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Spatial Maneuvering

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It's taken Lysithea far too long to start making use of the shadow library.

To be fair, the academy's library had seemed quite well-stocked, at first—certainly far richer in content than the libraries kept by most noble houses. But it was also very carefully curated, and the particular variety of magic that came most naturally to her happened to be one of those topics that fell on the...undesirable list. Unfortunately, she hadn't discovered that the shadow library was a veritable trove of all sorts of magical knowledge until shortly before she was due to graduate. And, you know, the war happened.

She's taking full advantage of this second chance to correct that oversight. Today, she's on the lookout for something that Constance had mentioned—a book on teleportation techniques that are considered too well-suited to breaking and entering to be approved for most respectable libraries. She can think of many far more practical uses for warping oneself to a location sight unseen than relieving a noble of their valuables.

She's just located the volume on the second floor and pulled it down off the shelf when she hears a woman's voice coming in through the door on the floor below.

“In the library? Really?”

“Beds in Abyss are communal, babe. You've gotta learn to make your fun where you can.” That voice, she recognizes. Balthus is always hard to miss.

“And what if someone's in here?”

She can hear boots tapping across the floor.

“Library's usually empty this time of night,” Balthus says, in a tone that speaks of only moderate confidence in that fact. “If not, well...two's fun, but three's a party.”

The woman laughs warmly. “You are exactly what I need right now.” Their voices are moving towards the stairs.

Ugh. Are they seriously coming in here to—roughhouse? Drink? Is there some incomprehensible rule of Abyss etiquette that dictates she has to participate? She came here to spend her evening reading, not getting badgered into joining some rowdy social affair.

There's only the one staircase, though. She can't leave without running into them at this point. (Ironically, the book she's being prevented from reading could probably have solved this problem.) How irritating.

She clutches her find to her chest and slips between the wall and a stray shelving cart, hoping to remain unnoticed. No, the top shelf is bare, they'll absolutely see her if they look over. As their heads come into view at the top of the stairs, she sinks down with her back against the wall, knees up in front of her to rest her book against. There's light enough to read. She can wait them out.

There's a gap in the books large enough for her to peek out. She thinks she's seen the woman before—one of the minor officers in the army? Grey at her temples and a breastplate almost as generously curved as the professor's. She's in civilian clothes now, but she still surveys the balcony with military attentiveness. (Of course, this fails to extend to checking around the furniture, because who would hide behind a bookcart?)

“Looks like this party will just be the two of us after all.”

“Fine by me.” Balthus puts a hand on her waist and spins her around, pulling her against his body.

In response, she grabs him by the back of the neck and hauls his face down. Their mouths meet in an enthusiastic slide Lysithea can hear from 30 feet across the room as the woman—Captain...Selma? Senta?—runs her hands over Balthus' chest and up under his shirt.

Oh. They're here to have sex.

...She supposes they were probably joking when they implied she'd be expected to join, then.

Balthus' hands land on the captain's ass and give it a generous squeeze. He backs her up into one of the nearby tables, their mouths still locked together. She's got his shirt pulled down off his shoulders. (He somehow looks even broader like that—Lysithea had always assumed that the fur added bulk, but apparently it was actually breaking up the line of his shoulders.)

Lysithea shouldn't be seeing this. But she can't get up and leave now. What would they think if she crawled out from behind a shelf, as if she'd been playing hide and seek like some child? It would be utterly embarrassing. Balthus would be so...ugh...jovial about it. And she might have to command the captain someday!

She'll just...try to ignore them. She carefully cracks open the book in her lap, paging through to find the section on self-warping she'd seen in the index. She can't take notes, but it'll at least be faster to take them later if she's already read it. She can ignore the quiet smacking sounds. She's got this.

The act of teleportation is inherently disorienting, so the crude battlefield applications are contrived such that the caster remains stationary. This eliminates the need for a robust spatial map of intervening topography and opens the art to a wider array of practitioners. This crutch, however, denies them access to the higher mysteries available to a skilled teleporter. Indeed, to teleport oneself, one must maintain a firm mental model of the origin, destination and intervening space even as their own position within that broader spatial map changes.

The captain's voice breaks through her concentration. “What's that stain? I'm not getting bare-assed on this table.”

“Who knows?” Balthus says. “I'm fine if you wanna move, though.”

Oh, phew. Are they leaving? Lysithea looks up.

Their shirts are in disarray. Balthus' is on the floor, and the square neckline of the captain's blouse is pulled down, exposing her bra and the cleavage spilling out of it.

...The captain's walking this way. Was she seen? Oh no, they're going to think she was peeping.

Rather than walking up to Lysithea's hiding spot, though, the captain stops at the table closest to the back of the room. The one that's only ten feet away. Oh no.

“This one looks clean enough,” she says, shoving down her pants and underwear and hopping up onto the edge. She spreads her knees wide and reaches up into her shirt.

Balthus is right behind her, his torso huge and bare. The bulge in his pants looks obscene on a normal day—Lysithea always thought it must be some sort of protective cup—but now it's ridiculous. He looks like he's smuggling a quiver in his pants.

“All right,” the captain says as he steps between her legs. She yanks out her bra and tosses it onto the table behind her, letting her tits spill out over the loose neckline of her blouse. “Enough suspense. Let me see what I'm working with.”

Balthus chuckles, grabbing the button of his pants. “Excited, huh? I get that a lot.”

“Or apprehensive. Haven't made up my mind yet.”

“...Yeah, I get that a lot too.” He pushes his pants and underwear down and puts his hands on his hips, thrusting his pelvis forward. “So?”

Lysithea chokes back a gasp. She might have no time for romance, but she's educated herself on human reproduction. After some of the ridiculous notions like “You can't get pregnant if you only do it standing up” she's heard from people actually engaging in the pastime, she'd been confident she was something of an expert.

That is not five to six inches. It's not even four to seven. The cock thrusting up from Balthus' groin is fatter than her wrist, comes up to his bellybutton. How could that possibly—

The captain gives a low whistle. “Damn. I don't know how much of that I can fit, but I'll sure have fun finding out.”

Thank goodness. It seems to be...nonstandard, at least.

“With equipment like this, I'm used to taking my time on prep.” Balthus rolls his shoulders. “Turn around and get on all fours, yeah?”

The captain complies, getting on her hands and knees atop the table. Her breasts hang heavy below her, swinging slightly with their own weight. It's somewhat mesmerizing.

Balthus kneels, bringing his head down to the level of her rear. He strokes his hands up her thighs, settles them on her ass and shoves his face between her legs.

This must be...cunnilingus. That makes sense, he must be trying to get her wetter first.

The captain laughs breathlessly. “Wow, you don't waste time moseying around. I like it.”

Balthus hums. Lysithea's not sure what he's doing in there, but the small rocking motions of his head certainly make it look enthusiastic.

She always imagined the act as simply licking the clitoris, but between the way his head is moving and the variety of sounds she can just barely hear, it seems like there's more to it. What would feel good?

...His face is really pressed in there. If he's licking, he must be laving her with his entire tongue, not just lapping with the tip. She imagines the feeling. That sounds...pleasant.

With a start, she realizes that her hand has crept under her raised knees to where her mound is exposed by the way she's sitting, and she's tracing a fingernail over the seam of her vulva through her tights.

The captain groans. “Suck harder. Yes, just like that.”

He must be...sucking her clitoris? Wow. That would be intense. She...really wants to know what that feels like, now.

Her own clit throbs. She wants more than just this teasing sensation from her fingernail. She gently sets her book down next to her, her hand creeping up under her skirts and along her stomach. Wait, is she really planning to...

The captain swears, pushing her pelvis back into Balthus' face.

Yes. Yes she is.

Lysithea gingerly squirms her hand under the waistband of her tights and into her panties. She slides one finger down between her lower lips and ghosts over her clit, holding her breath as she tries to avoid knocking her knee or elbow into something while maneuvering.

Balthus' prick is visible under the table, still unreasonably large. It's inordinately difficult to look away from, but eventually a moan draws her eyes to the captain's face, contorted in obvious pleasure.

Lysithea strokes carefully at her clit, keeping her motions restrained.

“Deeper,” the captain groans. He must be...sticking his tongue in her?

Lysithea slides a second finger down past the first one, feeling at her entrance with the pad. She lets the very tip dip inside her—not even to the base of the nail, just enough to suggest what it might be like to have Balthus'—someone's—tongue delving into her.

“Getting close,” the captain gasps, shoving her hips back. “Suck again.”

Soon she's groaning loudly. She kicks Balthus in the chest to shove him back, her thighs shaking.

“Off to a good start,” she says, panting. “But I hope your plan of attack has another stage before the assault.”

“You bet,” he says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and patting the edge of the table. “Why don't you sit your pussy down right there and we keep working on it.”

His voice sends a hot jolt through Lysithea, like she just got glanced by a lightning spell. Her stomach tightens with it, her clit pulses. From prior examples she'd had the impression that “dirty talk” sounded a bit ridiculous and was certainly not something she'd ever find arousing. She was apparently incorrect.

The captain sits, spreading her legs without a hint of self-consciousness like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Balthus lowers his hand between her legs, crooked flat with two fingers pointing out. Lysithea's view is blocked by the captain's thigh, but he must be—

Lysithea switches from stroking her clit with the pad of her index finger to the side of her thumb, so she can push her middle finger inside herself to the first joint. She wonders if Balthus is enjoying the slick, tight feel around his fingers, imagining what it'll feel like on his cock.

He's moving his arm, pumping his fingers into the captain's hole.

She pushes her own finger deeper, to the second knuckle, and then slides it back out and in again. Huh. She tries again, burying it to the base. She's never really focused on this act before. It feels interesting, but it's honestly doing more for her finger than her...pussy.

The captain's moaning, though. Balthus must be doing something more than she is.

Maybe it's the thickness? She tries dipping two fingers in this time. It feels like more of a stretch than she expected--she can feel her walls pressing on her fingertips from all sides, a slight strain like her body is expanding to admit them. Balthus' fingers must be so much larger than hers, how full would she feel if she were the one on that table?

She tentatively slides her fingers in and out a few times. There's some interesting pressure, but it still feels sexy in a more abstract sense than in terms of pleasant sensation.

Hook them more, dig them in harder,” the captain gasps.

Curve them? Okay, she can try that.

The captain comes again in the time it takes her to fumble around, but—oh! There, hooking them in that spot felt compelling.

She's never considered sex something she particularly cared about trying in her lifetime, but...what else has she been missing? What else could someone like Balthus or the captain teach her about what her body's capable of?

“Ready for another one?” Balthus asks.

Another one? She doesn't even feel like she's quite got a handle on these first two. But he's not talking to her, he's talking to the captain. The woman his fingers are inside, whose large breasts he's currently fondling with one hand. Who's clearly an expert on what her own body wants, unlike Lysithea.

If she hadn't hidden herself behind a book cart, would they really have offered to...let her join?

“Yeah, give it to me,” the captain pants. “You've got big hands,” she says, slightly strained.

“And a bigger dick, so lemme know if this isn't working for you. I'm fine with a thigh fuck or something if you're not feeling it.”

Thigh fuck? That's...not an act Lysithea's familiar with. She's heard of “tit fuck” (far too many former classmates would get together to “study” and end up holding furtive whispered conversations about Professors Byleth and Manuela), so the concept is probably similar. She tries to picture it—standing with her legs pressed together, a cock sliding between them. Balthus' cock would look even more obscene next to her body—the captain is tall, muscled, weathered, she can hold her own against it. Lysithea's body is infuriatingly frail, delicate, her only scars thin and surgical, her flesh translucent enough you can see the veins (they always liked that). Even with her heels, he'd have to lift her at least a foot off the ground to—well, she's not the one who'd be getting thigh fucked here, so it doesn't matter.

“I don't back down from a challenge,” the captain says, arching her chest.

Lysithea holds back a moan as she finds a particularly good angle inside herself. Her fingers are slippery down to the knuckle, her underwear are going to be a mess after this.

Slick has managed to collect in the grooves of her palm by the time Balthus gives a pleased noise. “From my end, feels like this pussy's about ready.”

The captain gives his dick another once-over. “Yeah, I think we're there,” she nods, fondling absently at her breasts. “Let's try this. You have something?”

“I might not look it, but I'm actually pretty great at white magic. I've got skins if you want 'em, though.” He looks back at where their shirts and belts are still lying on the floor near where they started. “...Somewhere over there.”

“I'll take the magic.” The captain sits back expectantly while Balthus casts a spell that Lysithea has absolutely read about. Finally, something here is going the way she expected!

Once the glow of the spell has sunk in, the captain leans back on her elbows, arching her hips until Balthus takes her pelvis in his hands.

“Just kick me if you want me to stop,” he says, taking her hips in his hands and lifting her pelvis off the table.

Lysithea can't really see his cock pressed between the captain's legs, just a flash of the base. She knows when he starts pressing in, though, because the captain grunts, swears under her breath. What...must that feel like?

Hesitantly, she tries pressing a third finger against her entrance. She has to strain for a moment, arrange them to a point before the tips squeeze in, so—maybe like that? She returns to the idea of what might have happened if she'd stayed in her seat. Imagines being on that table, the captain stroking her hair, murmuring encouragement in her ear, as Balthus presses between her legs.

It's probably silly to think she'd be able to manage Balthus' cock when she's struggling to take three of her own slender fingers. But...could she have been sitting at the table, watching it sink inside the captain? Would they be watching her finger herself, offering tips?

Fuck,” the captain sighs, arching her head back. “Normally guys need to aim to hit that spot, but you can just stick it in, huh?”

He chuckles, rolling his hips gently. “I mean, not to toot my own horn, but...”

She lifts herself slightly, trying to look between her legs. “All right. How'd I do?”

“About three quarters. You've got a pretty badass cunt.”

The captain snorts. “Let's see you move this thing. Don't make me regret my decision to give you the reins.”

“Hey, don't worry about me getting impatient. I'm usually still fingering at this point,” Balthus says, beginning to slowly roll his hips.

Lysithea hadn't realized it would be so...hypnotically rhythmic. She gives up on this awkward three-finger plan and goes back to two, trying to mimic the pace.

The captain's making approving noises, rocking into it. It must feel good, to have that huge thing plunging into her. How long would it take before Lysithea could take something like that? If she'd stayed, would she have someone else's fingers in her...her cunt right now? The captain's hands are probably bigger than hers, maybe she could have ramped up to two of the captain's fingers, and then the captain could have loosened her up enough for Balthus'.

Her clit's perking up in anticipation at each brush of incidental contact. She needs more than this. With painstaking slowness to avoid making noise, she slips her other hand into her tights so she can rub her clit while she slides her fingers into herself.

It must've been at least a half hour since they got here. Was that fast? How long has Balthus spent loosening someone up for his cock before? Would he be happy to spend hours at it, pushing his tongue into her, a single big finger playing with her entrance—her cunt until it relaxes enough to let in a second? Would he be willing to put in the time to slowly work her open until her body can accept at least the very tip of his cock?

Their bodies are coming together faster now, making the battered table creak. They're quieter than she'd been lead to believe—a periodic grunt, a heavy breath. Balthus' gaze is fixed on the captain's breasts, jiggling with his thrusts.

Right. Because they don't even know she's there.

How embarrassing of her to imagine Balthus would even be interested in getting inside a slip of a girl with no curves, inexperienced and barely into her twenties. He's not quiet about what he finds attractive—he clearly has a type, and it's busty older women who could punch a man's lights out. Looking at the captain flexing on his cock, she doesn't blame him.

“Fuck, just like that—grind it in...” The captain's shifted her weight onto one arm, the other between her legs. She groans, long and low, her body tensing...she's coming around that huge cock inside her—

Lysithea's clit throbs, and despite all her efforts to remain quiet, a sharp breath escapes her throat. The captain's still gasping and moaning, there's no way they heard her, but the moment of panic flares hot—what if they looked over, what if they found her here with her fingers shoved up her cunt...

She comes on her fingers, teeth sunk into her lip to hold back a moan. Even once the rush fades, her fingers inside herself still feels so...good. She doesn't want to pull them out, wants to leave them nestled up inside her where they make her cunt feel pleasantly full, where her fingertips can toy with the walls of her pussy. She'd never realized she was so...silky inside.

Balthus is panting, flushed. “Where do you want me to drop my load?”

He's presumably talking about his semen. There are...options? She thought it either went in a hole or into a rag. What would the alternatives be? Just...out in the open? It'd splash on her—maybe that's the point?

“Inside's fine, if they don't mind a stain on their last clean table,” the captain says. “Fuck, I think I could almost come again.” Her hand goes back between her legs.

Lysithea doesn't realize she's still absently moving her fingers to the rhythm of Balthus' hips until that rhythm starts to grow erratic, somehow thirstier. His breath catches, his eyes fall shut, and he stills, his hands huge on the captain's hips as he holds their bodies together.

The two fingers Lysithea has buried inside herself are so wet from just her wet would it feel if she had a whole...load inside her?

“Hang on, don't pull out—” the captain's voice is taut, her wrist moving frantically.

Four times?

The captain's body relaxes with a sigh, her wrist falling limp.


The fingers Lysithea was using on her clit are cool and sticky by the time they start putting themselves back together. For a moment she'd feared (hoped?) that they were going to stick around for another go.

The captain looks down at the spot on the table where they just fucked, where she just sat while putting her bra back on. “...Should we find something to clean that up?”

Balthus shrugs. “Eh. I'll come back and take care of it later.”

“Okay. It's your place.” The captain balls up the discarded underwear that she just used to wipe her crotch, pulls her pants up without them, and shoves them into her pocket.

“So? You have a good time?” Balthus asks, wandering over to their first table for his shirt.

The captain looks up from her boots. “You've made my top five list of impulse fucks. Well done.”

Balthus does a soft victory whoop, muscles shifting as he shrugs his shirt into place. “Feel free to look me up if you're ever in the mood again, yeah?”

“I just might take you up on that. Depending on how wrecked I'm feeling tomorrow morning.”

They head down the stairs, leaving Lysithea alone with her book. And her sticky hands.

More reluctantly than she'd like, she pulls her fingers out of herself, fumbling to tug out her handkerchief while smearing as little as possible onto her clothes. She really needs water to get clean, but this will do for now.

She tugs her tights back into place, picks up her book, and stands up as if it's perfectly normal to take a breather behind a shelving cart.

Now. She was here to read.

...Which is something you do at a table, so she may as well go take a look at that stain. So she knows where to avoid setting books.

It's bigger than she expected, translucent white against the patchy woodstain. It looks fairly different from her own vaginal secretions, so it must be mostly semen.

She sits down next to it and cracks open her book.

During the learning phase, it is advisable to visualize the exact origin and destination, along with their relative positions, but this can be unduly limiting in practice: even a common archer can hit something they can see. True teleportation magic requires only an origin, a vector to travel along, and the discipline to maintain that vector for the duration of the spell.

...She should really try out that spell that Balthus cast, the one for sexual protection. It would be a disaster to find herself in need of it and be casting it for the first time.

Focusing on both her past research and her memory of Balthus demonstrating (arm flexing with the motions, cock hard against his belly), she tries to cast. The air around her lights up, fades into her skin with the same soft glow. She smiles, pleased at her success.

Now, to read.

Lacking a complete spatial map of the destination is no obstacle, though successful teleportation along a vector that terminates in a solid object will produce extremely suboptimal results for the traveler. A wise (and long-lived) teleporter is a student not only of magic, but of architecture, geography and human behavior.

...Speaking of human behavior, it's appalling that they just left this stain on the table for the next person to come into the library. She doesn't believe for a minute that Balthus will actually be back to clean it up today.

How hard is it to clean up semen, anyway? The feeling of the protection spell still settled under her skin emboldens her, makes her brazen enough to reach out with the tip of one finger and lightly touch the puddle. It feels cooler than she thought it would. Of course it's cooling off rapidly, it's a thin puddle of liquid.

The texture when she rubs her fingers together is strange, not as slippery as she thought it would be. Almost squeaky. Huh.

She rubs her fingers until they feel dry, brushes off the residue. Her finger dips back into the puddle without her making a conscious decision to do so.

...That's a bit too much to just rub dry. Whoops. There's the handkerchief wadded up in her pocket, but... she's kind of curious...

Before she's fully thought about it, she's parted her lips and stuck her finger in her mouth, licking the pad clean. A hit of salt with a strange bitter backbone punches her in the tongue, makes her wrinkle her nose and jerk her hand away from her face.

What is she doing? At least she cast that spell first before ingesting strange bodily fluids.

Book. Right. Maybe she should sit somewhere That's probably the issue.

After moving to the opposite corner of the library, she gets about fifteen pages into the chapter on how to transition from the use of mental images to vectors before realizing she doesn't remember a thing she's just read. This isn't working.

It's getting late anyway. She shelves the book with a sigh and slinks off to the surface and the baths, where she washes the dried slick off her inner thighs and resolutely doesn't think about how it got there (mostly).

She manages to keep her mind focused on sensible things—her training regimen, her parents' territory, that research Professor Hanneman mentioned—until she's sliding beneath her sheets in a fresh nightgown, determined to wake up to a more productive day.

The image of Balthus materializes in her mind, sitting on the edge of her bed, grinning down at her.

Let's get to work on that pussy, little lady.

Damn it.

Her hand slips under her skirts again.