BDSMber

              Her hand flowed like water as she signed her name, her beating steadily in her chest. As far as Unni was concerned she was making the right decision, nothing was telling her no. Unni couldn’t help herself and looked up at Sam across the table, his head was bent, pen hovering over where to sign. It had been a strange request when she asked of it but not so much since she didn’t want to die. Though this way she figured she’d survive, they’d get their answers and Sam and she have some fun.

              He must have heard her thinking or something because he looked up her. A part of Unni thought she should have picked Dean, he would have jumped at it and they’d probably be damn near done but Sam…Sam was different. Immortals live lifetimes and rarely see something quite as unique as him. “I signed my consent Sam,” She pushed the paper towards him, “Are you sure?”

Day 1: Bound (shibari)

Day 2: Blood (blood play)

Crona/Ragnarok from Soul Eater for @reaperninja

I hope you like it you filthy fuck. Click title for song.

Flesh (698 words)

Miss Medusa brings them home in silence. It’s worse than if she had yelled the whole time. She opens the door to The Room and continues to say nothing, standing silent as she waits for them to go inside. They didn’t do a good enough job. They didn’t collect enough souls in Croatia and she knows they know it.

Crona’s whole body shivers as they walk inside. They face the wall as she closes the door behind them. She knows they know the drill: when they’re ready to do it right this time, they can come back out. The strip of light against the wall doesn’t slowly disappear until there’s only a sliver left and then vanish. The door slams and Crona is plunged into absolute darkness.

They sigh.

Ragnarok appears out of their back and takes them by the face. “Good going!” he says. “We were out! We could have eaten as many souls as we wanted!”

“Please,” Crona says through lips pursed by the force of Ragnarok’s fingers. “I don’t know what to do when you squeeze my face like this.”

Ragnarok lets go only to bring his fist down on top of Crona’s head. “And this?”

“Ragnarok!” Crona yells, throwing their skinny arms up to protect their head. “Stop it, that hurts.”

“How about this?” Ragnarok says, hooking two of his fingers in Crona’s mouth. “Since I didn’t get my fill of souls out there, I can eat you instead.”

Crona’s head follows Ragnarok’s fingers until they’re looking up into where they know, instinctively, somewhere untouchable inside of them, Ragnarok’s face to be. “I don’t know what you mea–” Crona cuts themself off as they feel the black blood over the wounds they sustained in Croatia–the wounds that forced Miss Medusa to pull them out of the country early–liquefy again. The blood hardens, pulls their arms behind them, resolidifies. Their arms are secure, range of motion minimized, as if they could push out from Ragnarok in the first place. Ragnarok is their blood. How are they supposed to get away from the man that’s, quite literally, always inside of them?

Ragnarok’s breath is hot, wet, on their skin. The brush of his lips against the shell of their ear sends them into a fresh bout of shivers. Ragnarok’s voice is low, dangerous, when he says, “Do you remember now, Crona? What I mean when I say I’m going to eat you?” and it’s like tires on gravel. It’s like the crunch of glass under the flesh of a heel. It’s fear in its rawest form, pure energy, the same way being bowled over unexpectedly sets nerves alight with adrenaline.

It’s like resonating souls, vibrating with the pulse of Ragnarok’s eternal, exquisite agony.

Crona’s eyes unfocus, sightless in a way that has nothing to do with the expansive darkness of The Room. Ragnarok pulls their legs apart with his tentacles. He uses his fist to take Crona’s skirt and rip it where their hip turns into thigh and whip it blindly behind them. They whimper. He forces them down onto their knees, and attaches the tentacles around their ankles back to their wrists. Their back curves until Crona’s head is pillowed in the crook of Ragnarok’s neck.  His fingers in their mouth cause Crona to start to drool.

“Yes,” they whisper. “Yes, I remember.” Ragnarok pulls Crona’s head to one side and flicks his tongue over Crona’s jaw. Their eyelashes flutter. “Are you ready to be devoured?” Ragnarok asks. Crona feels Ragnarok stretch. They’re bound, blood and vessel. Connected, Crona’s shoulder blades to Ragnarok’s waist, his navel the anchoring point. Crona can feel everything Ragnarok even thinks about doing. Ragnarok’s abs go on and on until Crona feels Ragnarok’s pelvis at their backside, the warm head of his slick, enormous cock pressing against their pussy, crude but effective. A tentacle wraps around Crona’s little cock and gives a teasing squeeze. Of course Crona loses their breath.

They fist their hands. It’s ineffectual, but it’s all they can do. Light, airy, Crona begs, “Please, Ragnarok.”

Aesthetics were critical to Skwisgaar Skwigelf. Yard after yard of embossed burgundy silk slipped between his elegant fingers as he completed his work. The pattern was intricate, far more detailed than anything they’d attempted in their trial runs. Sexier in spades, too. He wasn’t sure how he was going to make it through the scene.

Welcome to BDSMber. Every day for the month of November, you have been challenged to draw, write, or otherwise create one work of art that celebrates the world of kink. This is not whump, this is not porn, this is not smut… necessarily. It’s what you and your twisted kinky minds make of it.

Adhere to the theme of each day, but feel free to interpret how you see fit.

Welcome to BDSMber. Every day for the month of November, you have been challenged to draw, write, or otherwise create one work of art that celebrates the world of kink. This is not whump, this is not porn, this is not smut… necessarily. It’s what you and your twisted kinky minds make of it.

Adhere to the theme of each day, but feel free to interpret how you see fit.