"Hey." A soothing voice whispered quietly in Jace's ear. A light slap on his cheek followed, tentative, as if afraid to hurt him.
Since when have paramedics been this nice?
Cracking one eye open, Jace tried to observe the situation.
Unfortunately, he had survived; that much was obvious. Since it was already like that, hopefully he hadn't lost a limb or gotten some ugly-ass scar. That would suck.
His eyelids felt heavy, and his eyes burned as if he had cried for hours. Well, that checked out—he had probably spent some time in the burning rubble before someone managed to get him out.
That hand returned to his cheek, the touch careful, but Jace flinched either way. It was not his first rodeo; paramedics did not touch you like that.
"Hey, I'm sorry, I won't hurt you," the voice assured, velvety and pouring down like a rich, tangy wine.
Um.
The fuck was that metaphor just now?
Anyway. Jace steeled his resolve and pried his eyes open.
Above him, right over his head, literally caging him between his hands and looming over him, was a man. A very handsome, muscular, straight-out-of-fantasy-anime-porn type of man. A perfect blend of a square jaw, blue eyes (cliché much?), raven-black hair, sharp cheekbones, bushy eyebrows…
"AAAARGH!" Jace punched the man in that pretty face. The man fell from the bed with a loud thud and a groan.
Not that Jace could spare him a care.
What the hell!?
Scrambling up the bed, Jace tried to control his breathing. Thoughts raced through his head, one crazier than the other.
He was not in a hospital. He was not dead. But what if he was? The room around him looked like some medieval LARPing quarters—all wood and candles and even fucking furs on the floor.
"Ouch. But maybe I deserved that," the man said, still plastered on the floor and nursing his cheek.
Carefully, Jace glanced down at him. As he shifted, the pain spiked all the way through his spine. Something wet and sticky was between his ass cheeks, as if he'd forgotten to clean up lube after a…
Oh no.
Eyes wide, Jace slowly turned his gaze down to his own body. Aside from the sheets covering his crotch, he was stark naked. Bruised. Bitten. Everywhere. Abs, nipples, pecs—not a single area left unmarked. The way webtoon artists drew their omegas after those were totally wrecked by alphas in ruts. No human being ever had sex like that. Probably. Could someone realistically leave that many marks on a body?
Thoughts loosening, as well as his screws, Jace peeked under the covers. Oh. His cock was actually pretty large; it wasn't like that before. He also didn't have white pubic hair. Haha. How could anyone leave that many marks on the thighs as well? And, ew, so sticky—did someone throw a bucket of cum down there?
"Um, yeah, I got a bit carried away," the man admitted, his gaze also glued to the mess between Jace's legs. Rubbing his nape, long dark hair spilling over his broad—unmarked, mind you—chest, he smiled bashfully.
Suddenly feeling violated beyond reasonable measure, Jace covered himself up and glared.
"Carried away!? I look like I was gang-banged by twenty dudes!" Jace hollered, though his throat was so sore it came out as a raspy, broken recording.
The man frowned.
"Gang-banged?" he questioned, honestly having the gall to sound confused.
Clearing his throat, Jace was about to go into another yelling fit, but one last dying brain cell stopped him.
He looked around once more.
The furs. The candles. The wooden furniture. A parchment on the table and an ink and quill by it. The smell of cum, yes, but also of some flowery oils, leather, and something Jace could not recognize. The sheets covering him—coarse and made of natural fabric, something he was never able to afford.
And in the center of it all—that person. The man with long dark hair and the physique of a heavyweight boxing champion, but somehow still with defined muscles. Like, really, those were some wonderful pecs, very thought-provoking. Staring at those huge, manly tits, Jace bit his lip to stop a dumb, lopsided smile from spreading over his face.
There was one slim chance that it had really happened. Absolutely mental idea, but the linen between his fingers felt as real as the phone he had in his hands before waking up here.
And… well…
"Remind me your name?" Jace suddenly asked. He was so giddy he might self-combust again.
The man arched an eyebrow. He chuckled. "You don't remember?"
Jace rolled his eyes and retorted, "You fucked me silly, oh mighty stallion. Now tell me your name."
It was urgent, of paramount importance.
Shoulders shaking in silent laughter, the man got up from the floor and returned to the bedside. One hand on the wall for support, he leaned in and narrowed his eyes. His long hair tickled Jace's naked shoulder. It felt real.
"It's Liut, love," he murmured.
So close, Jace suddenly felt very, very small under that cold, blue gaze. And also, he felt blood rushing down to his groin.
He had two options now:
1. Consider it all a dream and do whatever; he probably died anyway.
2. Consider it all real, some transmigration type of thing, and plot his survival in the new world based on all the tropes he knew.
The wonderful, beautiful thing about both options was that neither of them prevented him from spreading his legs and grinning like a maniac.
Finally! Sex! With a real cock! Or as real as it could be! Whatever!
If he somehow transmigrated into a nameless character that existed for the duration of one smut chapter, he had literally no stakes in the story. No villain to fight, no protagonist thighs to cling to (though those were some good thighs), no plots to avoid. He could, simply and earnestly, just fuck around and find out.
"Liut," Jace echoed, licking his lips. "Say, Liut, do you have some more in you? I feel—" Jace raised his head, closing the distance so only a narrow space remained between their lips—"restless."
God bless smut chapters with no plot.
Snorting, Liut grabbed Jace's chin and shoved his tongue into his mouth with little to no prelude.