Blorbo

A breath hot enough to set her on fire washed over Ilia's neck, a shaky gasp escaping her parted lips as she instinctively tilted her head to expose more of her sensitive skin to the sensation. Calloused fingers ran along the length of her torso and she arched her back to lean into the touch even as she struggled to whisper out a desperate plea for her companion to stop. They shouldn't be doing this, not here, not right now, but her resistance was wholly futile in the face of the flame that had been set alight in her loins. She couldn't resist. Not when it felt so intoxicating.

Again, Ilia gasped, as light fingers turned into large, confident hands grabbing at her soft, malleable flesh all over, groping her greedily. There should only be two of them, she tried to tell herself, yet it felt like they were somehow everywhere on her body at the same time; her back, along the curve of her spine, across her abdomen, around her calves, upon her chest, between her thighs… there was no limit to the sensations assaulting her.

Writhing hopelessly, her back hit something broad and sturdy and firm, and Ilia melted against it, pushing her body backwards as if she could meld into whatever was behind her even as another something, this one hard and hot, prodded at her rear. Her thighs rubbed together needily and she reached out desperately with her hands for something to hold onto while her body was caressed and groped. She felt so impossibly small right then and there, encircled on all sides either by thick trunks of muscle that ended in large, questing palms or tall slabs of hot flesh. Hair brushed against her fingers and she didn't even think, she simply grabbed it, the heat in her abdomen thrumming with excitement.

In that moment, utterly helpless and far beyond being able to stop anything from happening, Ilia felt more safe and secure than she could ever remember. She had surrendered herself freely and entirely to the touch was now reaping the rewards.

Her head tilted upwards, eyes searching for something, anything, to identify her captorand that was when she caught it; the brief flash of gold before her breath was stolen from her lungs. Two sapphires brimming with lust glowed from within the depths of her hazy surroundings and Ilia could only stare back at them as a surge of pleasure erupted from every nerve in her body, her muscles constructing, toes curling, and a wanton howl rushing out from her lungs...

…

…

…

Ilia awoke with a start, sitting up in her cot with enough force that her forehead immediately collided with the bottom of the bed stacked on top of her own with a loud clang and yelp. Pain swiftly erupted and her thoughts were wiped clean as she fell back down onto her mattress, clutching at her head and barely able to register the unhappy grumble following her from directly above as she hissed from the ache spreading from her no doubt bruised forehead.

"Sorry!" she whispered reflexively into the darkness while tenderly rubbed at the spot on her face that hurt the most, idly wondering what had startled her awake so badly. A mere second later, the memory of her dream came rushing back into the forefront of Ilia's thoughts and a deep flush spread all across her dusky skin as her eyes almost bulged out of her head, hands covering her mouth to contain her shocked gasp.

'There's no way that just happened…?' she wondered to herself in sheer disbelief.

For a dreadfully short moment she wanted to dismiss the very notion of the event entirely, or blame it on the freshly acquired head trauma she'd suffered, and yet in spite of all of her doubts, Ilia could feel the sweat clinging to her skin and when she shifted her legs slightly, she realized quickly that there was a rather distinct mess between her thighs that only made her blush that much darker.

Never ever, not once, in all of her years on Remnant had Ilia had a dream like that. Until this very second, it had seemed utterly unthinkable even; that kind of stuff only happened in stories or to dumb teenage boys with bodies brimming with hormones. And yet here she was, neither a boy nor a character in some fictional tale, a victim of the dreaded wet dream.

To make things even worse, Ilia was dismayed to realize that a very small part of her was actually disappointed that her fantasy hadn't gone on for longer. A little bit more and she would surely not have woken up feeling so hot and bothered all over, body thrumming with pent up something. Who knows, she might even have fini-

Ilia shut that line of thought right the hell up by shoving her face into her hands while doing her best to ignore the shiver dancing down her spine. She wanted to scream from the sheer, mortified embarrassment that covered her like a lead blanket, but she didn't dare disturbing her bunk mate further, or any of the other Fang members in the neighboring rooms.

Instead, Ilia quietly got out of her bed and hurried off to the closest bathroom with a fresh set of clothes where she slipped out of her now rather uncomfortable sleeping garments and made every attempt to not look at either the clothes or herself while changing into the fresh set. Her shorts were positively sodden and she utterly despised that she couldn't ignore it, thoughts sneaking back to the dream and the absolute state that it had put her in. To her eternal relief, Ilia found that her sheets had survived better than her shorts—merely stained rather that ruined —and there was nothing to clean on the mattress beneath them, allowing her to crawl back into bed after replacing the sheets and disposing of her old sleepwear in three layers of garbage bags that she shoved into the most remote and deserted trash can she could find in the hideout.

Right as she was about to settle into her cot again, Ilia realized that she'd thrown her scroll onto it sometime during the commotion and something compelled to flick it on briefly. The screen that met her sleepy eyes was the contact page of a certain blond Beacon student, whom she'd exchanged information with not long ago. Seeing that awakened another memory in her brain, yet this one was from before she'd fallen asleep the night before. She remembered laying in her cot, staring down at her scroll for a good half an hour, fingers hovering over the keys as she struggled internally whether or not to send the message she'd written out, ultimately deciding to delete it all. Even so, she still recalled what she'd wrote, and her eyes lingered on the picture that accompanied the contact page as she placed her scroll onto the floor next to her bed and laid her head down on her pillow, staring blankly up at the dark underside of the bunk above her.

Something that wasn't quite fear, not quite discomfort kept Ilia awake for the next two hours despite her best attempt to fall back asleep. Jitters kept crawling along her body, making her shift and stir as eyes the color of the richest, deepest oceans haunted her whenever she tried to will herself to rest. There was an insistent tingle as well that simply wouldn't go away. A tingle located right in the junction of her thighs.

...

The next morning, a refreshed and well rested Striga couldn't help but raise an eyebrow as she watched one Ilia Amitola make a rather unsubtle show of actively avoiding any and all eye contact with pretty much every Fang member that she walked past on her way to the mess hall for breakfast, especially the girl that she could have sworn was the chameleon Faunus' bunk mate.

Not for the first time, Striga felt very happy that she wasn't paid to care about that kind of stuff.

XXX

The soft beeping and feeling of his scroll vibrating in his pocket came as something of a blessing for Jaune, seeing as it gave him a reason to pull his attentions away from wearily watching his dear teammate and partner. It was… unnerving, the way Pyrrha inspected the store display before her, perusing a selection of what looked to be leashes, leads, and harnesses one might use to keep track of a small, unruly child, her eyes glancing over in his direction every few moments in a way that made Jaune feel an uncanny sense of danger. Recently, she had made the executive decision to not allow him to go into Vale unaccompanied anymore, citing his 'deeply troubling ability to get hurt whenever left alone' as the reason, and not wishing to upset her, Jaune had agreed to her 'terms'. Not that he had much choice in the matter to begin with.

This sudden interest of hers, however, had… ominous implications, to say the least. Disturbing, even. Yang already made enough jokes about Pyrrha being his mother as it were. There was no reason to give her more ammunition...

As such, instead of pondering what uses Pyrrha might have for that kind of equipment, Jaune instantly pulled up his scroll to read the new message that had appeared on it. To his delight, he found that the message was from Ilia, a welcome surprise since it was usually he who initiated their near daily chatting sessions they'd been having ever since running into one another on that rainy, fateful afternoon not long ago.

Yet the message that awaited him on his screen wasn't what Jaune expected.

Ilia Amitola: "Do you ever have doubts about what you're doing with your life?"

That… was a far heavier question than either of them had really asked until now. Way more serious than their debates about comics and other such things.

Leaning back against a nearby wall, Jaune let his gaze wander to the sky as he pondered the question. The simplest answer to it was rather emphatic 'yes', but that wasn't something he liked to admit. Not even to himself. He'd been absolutely certain that becoming a Hunter in spite of everything was the only path for him for about twenty seconds, give or take. Things quickly changed as soon as he started making actual efforts to achieving said dream, however, and he struggled to remember a day in the past year or so when he hadn't had doubts of some kind.

Though, again, he didn't like to admit it.

Jaune Arc: "Yeah. Sometimes. Why do you ask?"

Now that he thought about it, one of the moments that stood out for him, where he felt certain again, had been when he first met Ilia. There hadn't been a bone in his body that didn't want to help her.

His scroll chimed once more.

Ilia Amitola: "I don't know."
Ilia Amitola: "What do you do when you feel like that?"

Ilia Amitola: "How do you stop?"

Despite himself, Jaune chuckled a little at that. If he knew the cure to insecurity and anxiety, he probably wouldn't be here. He'd be laying on a beach in Mistral, richer than all of Atlas combined, never worrying about anything.

Jaune Arc: "Believe me I wish I could give you a solution."

Jaune Arc: "I usually just try to convince myself that what I'm doing is important."

Jaune Arc: "Or that it's not worth thinking about."

Jaune Arc: "Doesn't always work out great but it's all I can do really."

Jaune Arc: "Sorry if it's not much help."

Ilia Amitola: "It's something honestly and that's more than what I have."

Ilia Amitola: "I feel lost sometimes these days."

Ilia Amitola: "There's just a lot going on in my life right now."

Ilia Amitola: "Big things are happening."

Ilia Amitola: "A lot of people are asking me to do a lot of things and I don't know if I can keep up."

Ilia Amitola: "And I just wonder if I'm doing things the right way."

Ilia Amitola: "For the right reasons."

Jaune frowned as he read the message. He'd long since come to accept that Ilia was a rather private person when it came to her 'organization', as she exclusively referred to it as. He only had the briefest of ideas as to what it involved, his attempts to learn more about the topic having been mostly diverted or cryptically answered. If anything, that had only made him more curious though.

At the same time, Jaune couldn't help but recognize the irony of him of all people being confided in regarding doing things the right way.

Jaune Arc: "I think I know what you mean."

Jaune Arc: "Kinda."
Jaune Arc: "I've done some stuff I'm not too proud of in the past. As long as I keep going though I can tell myself it was for the greater good."
Jaune Arc: "I can atone for it."

There was no immediate reply from Ilia after that. The niggling worry that he'd said too much tried to worm itself into Jaune's mind, but he wouldn't let it. Not now. In his gut, he felt that Ilia had already figured him out—that he wasn't truly 'Beacon-tier' material—even if she'd never mentioned anything about it. After all, she'd seen him fight more up close and personal than anyone else aside from Pyrrha, and from what he'd picked up from their conversations so far, she had a pretty good grasp on fighting herself. Maybe even more than him. He wasn't ready to come out and spill his whole guts though.

Ilia Amitola: "I really don't like the phrase 'greater good' anymore. I've heard too many bad people say it.
Ilia Amitola: "Heard it be used to justify too many things."
Ilia Amitola: "From you though."
Ilia Amitola: "It's different."

Ilia Amitola: "You're different."

Ilia Amitola: "I believe it when it's coming from you."

Something light blossomed in Jaune's chest upon reading Ilia's words, his eyes lingering on the little picture of her next to the speech bubble on his scroll's screen. Having someone believe in him, in his conviction, someone that wasn't Pyrrha, meant more to him than his thumbs could describe using the limitations of language.

'You're different too,' he almost typed out, but thought better of it. It sounded dumb, coming from him. Instead, he settled with sending a picture of himself, smiling brightly and giving a thumbs up.

In reply, however, Jaune got something rather unexpected. A picture. Of Ilia. In what looked like a clothing store changing room.

Ilia Amitola: "NO"

Ilia Amitola: "DONT MEAN TO SEND THAT"

Ilia Amitola: "WRONG PICTURE"

Ilia Amitola: "HOW DELTE SENT PICTURE"

For a few long moments, Jaune Arc got a good long look at what had to be one of the prettiest sights he'd ever laid eyes on: His friend, Ilia Amitola, wearing a soft, airy, light gray sweater that drooped down lopsidedly to reveal one of her tanned, freckle covered shoulders, her hair let down from the ponytail he'd usually seen her with. When his eyes fell lower, it became a real struggle for him to keep his jaw from falling open slightly in amazement when he took in the view of Ilia's long, lean, supple legs, their dusky flesh rising up and up until eventually disappearing beneath the hem of a skirt just a few shades darker than that of her sweater.

It wasn't the first picture of herself that Ilia had sent him, but Jaune could say with absolute certainty that he'd never seen her in something that so wonderfully complemented her figure. It was a wholly different outfit from the regular 'uniform' she always seemed to wear at all other times.

Unfortunately, the moment didn't last forever, nor did Jaune have the foresight to save the image, and so it disappeared into nothingness before his very eyes as Ilia finally figured out how to remove it from their chat history. It would live on, however, in Jaune's memory, that much he vowed, for it had been far too beautiful a sight to go silently into the night.

Ilia Amitola: "I'm gonna go die now thank you for everything goodbye"

Jaune Arc: "That was a really pretty outfit. You looked great."

Ilia Amitola: "no"

Ilia Amitola: "Shut up"

Ilia Amitola: "You saw nothing."

Ilia Amitola: "Let me die in peace."

AN: So. This was a thing. Original idea for this chapter was a few short scenes of fluff and the like. There supposed to be at least two more scenes aside from what's here. However, I can't finish them. My heart just isn't in it. In fact, my heart just isn't in this story in general. Not anymore. I'll go ahead and announce right away that I'm putting this whole "idea" on indefinite hiatus. If you're not interested in my reasons or just don't want to read a listless Swede's rantings about motivation, I hope you've enjoyed this story, short as it is, and I'm sorry things have to be this way.

To start things off, yes, I realize the irony in me, Mr slow, putting something on hiatus. "What's the difference between hiatus and your normal posting schedule haha!" I've had those same thoughts myself as I tried to scrape something resembling a chapter together for you all. That said, why am I doing this? Boredom. Basically. This whole story, when it started, was written on the premise of "What if lesbian character got ladyboner for dude?" and honestly the first chapter was more or less all I ever planned out. This was never supposed to be something deep, something big. I just found the idea funny and was also looking to possibly piss some annoying people off. Didn't work, unfortunately. Never got any hate messages. Sadge.

For the past six months or so, whenever I've looked at this story, all I've been able to think about is how I struggle coming up with scenes that serve a purpose. It's why this many short ideas thing failed; I had a brief flash of inspiration from reading or watching something else, I tried writing something, and then I just asked myself what the point of the scene was? How do I develop the concept into something? I just wasn't satisfied with the scene just existing without any connections to the overarching story. I couldn't find an answer, and so I edited and edited and edited because I was making no progress. Then I looked at the bigger picture and started feeling the same. What am I writing towards? I didn't know then and I still don't know now.

I've attempted longer stories in past, as you might know. The difference back then was that I was writing with someone else, which helped a lot in terms of both the workload and the planning, and even those stories are collecting dust to this day because it all just became too much. Trying to do it on my own was always going to fail, especially when the initial idea was so shallow. This isn't something I'm bitter about, for anyone wondering, it's just something to accept about myself as a writer. I'm not ready for big projects. I stress myself out too much and even though I am a slow writer and I joke a little about it sometimes, I still feel anxious and like I'm letting people down when I go too long between posting. Those two together create long periods of my life where I just feel bad and I just can't live like that. I don't doubt that by doing this, creating this cycle of little progress and increasingly piled up guilt, I've managed to kill some of my passion for writing as a whole, much to my dismay. But it's also been a learning experience.

So there you have it. This is where we're at. Just writing all this down has been really cathartic honestly and I'm glad I can finally explain myself somewhat. I've got other projects in the works, I'm not stepping away from writing in general, and since I do feel a fair bit more passion towards said projects than I did this story as of late, hopefully I'll be back posting before the end of the year.

For all it's worth, I hope you all enjoyed this mini chapter. Cheers.