performance and precision. Her shorts stretch with her movement, form-fitting and smooth with a slightly coarse texture. But beneath the fabric, there's no denying the give. Even through the firm cling of her combat shorts, he felt her.
Not just her shape, but her . The fabric was smooth, firm with compression, but gave way to the sculpted fullness beneath. She was strong—champion strong—but not bulky or rigid. His fingers sank in just enough to feel that perfect balance of toned power and velvety softness. It wasn't the exaggerated bounce of fiction—it was real, shaped by years of discipline and forged by battle. Controlled muscle wrapped in a layer of impossible softness.
There was incredible warmth too. Radiating through the fabric dampening from sweat. Alive. Not just physical heat, but the faint, impossible spark of her soul, her Aura, brushing against his finger tips.
She didn't pull away.
If anything, she pressed harder into his hands. Her hips rolled with greater desperation, as though the sensation of his grip pushed her toward something she couldn't stop. Her moan vibrated in his throat. Her legs tightened subtly in response, in invitation.
He squeezed—fingers digging in, holding her to him as he lifted his hips upward—and her whole body shuddered.
Their lips found each other again with open-mouthed need. Hair tickling the face. Tongues brushing messily, teeth clacking, breaths stolen.
Pyrrha's body locked up, abs flexing, shivering with every fiber she had lighting up at once. A low, keening cry broke from her throat.
"Jaune—NnnmmaaAH!" she whimpered, failing to keep her lips sealed.
A shiver of lightning passed through her chest to her boots, her back bowed. Her hips frantically grinded her cunt along his hard cock in a last, furious push. Pleasure carved through her. Then she came.
Hard.
Still seated on his lap, still pressing desperately against him. Her walls squeezed around air, the edges of her inner muscles scraping against the linen pressed to her crotch. Her body pulsing in waves that made her gasp, made her shake, made her curl forward into his chest with a ragged sob of euphoria.
Still astride him, and completely undone.
Her Aura surged around them both, searing red. A blinding wave of resonance rolled through her spine, and in its wake—
And something else stirred.
Not Aura. Not instinct.
A feeling—quiet, trembling, impossibly tender—rose from somewhere deeper.
It didn't lash or burn.
It reached.
A forgotten melody half-remembered in a dream, it unfurled toward her.
Hesitant. Hopeful.
A part of him—unguarded, unnoticed, unbearably gentle—opened like a wound trying to become a hand.
Pyrrha's soul felt it—not hunger, not power—
But a warmth so intimate, it felt like a secret he didn't know he was still keeping.
And when her resonance brushed against it,
It didn't flinch.
It welcomed her.
Like it had been waiting.
Like it had been crying to know her.
And in that instant—fragile, radiant, almost too human—
She knew what she had touched was not an Aura. Or the Abyss.
It was someone.
A Seed rooted.
Whatever was inside Jaune, had connected them fully now.
And as she collapsed into his arms, panting, face buried in his shoulder, skin damp and chest heaving—her entire being throbbed with one truth:
She was his .
Not owned. Not taken or claimed.
But linked and entwined.
And for the first time in her life, against everything thought possible, Pyrrha Nikos was no longer alone inside her soul.
Pyrrha didn't move for a long time.
Her chest rose and fell in trembling, slow cascades, forehead resting against Jaune's collar, arms looped tightly around him as if afraid he might vanish. And Jaune didn't say a word.
He just held her—like someone trying to remember how. Arms were around her, but barely. Not squeezing. Not anchoring. Just… resting. Like his body had responded before his mind caught up.
She could feel the shudder in his breath, the tightness in his shoulders. His heartbeat was loud beneath her cheek—not just fast. Uncertain . Uneven.
It wasn't just arousal. It was a realization.
The new bond between them tugged at something deep inside her. And through it, she felt him.
A single, dawning thought blooming in his chest like light through frostbitten windows:
This is the first time I've ever felt wanted.
Not needed.
Not tolerated.
Not expected to perform.
Wanted.
It was slow, creeping in like warmth into a room left too long cold. She felt the the disbelief. The quiet ache of someone who had never once imagined being chosen.
Swept up in the moment, her eyes stung.
'You are,' she thought. 'You are wanted. You are enough.'
Her breath was damp against his skin. The thin fabric between them stuck to her chest, wet from sweat and arousal. Her spine tingled with ghost-touch friction, and her inner thighs still pulsed—warm, sore, satisfied.
'I came.'
She had climaxed.
She had climaxed.
Fully clothed. In his lap. With nothing more than friction and breath and rhythm and trust.
Her Aura glowed gently now—golden-red and calm, like candlelight smoke. Restored. Warm. But deeper than that, something new shimmered in her soul.
A tether.
Not a leash. Not a chain. A living thread.
It coiled around her core with weightless grace around her heartbeat, pulsing in time with something that wasn't her own.
When the Seed flared, something in her soul cracked wide open. Not between them—within her —every barrier she'd built against being seen, needed, touched… gone.
She'd spent her whole life guarding the walls others built around her. Gold medalist. Undefeated champion. Beacon's prodigy. But none of that armor had prepared her for the heat crawling up her spine now. Not just from lust. From resonance. From a recognition deeper than words. Her body trembled—but not with hesitation.
'I shouldn't feel this close. We only just met.' But the thought was already fading, drowned by the pulse inside her chest that wasn't just hers anymore.
It throbbed—an intimate echo, not just inside her Aura, but somewhere deeper. It made her feel him. Feel his awe, his desire, his pain. His loneliness. And through that… she knew him.
Knew him in a way that felt earned across years—not hours.
Knew he would never take what wasn't offered.
Knew that giving —not guarding—was what her soul needed most.
She breathed—and felt him .
She knew it instinctively. Not from body language or facial expression—though his breathing was ragged and his arms still trembled—but through the Seed. The quiet, glowing bond that now pulsed between them like a secret artery.
Yearning. Arousal. Frustration.
Jaune.
He hadn't climaxed.
His body ached for relief, yet somehow, she knew it wasn't just physical. His soul still longed.
And the thought— the knowledge —that he had held back for her, that he had given her everything and asked for nothing—
'No.'
She would not let that stand. Not after what he'd just given her.
She shifted. Slowly at first—just lifting herself from his chest and sitting upright again in his lap. Her thighs still straddled his hips, her soaked underwear clinging to her folds, the damp heat trapped between their bodies undeniable.
Jaune stirred slightly.
"Pyrrha?" he asked, voice hoarse.
She didn't answer—not yet.
But she saw it. The flicker of panic beneath his eyes. That terrible, familiar fear of being seen. Of being touched. Not like this.
Not intimately. Not lovingly. Not without consequence.
He didn't know how to want without guilt.
Her hands moved to his belt with deliberate purpose. Not rushed. Not fumbling. Sure. Delicate fingers trembled, but not with doubt. With a need to please.
She watched as her fingers worked the buckle open. Undid the button. Pulled down the zipper. The metal teeth parted with a soft rasp, and the bulge pressing beneath his underwear swelled into view—no longer glimpsed by accident, no longer hidden behind cotton and decorum. Now… it was hers to see.
The shape. Pressed achingly hard against the thin barrier of his briefs, visibly slick at the tip.
And still, she paused.
Her hand hovered at the waistband of his briefs. Fingers curled, hesitating on the precipice with complete reverence. She looked up into his face.
His eyes were wide and molten. Lust-dark, rimmed with vulnerability. His lips parted. He said nothing. Desire shadowed them like storm clouds. But beneath it—doubt. Shyness.
'I shouldn't want this—not yet. But I do. Gods, I do. It feels like I've known him forever.'
So she asked. Her voice wasn't coy. It wasn't breathy.
It was honest . Fierce with tenderness.
"May I?"
The silence that followed was sacred.
Jaune's throat bobbed as he swallowed. Then—he nodded.
Just once.
His nod wasn't brave. It was bare.
And that was all she needed.
She peeled the waistband down, inch by inch, slowly unveiling the hallowed moment that had haunted her thoughts since the locker room.
And now?
Now she saw him unveiled .
Jaune's cock sprang free with a throb, flushed and aching, bobbing upward slightly as the elastic cleared. The crown already beaded with need. The skin was smooth and stretched, slick with anticipation, the shaft proud and heavy.
It was exactly what she fantasized.
Exactly what had made her legs shake back then.
Pyrrha… stopped breathing .
He was beautiful.
Thick enough. Long enough. Subtly curved. Every vein visible beneath the flushed skin with every twitch.
Heat poured through her like sun-scorched wine. Her chest ached. Her throat tightened. Her mouth parted on a silent gasp as she reached out instinctively—because not touching him would have been impossible.
Her fingers closed around the base.
Warm. Velvet-soft. Steel-firm. She felt the throb of his pulse like a war drum under her palm. Her breath hitched as memory and present collided— the sway of it beneath his cotton briefs, the weight, the line, the truth —now revealed in full.
And for a heartbeat, she just held him.
Not moving. Not stroking. Just touching. Letting the truth of him settle through her trembling hands like scripture.
Jaune twitched beneath her grip, hips bucking slightly. He gasped through his teeth—and Pyrrha felt his body tighten beneath her. His lower abs that peeked out clenched, pronouncing his Adonis belt. He was resisting. He was surging from the pressure inside him
She watched his face with reverence. Took in how his eyes squeezed shut, the way his lips drew tight, the sweat drop that slowly made its way past his jawline and caressed the ridges of his neck.
Feeling him throb beneath her grip, feeling the resonance flutter inside her, a swelling bloom. Every pulse of pleasure from him traced along her new connection. Echoes of desire whispered through her soul—not words, but intent.
She glanced up—saw his eyes locked to hers, wide, overwhelmed, entranced .
"You don't know," she whispered. "You really don't know what you are, do you?"
He blinked, lips parting, but no words came.
"You walked into that locker room," she continued softly, voice trembling with heat, "not knowing what you did to us. Not knowing what it meant… to me . I've never looked at someone like that before. Never needed someone like this. You moved, and I broke."
She stroked once.
Jaune shuddered . His hands clenched on her thighs.
"And now," she murmured, stroking again—up, then down, wrist twisting with reverent rhythm, "I get to do more than look."
Her thumb swiped across the head, smearing his pre-cum. She brought it to her lips, parted them, and tasted him.
Salty. Intimate. His.
And gods help her—she moaned.
She leaned forward, letting her chest plate brush between them. Still flushed from earlier, her nipples were stiff and her cleavage was glistening with sweat. His eyes locked to her upper onto it instantly, hunger scalding the hesitation from his expression.
"You deserved to finish," she whispered. "You still do."
Pyrrha felt him.
Not just physically. But emotionally.
Wonder. Gratitude. Hunger.
It poured into her through the tether like molten sunlight, warming her from within, lighting every nerve.
And then she began in earnest.
Slow at first. Up. Down.
Each stroke measured. Each movement a caress. She let her thumb trace over the leaking tip, smearing pre-cum across the crown before dragging it down the shaft in a twisting glide.
His hands had been slack at his sides, but now they gripped her hips—tentative at first, then harder, grounding himself in the feel of her. Jaune's head fell back as air escaped him. Throat bobbing, as tickling pleasure lanced from his pelvis, through his balls, and prickling at the end of his tip.
It was almost too much. Too real. Too gently firm.
He'd never… been touched like this before. Never been held like this before. Not even by himself.
"Pyrrha…" he whispered. But there was no sentence that followed it.
The Seed flared. Pyrrha felt it. His pleasure. The sharp-edged spikes. The aching gratitude.
It spilled into her like warm oil ripping another moan from her.
She wasn't even touching herself. It was all from him . From giving.
Pyrrha glanced up. His eyes were locked on her chest, bouncing from the force of her thrusts.
Immersed in his lust, Pyrrha suddenly leaned back. And without hesitation, she unlatched her chest armor, fingers desperately quick and sure. The clasps clicked. Her armor slid down. And her round tits—flush from arousal, soft and full, crowned with stiff pink nipples—spilled free into the air between them.
He looked up at her—eyes wide, lips parted, stunned.
Pyrrha took his hands and guided them up, placing them directly onto her bare skin, trembling as his palms brushed against her aching tips.
"Touch me," she gasped breathily. "Enjoy yourself. Enjoy me."
His hands trembled as they closed over her breasts.
His fingers molded to her soft curves, thumbs brushing across the flushed tips. Her nipples—already aching—peaked harder beneath his touch, and the Seed flared .
His fingers sank further, thumbing over her nipples with experimental awe. His touch was needy and adoring and overwhelmed.
Jaune released a helpless, throaty groan.
The Seed sang.
Her left hand braced against his hard chest, feeling every hitch, every gasp, every reverberation of his chest.
Reaching back down, her right hand pumped faster now, stroking the length of him with confidence. Her grip was snug, twisting just slightly at the tip, dragging her palm in ways she imagined might drive him mad. It did, forcing Jaune to clench his teeth from crying out.
"a-AH!—GRrrgh!"
Jaune gasped for air, hips twitching upward, thrusting into her hand without meaning to. His mouth opened, but words failed him.
Pyrrha devoured the sound.
She leaned in, kissed him—deep and messy, lips soft and wet, tongue brushing his. The searing kiss wasn't practiced, but it didn't matter. It wasn't technique that mattered here. It was devotion .
He squeezed her breasts in rhythm with her strokes, fingers sinking into the pliable flesh, reverently exploring her like he didn't believe this was real. It sent a spike through her racing heart.
Jaune gasped into her mouth. His hips bucked.
Her hand never stopped. She stroked him faster now, twisting at the head, sliding her palm down, milking him with a worshipful rhythm.
And Pyrrha—champion of Mistral, warrior of legacy, chosen of gods— moaned with complete abandon .
She had trained her body her entire life. Tamed it. Honed it like a blade for combat.
But right now—she gave it to him .
"Pyrrha—" he gasped, voice cracking past his lips. "I think I—I can't—"
And his pleasure was the only prize she wanted.
Her strokes grew quicker. Wetter. The heat from his shaft radiated up her arm. She could feel how close he was— how much he'd held back, how tightly he'd coiled.
"Jaune," she breathed, lips brushing his ear, "don't hold it."
"Let go," she whispered against his lips. "Please. Give it to me. Let me feel it."
He groaned—deep in his chest.
"Please," she begged , "I want you to cum. I want to feel it on me."
And that—
That broke him.
Jaune cried out, full-throated and raw, body jerking as his climax surged.
His cock pulsed violently in her grip, and then it came— he came—spurting thick, white ropes across her chest in heavy, molten waves.
One—two—three— four .
Each burst hotter than the last, splashing across her bare breasts, her collarbone, her neck.
Pyrrha's grip didn't falter. Her hand kept moving—stroking him through each spasm, her hand slick with his release, milking every twitch with a champion's focus. Her thighs tightening around his hips like a vise.
Then another. And another. Each twitch sent a new burst. Across her cleavage. Her chin. Her nipples twitched beneath the heat, hardened to aching peaks as his release painted her like consecration.
It was everywhere .
And Brother's be, she reveled in it.
Pyrrha tilted her head back, breathing hard, eyes fluttering shut as the heat and scent and weight of it painted her skin. Her body tensed again from the feedback, another ripple of wet heat pulsing between her thighs as his release splattered across her.
She watched his face twist in ecstasy. Watched his body tremble, breath gulping raggedly. His head fell back. Eyes glazed. Mouth parted in disbelief. Like his body had done something he hadn't known was possible .
She'd never seen someone like this.
Undone. Exposed. So vulnerable in his pleasure.
But she wasn't done.
Not yet.
Because with each rope that painted her chest, with every spurt that clung to her nipples and pooled in the curve between them— she felt it .
The Seed pulsed violently, syncing their Auras. Jaune's essence washed over her soul like a storm tide. His pleasure—his release —sang through her. Her clit throbbed in time with each burst. Her thighs clenched around his lap, soaked underwear squelching softly with how wet she was from just giving.
His release resounded through her soul. Not just heat. Not just stickiness. But him . His wonder. His awe. His confusion. His humanity.
And from that psychic feedback—she moaned again.
'Yesss.'
And Jaune—panting, flushed, gasping like he'd run for miles—just stared. Because it wasn't just an orgasm. It was a moment.
He watched her arch, watched her jaw fall open, watched her tremble around him. But even then—her hand never left his cock. A second orgasm ripped through her, rippling up from her soaked cunt in waves of shuddering pleasure—less like a climax and more like a spiritual detonation.
It wasn't gentle.
It was searing .
It wasn't physical.
It was resonant .
She let her head loll as she grinded against his exposed, shaking cock, groaning aloud as the resonance wracked her body—cunt clenching, walls fluttering uselessly, nipples so sensitive that even the breeze kissing the mess on her chest made her tremble.
Still, her hand held him.
Still, her soul drank in every drop.
When the spasms eased—when he slumped forward, gasping against her forehead—she held him.
Let him melt into her.
Let them be .
Together. Alive. Bonded.
Her hand gentled, stroking him through the final pulses, coaxing every last twitch and drop with silent reverence. His cum painted her chest, her neck, her breasts in thick, white tribute.
Drunk, she raised her hand. Dipped her fingers into the thick mess coating her breasts. Brought them to her lips, sucking the tips dry.
And savored him.
Slow. Proud. Never breaking eye contact.
A shiver ran through her.
Jaune opened his mouth—maybe to apologize, maybe to ask if that was normal —but she silenced him with a kiss.
"Don't be ashamed. Don't," she whispered huskily against his lips. "This wasn't a favor. It was an honor."
Her fingers dipped again—gathering more of him from her chest—and she licked them clean once more. Not as a tease. But as proof .
He had given her something pure. This was what separated man from Grimm, something no Grimm could ever replicate.
Not strength. Not strategy. Not weapons.
And she had basked in it.
Their eyes didn't break. The tension lingered like steam.
If they kept going, they would not stop.
So she pressed her forehead to his once more.
"I feel you," she whispered. " You ."
His arms wrapped around her waist—tight. Needy.
And she let herself melt into him. Held him back. Cradled him. Let him be undone in her arms.
And together, they held one another. Their bodies, messy.
Their Auras pulsed thickly around them—his golden light and her red glow mixing in slow, shimmering pulses.
Recharged. Resonant.
But beneath the light…
Something deeper had begun to nurture.
It now echoed through her, alive and thriving. A bond. A promise. A thread of intimacy spun from reverence and release.
And Pyrrha Nikos—Mistral's golden girl, champion of millions—smiled.
She had chosen him .
And he had chosen her back .
Not with words. With heat, whispered through every drop of him still glistening on her chest
Surface thoughts. Echoed feelings. A tether.
And the quiet, constant truth of it:
They were no longer strangers.
They were beginning.
But as the pulses faded— As her breathing evened and the sweat cooled on her skin—
A second heat rose in her chest.
Embarrassment.
'What… what had she just done?'
The question struck her like a sudden draft in cold armor. Not regret—never that. But startled clarity. This wasn't her. This wasn't Pyrrha Nikos, champion of Mistral. She didn't straddle boys she'd known for hours. She didn't bare herself. She didn't… finish for someone else's pleasure.
And yet—she had.
Her hand still trembled from the strength of it. Her breasts still tingled with the weight of his release. Her thighs still pressed to his lap, soaked through and parted with reverence.
And Jaune… gods, Jaune. He held her like she was sacred. Not a conquest. Not a prize. Like she'd given him something divine, and he'd dared not break it.
That , more than anything, unraveled her.
He didn't speak. Neither did she. The silence hummed between them—charged, heavy, too full to name.
Then she felt his fingers twitch at her hips, tentative. His breath stirred her hair.
"…Pyrrha?" he asked confused, concern laced in his voice.
She couldn't meet his eyes—not at first. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, trying to breathe. Trying to find words.
"I don't…" She swallowed, voice hushed. "I don't usually—do things like this."
"I know," he said, instantly. Hurrying to reassure her without judgment.
"It's not that I regret it. I don't. I just—" Her voice cracked slightly. "I didn't expect to feel so much."
"You weren't the only one," he whispered.
That earned a tiny, strained laugh from her. Breathless. Disbelieving.
They held each other tighter.
Not as lovers. Not yet. But as something rawer. Stranger.
Two people who had been torn open and met in the middle.
This wasn't going to be a habit... right? Right.
They both knew that. It wasn't comfort that led them here—it was need . It was the fire lit when truth touched skin.
And now that fire had cooled, and the darkness crept back in. But the warmth it left behind… stayed.
They'd crossed a line—no, leapt over it. Together. And not just in body.
Pyrrha eventually shifted, carefully dismounting his lap. Her thighs trembled as she moved—residual tension in her muscles, or something else entirely. She didn't speak. Her gaze remained low.
She reached for her cloth without looking at him, dabbing gently away at the mess on her chest. Her motions were slow. Not necessarily ashamed. But measured, like someone trying to reclaim the lines between herself and her body.
Jaune watched in silence. He didn't offer help. Didn't reach for her. He just… waited.
Because something told him this wasn't the moment to speak. Instead he followed suit, tucking himself back in.
Finally as clean as she could make herself, armor drawn loosely over her chest, Pyrrha sat beside him—legs crossed, posture tall but drawn inward. Her hands rested on her knees, pressed together—but they trembled faintly. She pressed her thumb and forefinger together. A breath in. A breath out.
"Maybe… we should meditate," she murmured. Her tone was calm—too calm, almost rehearsed. A fragile plea for quiet.
Sensing something amiss, Jaune nodded. "Yeah… right."
He mimicked her posture—mirroring her without knowing why. You trust this, right? he seemed to ask, tracking her movements. His eyes stayed laced with concern. Watching her. Trying to understand.
She closed her own. Shoulders stiff, anchored. Inside, the new connection still glowed—wrong and right and everything in between.
She wasn't blushing anymore. The color had drained, like someone trying to build a dam after the flood had already passed.
And Jaune—still warm from the aftermath, still holding the echo of her moan in his bones—didn't realize what she'd felt.
'She's probably just tired,' he told himself. Still, something in him ached—like he'd just been given a glimpse of a door he wasn't allowed to open. He didn't understand why she felt so far away now.
Because he couldn't.
Not fully.
Whatever flowed out, did not flow back in.
He didn't feel the depth of her offering. Didn't hear the silent truths the Seed carved into her soul. He couldn't see how she had broken for him by relinquishing control for the first time in her life.
He only felt tired. Grateful. Changed, somehow—but unsure how or why.
They sat in silence—minutes that felt infinite to her, brief to him. In those breaths, something moved beneath her skin—and she wasn't ready to face what that meant.
The waning light filtered through twisted branches above. Their Auras—dormant now—rested quietly beneath their skin. Replenished. Restored. But not untouched.
Eventually, Pyrrha opened her eyes. They weren't cold. They were distant—controlled, guarded. She offered him a small, even tilt of her lips, practiced. A Mistrali mask.
"We should get moving," she said, tone clipped and formal. The kind of voice she used in post-duel interviews, not after… this. "Before the sun drops too low."
He responded with a slow nod, lifting his posture alongside hers. "Yeah. Right." His fingers, as if by instinct, traced a line along his thigh toward her knee. When he brushed her hand, she didn't pull away immediately. They paused for a heartbeat—silent understanding passing between them—before he let his hand drop.
For Pyrrha, the touch was both anchor and sting: he reached—but only just. Enough to recharge her center, not enough to reopen… what they'd just shared.
The moment had passed.
Not erased. Not forgotten. But folded away. Pressed into the spaces between them like a bookmark in a sacred text neither was ready to read again.
Pyrrha didn't want to explain it. Because if she said the truth aloud—what she saw, what she felt—she might not be able to hide how much it changed her.
And she wasn't ready to let him see that yet.
She rose then, graceful, deliberate. First pulling her armor's edge back into place, then sliding her spear onto her back. Every movement measured. Precise. Confident—but no longer unguarded.
In the fading light of the sun, they walked back toward the cave. Together, but not walking the same path. Her steps ahead; his just close enough to follow as silence stretched between them.
Her soul still pulsed with him.
It wasn't just an impression. It was a presence. Like he had left something living inside her, breathing just beneath her heart.
The Seed of his Self now fully planted hummed beneath her breastbone like a newborn star, and through it she felt the faintest flickers of him: the burn of afterglow, the ache of wonder, the gentle hum of satisfaction and awe. His… worry for her feelings. His surface thoughts didn't form words, but emotions bled through.
Warmth. Gratitude. Embarrassed pride.
And something else.
A quiet yearning, buried so deep it only touched the edges of the link. A shape without color. A wound without a name.
Pyrrha frowned slightly.
She focused—centered her breathing, like when meditating between matches. She tried to reach backward, to feel the core of him. To sink her senses deeper through the link and touch the edges of his past.
But the Seed wasn't ready.
The bond was still shallow—freshly rooted, glowing at the surface like embers under skin. It wasn't strong enough to pierce memories. Not yet.
Still… something inside him shifted when she tried.
A flicker of cold.
A hallway, maybe. Or—
… please… no!
NO!
Fear. A closed fist drawn away from touch.
Pyrrha's breath froze. She retreated her focus immediately. The sudden recoil made her gasp—just a hitch. Her body tensed instinctively, as if having brushed a hot coal.
And Jaune… shifted. Not visibly. Not even consciously. But a single bead of sweat curled down the side of his face.
Pyrrha blinked. That wasn't—
Even for a soul recoiling, that was… raw . Violent in its speed. Souls could shield. They could deflect. But this felt like slamming against a wall that hadn't been there a second before. Something inside him had thrown her out.
A reflex? A warning?
She hesitated—but only for a moment. Whatever he was hiding… it wasn't about her.
Exhaling, she smoothed her thoughts, rationalizing. 'His Aura is… different. Not… wrong.'
An imperfect answer. But the only one she had.
Whatever was buried in him wasn't meant to be touched yet.
'Too soon.'
They weren't ready. He wasn't ready.
'What happened to you, Jaune?'
But they would be.
And when he was—when he opened to her fully—she would be waiting.
"The sun's going down. If we wait any longer, we'll lose what light's left—and I want us through that cave before it's pitch black."
He nodded slowly, regretfully.
Pyrrha checked the fit of her gear once more, adjusted her spear to her back. Her movements were fluid again.
Not just because her Aura had replenished some. But because something inside her was steady now.
Anchored.
Then, just as they reached the cave mouth:
His hand brushed her arm. Light. A silent question. Then, he placed his hand over hers and lingered—no words. In that small pressure, a promise shimmering in the dark.
Pyrrha paused.
He didn't grip. He didn't cling. But she could feel it—the fear that he might have hurt her somehow. That all of this—the closeness, her silence—might have been perceived as a mistake.
She hadn't told him yet. Hadn't figured out how. But what they shared was… delicate. Strange. And so very precious.
Unable to find the right words, she gave him something simpler.
She leaned forward, kissing his temple once. A reassurance.
And through the tether, she felt it hit him like sunlight.
The quiet sigh of his soul. The way his shoulders softened, his heart lightened. A single pulse of gratitude that told her she'd reached him.
"We need to move," she murmured warmly. "Come on."
He nodded, cheeks warm.
And together, without shame or apology, they turned toward the cave.
The darkness might wait ahead—but it wouldn't find them unbound.