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As a team leader, you should be helping your fellow party member, such as Freya, right here
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[section=Short Story]
h2.[i]The Heat of the Dragon Knight[/i]
It’s funny how you can travel with someone for months—fight alongside them, share meals, watch their back—and still not know everything about them. Freya Crescent was like that. She was our dragon knight, a Burmecian with a spear as sharp as her wit and a past that weighed on her like a storm cloud. She kept most of it tucked away under that big, weathered coat of hers, the one that swallowed her frame and made her look more like a shadow than a person sometimes. I’d always figured she liked it that way—kept people at a distance, kept her secrets close.
But today, something was off. We’d been out on a mission, tracking some bandits through the foothills, and Freya wasn’t herself. Normally, she was all precision and grace, her spear flashing like lightning, her footing sure as stone. Today, though? She was distracted. She missed a signal I threw her way, nearly tripped over a root she’d have danced around any other day, and once, when a bandit swung at her, she barely got her spear up in time. I saw her wince after, shaking her head like she was trying to clear it. It wasn’t like her, and it stuck with me.
By the time we made it to the inn that night, I was worried. The rest of the party—Zidane, Vivi, Dagger—they all shuffled off to their rooms, worn out from the day. Freya lingered, though, her green eyes catching the lantern light in a way that made them look… unsettled. “You alright?” I asked, casual as I could manage.
She nodded, sharp and quick. “Fine. Just tired.” Her voice was clipped, and she didn’t meet my gaze for long before heading upstairs. I watched her go, the hem of that oversized coat dragging a little on the steps, and told myself she’d be okay after some rest. She was tough—tougher than most of us. Still, the unease stuck with me, a little itch I couldn’t scratch.
I tried to sleep. Tossed and turned on the lumpy inn mattress, stared at the ceiling while the hours crept by. The others were out cold—I could hear Zidane snoring through the wall—but my mind wouldn’t let go of Freya. Was she sick? Hurt? Hiding something? She wasn’t the type to ask for help, and that only made me worry more. By the time the sky started lightening outside, I’d had enough. I pulled on my boots, grabbed my cloak, and headed down the hall to her room. Just to check, I told myself. Just to make sure.
Her door was cracked open when I got there, which set my nerves on edge. I knocked anyway, soft at first, then a little louder. “Freya? You in there?” No answer. I hesitated, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The sight hit me like a punch to the gut.
She was standing against the far wall, her back to me, the dim glow of dawn spilling through the window. That big coat of hers was gone—piled on the floor with the rest of her outfit—and for the first time, I saw her. Really saw her. Freya wasn’t just lean muscle and quiet strength; she had a body that could’ve stopped time. Big, full breasts, a shapely curve to her hips that swayed soft and supple, all of it glowing faintly in the half-light. She still had her stiletto on, the thigh-high stockings clinging to her legs, and those long arm sleeves she never took off. But the rest? Bare as the day she was born.
Her hand was between her thighs, and it wasn’t just resting there—she was lost in it. Her fingers moved with a frantic, almost reckless rhythm, plunging deep into herself, then sliding out, slick with her arousal. Each motion was deliberate, her fingertips brushing against her clit before diving back in, her knuckles glistening in the half-light. Her hips rocked forward to meet her hand, a subtle thrust that made her whole body tremble. The sounds she made were raw—short, sharp gasps that broke into quiet, needy whimpers, her breath hitching every time her fingers hit just the right spot. I could hear the faint, wet sound of her movements, a soft slickness that filled the silence between her moans. Her thighs quivered, muscles tensing and relaxing as she worked herself harder, her free hand braced against the wall for support. Her white hair swayed with each motion, strands sticking to the sweat on her neck, and I caught a glimpse of her nethers—pink, swollen, dripping with need.
I should’ve turned away, given her privacy, but I couldn’t. My heart pounded in my chest, loud enough to drown out any rational thought. My cock twitched in my pants, stirring at the sight of her, and I felt it growing harder, pressing insistently against the fabric. I shifted my weight, trying to adjust, but it was no use—the ache was undeniable now.
Then she noticed me. Her head snapped up, white hair spilling over her shoulders, and her amber eyes locked onto mine. I tensed, expecting her to shout, to cover herself, to demand I leave. But she didn’t. Her hand slowed, fingers still buried inside her, and a strange look crossed her face—relief, maybe, edged with something feral.
“I’ve been ignoring this since yesterday,” she said, her voice low and rough, scraped raw by need. “But I can’t hold it anymore… can you help me with this?”
The words hit me like a punch, heavy and charged. My mouth went dry, and I struggled to process it. This was Freya—unshakable, fearless Freya—baring herself to me in a way I’d never imagined. I took a step closer, searching her face for any sign of doubt, but all I saw was trust and desperation.
“You’re… in heat?” I asked, keeping my voice steady despite the heat rising in me.
She gave a sharp nod. “Burmecian thing. Stress, battle—it builds up. I thought I could wait it out, but…” Her breath caught, and she shifted, her hand slipping free, fingers slick and trembling. “It’s too much.”
I studied her—the flush on her cheeks, the tension in her frame, the way her chest heaved with every breath. She wasn’t just asking for relief; she was letting me in, showing me a side of her no one else got to see. It stirred something deep in me, and I nodded.
“Okay,” I said, soft but firm. “I’ll help you.”
She turned then, facing the wall and bending slightly, her hips flaring out in a way that made my pulse race. Her legs parted just enough to reveal her again—pink, wet, pulsing with need—and her scent hit me, warm and musky, pulling me in. My cock was fully hard now, straining painfully against my pants, and I couldn’t ignore the throb of it as I stepped closer. I stopped just behind her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her skin, my hand hovering near her hip.
“Tell me what you need,” I said, my voice low, thick with the effort of keeping myself in check.
“Touch me,” she whispered, almost a plea. “Please.”
I swallowed hard, my erection aching as I closed the distance, my fingers brushing the curve of her hip. She shivered under my touch, and I knew there was no turning back.
***
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