Do Not Burn

MDNI

slightlyolder!nanami x blackfem!reader

WC: 6.2k

CW: mildly(?) crazy(??) about you, possibly ooc, talking you through it (I think), minimal foreplay, very long buildup, mild bondage, thesis mentioned, author probably loses the plot a little (?), author stopped proof-reading after 5k

--

Your summer had just started, and it had been doing a number on you. Between summer classes, your minimum wage retail job, senior thesis drafting, and the search for a second job, you were on the verge of losing your mind. What was supposed to be your hot girl summer had become another, busier semester. It had become unfortunately evident to you that you did not have time for the budding romance of your summer fling. While he respected your discipline, he couldn't quite wrap his head around why your texts had grown shorter and less frequent. It only seemed reasonable to track you down to the so-called boutique where you worked--and met him--and get a straight-forward answer.

"I'm so sorry, Nanami. I've just been really busy with classes, y'know." You spoke with your back to him, flipping through dresses for bare hangers, plucking them down once revealed. "And I've taken up extra hours until I can find a second job."

He stood behind you, posture straight as a pin, positioned in a manner to block off the rest of the aisle. He scanned you from the rear. Your hair was wrangled into something manageable, with trace baby hairs wisping out from the base of your neck, barely touching the crooked collar of your uniform top. A plain black polo shirt tucked into a khaki skirt that ended just below your knees. You remarked once that it was ironically unfashionable, but Nanami maintained you wore it well. His eyes flitted to the hem of your skirt, catching, very briefly, a glimpse of the skin of your thigh before returning to your collar, considering adjusting it.

"If you are so busy with classes, is it really wise to pick up a second job? You are hardly surviving with this one, if previous conversation is anything to go on." The corner of his eyebrow twitched ever-so slightly, wanting to quirk up into a question. His voice was even, always measured.

Softly scoffing, you rolled your eyes a little. "Oh please. I have loans, I need a car. We can't all be busy-money-business men."

"I have offered to drive you to work."

"It's not just about getting to work. It's about the freedom of it. Besides, you won't always be free to drive me."

"I'm available now."

You set a hanger down in the cart beside you, turning around and tilting your head to look him in his light eyes. He stood a whole head above you, his body firm and his arms sat crossed against his chest. His face was straight, mostly expressionless, save for his eyebrows, sitting raised a touch higher than neutral, raised in polite anticipation.

Your hand glided along his forearm and settled on his elbow, patting it firmly twice. "I'm working right now, silly."

"Actually, I was hoping to speak to you about that, as well."

"Oh?"

He had a week of PTO saved up and, for some reason, he wanted to spend it with you. You had argued that you had only really known each other for a few weeks and you were still scheduled to work basically every day for the next two, but he wouldn't hear it. He insisted.

"I understand that it is early in our relationship to go away together, but you have given yourself no time to rest and, from what I've learned about you, you cannot be trusted to actually rest on your time off."

"So, what, it's-- you're going to make me rest? And, with what time off?"

You didn't understand how, but he had convinced your manager to give you a week off... prior to seeing you. Despite your deep curiosity as to how he managed to swing that and concern that he went over your head, something in the back of your mind told you that you didn't care--you really did need a break.

"And what about my classes?"

"I'm sure you will figure something out. Please, you need this." Sometime during your conversation, he had taken your hand into his, holding it firmly, just as he did eye contact. You didn't know what it was, but he held a sort of power over you already. He always spoke to you with a gentle respect, contrasted beautifully by the gruff, tiredness of his speaking voice. It was no surprise to you--nor to him--when you caved, your disciplined side waning from exhaustion.

.

.

.

You had no major expectations when you agreed to spending the week with your "reasonably older guy friend" (as you described him to your parents). Nanami was far more chivalrous and patient than you were used to after only dating people your age. A part of you reasoned that this was an appropriate pacing for a summer fling... not that you would know from experience. It wasn't until you set your bags down in his living room that it occurred to you were going to be staying with him.

The room was pristine. The whole apartment was pristine. You had been there once before: he did not want to leave you in his car when he went up to change his suit, stating that it did not complement your outfit how he anticipated. It was clean then too. Now, somehow, it seemed to glitter, sunlight spilling in from oriel windows and reflecting from any surface it can. From the atrium, you could only see his living room, furnished with a dark loveseat facing a dark wooden entertainment centre and a glass coffee table. Nanami had claimed it was modest, but it was larger than the average apartment and you were reminded just how much your lives differed.

"I don't mean to suggest anything in bringing you to my apartment. There were some complications regarding the hotel reservation. I will have something figured out." Settled into the loveseat, fingers flying about the keyboard of your laptop as you wrote a discussion post was how Nanami found you. He peered over your shoulder, squinting imperceptibly with a sort of disappointment. "I thought you were going to request an extension."

"Won't need to if I can finish this tonight." You didn’t look away from the screen, cursor darting between tabs, hunting down sources to cite. "I can always go back home or sleep on the couch. Don't want you to fret about a hotel, y'know."

Teacups gently clicked onto the coffee table. You heard a soft sort of snort, he huffed through his nose indignantly. "That was, quite literally, the whole point. This week..." A warm, tropical scent wafted past as he walked to the other end of the seat, kneeling down and reaching his worn hand up to close the lid of your laptop, trapping your fingers for a split second before you withdrew them. "... I would like to fret over you."

The couch cushions sank some from him leveraging his weight to stand up from the floor and sank deeper upon him sitting down, seeming to pull you down and into him. He slipped the laptop from your lap, setting it down behind the steaming cups of tea. He looked at you, something serious written on his face. You were not going to change his mind.

In the time that you knew him, he was nothing but polite, measured, and certain. And he did not waver from that trend in how he approached the matter of taking care of you. "Please..." Your feet soon missed the feel of the carpeted floor, your ankles having been scooped up in the hold of one large hand and placed across his lap. You adjusted yourself to press your back against the arm of the loveseat, a touch sceptical.

"Nanami..."

"Please, let me take care of you." His eyes hadn't left yours, even when he gingerly peeled off your fluffy, "staying-in" socks, even when he pressed and rolled his thumbs into the soles of your feet, massaging away the tension of hours of standing labour. The light callouses of his finger pads brushed your soles and pulled out a giggle you couldn't stifle. You're ticklish. You tried to tell him, but he seemed so intent on doing this for you that the idea of stopping him made you feel a little bad. Your leg jerked, involuntarily kicking his hand away. He halted immediately.

"I can stop."

"Oh no no, it's just, uh, I'm ticklish there. It felt really nice though! Maybe you can massage something else? A back massage would be nice, if that's not a big ask."

You could have sworn his eyes widened before he nodded curtly. "Of course it's not. Follow me, please."

He guided your feet back to the carpet and gathered your socks as he stood, careful not to leave a "mess" on the floor, opting to, instead, stuff them into his right pocket for the time being. In standing up yourself, you did not notice him slipping his free hand into his other pocket, adjusting himself as subtly as possible, the tips of his ears dusting a very light pink. He stepped around the coffee table, ignoring the tea he put out for the two of you, to lead you away to his bedroom, his right hand now out behind him, awaiting yours.

His bedroom was everything you expected. It was simple, not in a plain sense, but in the refined, minimalist fashion. Everything was either black or white, even the natural light seemed a soft white in his room, save for a single potted plant on his dresser, looking to glow in a stray stream of sunlight. The focal point of the entire room. Your favourite flower. You felt his eyes follow yours as they stared, studying his bedroom for the brief moment he slipped away to fetch towels and oils. "I thought my room could use some colour."

"I inspired you, huh?" You turned to face him, pulling your knee onto the bed to steady yourself, your right foot dangling off the edge of the bed. He nodded, setting a bottle of oil down on his nightstand and draping a pair of large towels across the bed, adjusting them clinically. His sleeves were rolled up shy of his elbows, blond hairs catching slivers of sunlight, and his wrist sported a pale tan-line, announcing the absence of his watch.

"Yes. You also said I needed a hobby."

"I didn't think you had a green thumb."

He shot you a glance, a light of humour behind his serious eyes. "Why's that?" He patted the bed through the towels, gesturing for you to lay down.

You peered up at the ceiling and back down to the plant, kicking your foot lazily, and shrugged. "I dunno. You're just..." You walked your hands out across the bed, stretching out until you fully lowered yourself, chest against a towel and hands tucked under your chin. "... So serious. And tense."

Crossing to the foot of the bed to straddle you, oil in hand, he chuckled--an airy, almost shy sound he would bite back in other company. He couldn't--and wouldn't--deny that he was tense. The seriousness of his age was starting to cement itself in taxes, an even worse understanding of pop culture, and the workaholism he adopted over the alternative of any other "-aholism". He’s a fully grown man, of course he was tense. He had rent, student loans, a car note, and now, a woman he wanted desperately to spoil. He couldn't quite empathize with your struggle to do it all when, in his eyes, you didn't have to. You shouldn't have had to. Yet all he said was: "Take off your shirt."

You lifted your head to look at him over your shoulder, an eyebrow quirked. "Excuse me?"

Pink ears. He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I can only massage you properly via skin-to-skin contact."

"Ah." Your elbows and head tucked into the mattress for a few moments while you pulled at the back of your T-shirt, one of those over-sized shirts you wore to laze about, tugging it over your head without thinking or bothering to sit up to make the process any easier.

Nanami had since settled into his position above you, standing on his knees, his creased slacks on either side of your shorts, and was silently watching you wriggle out of your shirt, your back curving up into an arch while your shoulders dropped to your ears. He felt himself skip a heartbeat, raking his eyes down the natural curve of your spine, drawing them back up to the nape of your neck, and shutting his eyes, blinking away an impolite thought brought on by the sight of your face buried in the mattress. He waited for you to toss your shirt to the side and re-settle your head on top of your hands before taking the bottle of oil into his own.

"Before I get started, you should know that this oil is warm. Is that alright?"

"Mhm." You nodded, eyes shutting slowly, drowsiness already settling in from the air conditioning against your skin combined with the pressure of Nanami sitting himself down slowly onto your thighs. Your back jerked, trying to pull away as the oil ran down your spine to the small of your back, the tingle of the trickle raising goosebumps as it went. It was indeed warm, but Nanami ran warmer. You immediately began to decompress under his touch, the pads of his thumbs pressing into your lower back, gathering the oil and pulling it against your skin. His thumbs pushed into and out from the tissue nearest your spine, brushing out to the edge of your back, covering the expanse of the skin available to him with a warm attention. His thumbs worked up to your shoulders, soon replaced by the heels of his broad palms once his fingers found purchase. The smallest pressure in the crook of your neck and shoulder drew out a pathetic noise from you, a strained whine. It felt like a sort of knot under the surface and his touch highlighted tension you didn’t know you were carrying.

He paused. You thought you heard him take a deep breath. He spoke slow and softly, “You’re very tense here. It may hurt for a moment, but it will ultimately help you.”

You mumbled a response, nodding an acknowledgement. Taking that as a yes, he continued, starting easy by rolling his thumbs in the crook, and, with each press and drag, pulling out a soft, desperate noise that made your face grow hot and, unknown to you, his ears shift from pink to red. Eventually, he reintroduced the heel of his palm, methodically grinding it into your tissue. You felt the knot loosen in response to the sharper pressure and your body reacted before you could make another dangerous sound. Your shoulders bucked back, tensing and flinching at the pain, and your back pulled up into another, smaller arch, forcing your hips into a small sort of jerking movement. You took a sharp breath through gritted teeth, nearly hissing. A silent beat. A large hand pressed down gently on your lower back, guiding your hips back to the mattress with the rest of you following shortly thereafter. It sat there, as though meditating in the easy silence.

“Don’t… Please don’t do that.” Nanami shook his head, eyes fixed on his headboard. Rationally, he knew you couldn’t hear the thumping in his chest. He knew you didn’t hear it stop and stammer to a slightly faster-than-usual tempo. What he didn’t know was why, as a mature, experienced man, he was finding himself so… sensitive.

You figured you disrupted the process--got him out of the “zone” --and apologized immediately.

“It’s quite alright,” he whispered. His Adam’s apple bobbed from a silent swallow of his nerves, hoping to steel them. He really didn’t mean anything by having you stay in his apartment. He really didn’t mean anything by massaging you, by initiating skin-to-skin contact. That’s what he was trying to remind himself, at least, as he decided to continue to sit on your thighs to hold you in place. He reasoned it would keep you from moving so abruptly again.

He tried to undo the knot again, applying pressure slowly, thoughtfully. It proved effective when a lewd moan fell from you, seeming to punctuate each little circle he ground into you. But that was not his problem. As his touch loosened the tension in your shoulders, your back arched up and your face pressed into the mattress, overwhelmed by the combination of the pain of the knot melting away and the heat of his hands. The gentleness of his touch contrasted with the heat of the oil, the fact that he was touching you at all, made your heart beat a little harder, made your face and belly warm. Despite your efforts to still yourself, your hips began to roll, tiny infrequent movements against the man behind you. Surely, he wouldn’t notice.

“D-Do you do this often? Massages?”

Nanami, for what it was worth, was really trying. At thirty years old, he thought he had self-control. He did have self-control. He meant to stop by your store just once, truly. He meant to turn you down when you boldly asked for his number. He meant to speak to your manager after seeing you.

“No.”

Your back glistened with sunlight and massage oil, your dark skin and slowly writhing body wholly captivating in the otherwise still and silent room.

His hands stilled, holding a firm and strainingly gentle grip on your shoulders against the bed. You followed suit, ceasing movement and taking an uneven breath, your heart pittering with a rush, your heat starting to pulse. He noticed, you think. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Just… don’t.” He shut his eyes, uttering a silent prayer to no one.

“Sorry.” You took another breath, slowly. Your voice was soft, low, and laced with a relaxed drowsiness. “You—Thank you for this, by the way. Feels good to be, uh, taken care of.”

You could have sworn you heard him swear, muttering an expletive to your back. He said your name quietly, almost hesitantly, “… I hope you understand that I truly did not expect anything from you in inviting you to my apartment.”

You nodded, casting your sights over your shoulder for the first time since he started massaging you. His glasses had slipped a centimetre down the bridge of his nose, and his face wore the strongest expression you had ever seen him make. His eyebrows were furrowed in what looked, to you, like concentration. He tensed his fingers, digging into your skin, almost distracting you from the new pressure below your hips and against the round of your bum. He released your right shoulder to grip your jaw, turning your face towards the headboard so you could no longer see his. You felt his weight shift over you, his hips struggling not to press into yours, his chest barely hovering over your shoulders, his lips brushing against your ear to whisper your name. “May I be crude?”

“Yeah, g-go ahead.”

“You’re the reason I’ve been so tense. It has taken considerable…” His hold tightened on your jaw, emphasizing the word. “… effort on my part to not lose my composure.” A part of him wondered how you never seemed to catch the burn of his stolen glances lingering when you passed through the doors he opened for you.

Something in you throbbed. “That was crude?”

“I’m not done.” A controlled breath, his chest expanded to touch your upper back and drew away just as quickly, a sharp puff of air grazing the edge of your ear as he exhaled. “It’s rude to interrupt.”

You said nothing, goosebumps rising and your heartbeat thrumming a little faster between your thighs.

“Since you cannot find it in yourself to hold still so I can take care of you properly, I will be forced to make you.”

You squinted at nothing, a question on your face, momentarily forgetting he couldn’t see it. There was a pressure growing against you and an air building between your bodies, the hanging silence heavy with a tension you would have been foolish to pretend didn’t cling to the both of you, buzzing with a suggestive electricity. “What, uh, do you mean by that?”

He thought against it, truly. He had enough agency to get up and walk away. The weight of his pelvis lowered a careful roll to nudge into the curve of your butt.

“Tell me how I can take care of you.” The words were so sweet, nearly begging, even, that you didn’t catch that he failed to answer your question. His tone stoked that warmth in your belly, stirring the flutter of butterflies and the pathetic trickle of heat. Your teeth tugged the inside of your bottom lip, denying yourself the whimper he earned from you.

“You said it yourself, dear. I’m so tense. We both need this.” He was convincing himself more than you. Justifying himself as he unwound atop you, his resolve falling like thread from a spool. He heard your breathing change before you did, saw the sweat bead around the base of your neck, saw what his words--his cautious desperation—did to you. His nerves twisted, guilt pricking the back of his mind when his touched his forehead to the back of your neck and saw the length of his tie fall onto your back. The reserves of his composure were spent lifting his hips from you, a half-hearted attempt to remain polite. A fruitless endeavour, he soon recognized, upon feeling your ass rear up into him, guiding to where he was most tense and following through to feel the stretch of his slacks through your shorts. It was a reflexive adjustment on your part, the heat in your body simply following the heat in his.

He lifted his head; fingers firm in turning yours to face him. Your eyes met and held each other’s gaze. He didn’t break eye contact when he spoke again. “I know what you need.” His fingers had little give for you to nod, but he accepted the tiny bob you could muster. “Use your words. Tell me I’m right. Tell me to give you what you need.” Each command set your skin hot, burning from the fire in your core.

Your voice came out in a choked whisper, nerves dancing in your throat and tongue. “Give-- Please give me what I need, Nanami.”

A shiver shot through him. A darkness flickered behind the eyes staring at you from over the silver rim of his glasses, threatening to expose him as a man in need. His lips parted and shut, if he had something to say, he looked to have thought better of it, deciding, instead, to pull you into a kiss. He adjusted, slipping his left hand from your shoulder to the mattress, shifting the distribution of his weight as he dipped into you, kissing you through a thinning veil of self-control. His tongue deftly found yours between lightly sucking on your bottom lip. He tried to be gentle, really. But you could feel his hunger. You felt his weight drop onto you, pressing your hips into the mattress with measured ruts that soon elicited a moan around his tongue. You matched his fervour, leaning up to deepen the kiss just as he pulled away, a beaded line of saliva between the two of you, his lips reddened and eyes heavy with a lust unbefitting his usual composure. Letting go of you, he sat up straight, still standing on his knees and completely silent when he twirled his index finger in the air, gesturing to you to flip over, with his other finger hooked into the knot of his tie. You flipped over, your thighs brushing his as you did so.

He was striking. You always thought so, but there was something magnetic about how his pinched eyebrows and tensed jaw betrayed what he was thinking. It didn’t help that you finally caught how his eyes drank in your body, especially now that your chest was bared to him, nipples standing from the cold air of the room. He was stoic in a way, his face still serious despite the no doubt painful bulge in his slacks, darkened from your excitement leaking through your thin shorts, and it made both of your heartbeats throb. There was no question in your mind that you wanted him right then. He could see it; that same hunger he had been wrestling winked up at him from your wide, pretty eyes.

It was a quick movement when he slipped his tie from his collar. He bent down to you, taking your wrists in one hand and lifting them over head as he went in for another kiss, setting a slower rhythm this time. The fingers of his other hand rested under your chin, nudging you up to him. You didn’t quite register what he did with his first hand, you didn’t really care until he broke the kiss, leaving your lips tingling with the memory of his. With one hand and his tie, he had bound your wrists.

A question was written on your face, a small frown twisting onto your mouth.

“As I said, I’ve been forced to make you hold still,” he replied, his blond eyelashes fluttered down to examine the view of you underneath him, wandering down to the waistband of your shorts. Once again, your ankles found themselves gathered in his hand, being held in the air while his other hand tugged your shorts and panties off, letting your heat run down your inner thigh to seep into a towel. After setting your legs back down, he pushed off the bed, diligently undressing himself without looking away from you, daring you, almost, to move. You didn’t. You couldn’t. You found yourself mesmerized by his sculpted torso, studying each muscle, following his veins and golden happy trail down, down, down, only to be interrupted by the leather belt threaded through the loops of his work pants. He was visibly hesitating. Then his eye was caught by a wet streak on your thigh, glinting from catching the outside light for a split second as you adjusted yourself, parting your legs absently.

You didn’t hear his breathy sigh, relieved to no longer be restrained. It looked to leap up from the waistband of his boxers, proceeding to then nod down from its own weight, holding a slight curve, pinkish tip trying to look to the ceiling, even as it bowed. You barely noticed the sound of him sucking air through his teeth, sensitive to his own touch, when he took himself in his dominant hand, lightly swiping away a pearl of his own anticipation with his thumb. You almost didn’t catch his words.

“Tell me how I can take care of you.” His words were measured still by the shred of chivalry he clung to. As if he meant to say something else, but found it was far too impolite.

Your walls pulsed at the sight of him, standing at the edge of the bed with his glasses still on his face and his manhood in hand. It excited you more than you were willing to admit: the image of an older man pleading at you with his eyes, offering himself up to you as if he was some sort of gentleman when he very clearly was fighting his urges to be anything but. Your tongue flicked out to lick your lip where he kissed you last, the slightest smirk pulling at the corner of your mouth. “I thought we both needed this, yeah?”

That time, he nodded, still never taking his eyes from you.

“Then, if I may be so crude, why don’t you quit teasing and come fuck me already?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He approached you in one fluid motion. Your knees were spread apart by his, letting him kneel between your legs to grant him access to your puffy lips and your peeking bud. They kissed his tip first, shooting sparks through the both of you when he dragged his length up against you, coating it in a thin layer of your wet. Then, with his right hand slowly stroking himself, he slipped his hand under your thigh and shoved it up and to the side, leaving your foot to droop in the air, vision fixed on your lower half with an intensity that tightened the knot growing in your core. Your lips opened to reveal a small entrance, walls constricting and dilating as it tried to close around air. He could not contain his breath of awe.

You felt Nanami undo you with his eyes before you felt the intrusion of the head of his middle finger. Your other leg twitched with surprise. He had since abandoned himself to, instead, venture you, taking care to intermittently curl his digit up into your walls, mapping your gummy ridges as he delved deeper into you. Your hips lifted upon impact. Sudden pleasure rippled out from the point of contact and a whimper bubbled past your lips when he grazed that delicate spot in your core. His finger left you empty with a wet pop and his left arm snaked around your thigh to rest his hand on your lower belly, once again pushing your hips down and away from his hand.

“Be patient.” His cheeks hollowed from sucking his finger clean of you. He peered up at you through pale eyelashes, the weight of his tone reaching his eyes. Everything about him was measured, but he had a new edge to him.

He dissected you with each touch, spreading you open around two fingers and pumping them into you methodically, making your toes curl in sync with his working digits. A moan rose with your heaving chest, breathing deep to try to calm yourself despite the building ache in your core. His heavy hand was the only thing keeping your hips from rolling up again, failing to chase the fill of his fingers when they drew back to the edge of you. Watching, hearing you grow needy for him made something in him snap. The last of his patience fell away with the pre drooling from his swollen, blushing tip.

You didn’t have much time to whine at the sudden absence of his fingers. He leaned over to kiss you tenderly, like he was asking for forgiveness. You could taste yourself on his tongue. You couldn’t see when his soaked fingers wrapped around his length once again to lather it in your excitement. Warm breath escaped you both when he pulled up for air, sitting up completely.

“I must confess something,” he spoke with his voice low, certain he had your attention, even as he teased his length along your open slit.

“Hm?” You tilted your head to the side. You were doing your best not to let your body respond for you.

Tears threatened to prick your eyes from a pressure at your entrance.

“I’m not a patient man.”

It was a sharp pain when his tip squeezed into you, far thicker than his fingers. Its edge dragged against your slick walls slowly, leading the rest of his cock in splitting you open from the inside out. Your jaw fell slack, gasping from shock, choking on air as you struggled to recover your wits. “I don’t think—”

The rest of your sentence was cut off by his mouth catching yours in another kiss and touching his forehead to yours. He breathed your name against your lips. “Stop talking and breathe.”

Before you could ask, you learned why. In a long, drawn-out roll of his hips, he began to bury himself in your warm cunt, sitting up straight to watch his cock slowly sink into you, not stopping to console you when you choked out dry sobs, trying to breathe, but when he couldn’t get any deeper. Your pussy tensed and throbbed around him as he gave you time to adjust to his girth, made a little easier by your left leg being brought up to his broad shoulder. His eyes met yours and flashed a trace of an apology at you. “I need you to relax for me.” In nodding, you caught a glimpse of where he ended and you began: he was only halfway in.

He inched out of you, struggled against the pull of being sucked back in to bring his tip to the edge of your entrance. Gritting his teeth to bite back the groan the effort pulled from him, he kept his tone shockingly sweet. “Take a deep breath.”

You inhaled through your nose.

“Now breathe out.”

You did. You felt the tension soften.

Your vision went soft around the edges. Even with your walls giving way to mould around the shape of him, he only got an inch deeper. He let a lewd sound slip from him, the tightness in his throat almost matching that around his cock. He had never before been gripped the way you did him and you had never been stretched out the way he did you. You instinctively pulled back to grant yourself a breather from the pressure pushing its way to your centre. Or, rather, you tried to.

As he said, he was an impatient man. He let it show in taking your hips and gruffly drawing them up to his. “I said…” He interrupted himself with a focused thrust. “Relax.”

Your pretty moans soon filled the room from the stimulation of his cock bullying its way deeper into you, hips not yet meeting. The tie managed to tighten from your wrists jerking, your entire body reacting, wanting to run both from and to the pleasure between your now trembling thighs. Your walls throbbed faster around him and the coil in your core splintered when his tip finally began grazing the mouth of your cervix, stroking the pulse of your G spot with each veiny inch.

Nanami took in the image of you: head lolled back, arms twitching, back arched as if to offer up your chest, eyes struggling to focus as you neared your peak, mumbling something about “more”. A part of him wished you could see how you looked from his perspective, but the greater part of him wanted to keep the mental picture to himself, consumed by the fact that it was him unravelling you so easily. Bruises were sure to bloom where his fingers dug into your hips, growing greedy at the thought, and yanked you closer to him.

As he rhythmically drew back, creating a sort of momentum to then burrow deeper, he bowed and pressed a kiss to one of your breasts. His lips wandered up to the corner of your open mouth, sending tiny vibrations through to your cheek, and he murmured an encouragement to you as you began to spasm. A rumble reverberated up from his throat, drawn out by the sensation of your walls seizing around him. His voice lowered: “Go on… finish for me.”

You didn’t need his permission. But it certainly helped. Your toes fanned out and your ankles crossed behind his back, fighting to contain the violent quiver your climax evoked, but only worked to suck him in more. Your cries came out in broken, breathy moans that filled the room and drowned out the sweet nothings he spoke into your skin. You squirmed fruitlessly under his weight, not to escape him, but from your nerves tensing and untensing in a cascade of release starting at your core.

He gingerly kissed your cheek before sitting up once more. You were quite the sight, all hot and damp with sweat, chest rising and falling in steadying breaths, beginning to come down. Vision still a touch fuzzy, you couldn't quite tell what he was thinking from his eyes, in how they held yours—as they often did—when he rocked his hips up to yours, stretching you out as your walls relaxed and bottoming out fully, his throbbing tip breaching into your cervix. His hips and heartbeat stuttered upon impact, same as your breath.

A cruel half-smile cracked onto his face.

“Oh… you didn’t think I was done already, did you?”

--

It's slow right now, but I'm building it up, I promise.

Word Count: 1.4k

-----

"I watched your entire interview from the manor, Master Bruce. Your remarks regarding the museum were particularly inspired. Have you considered that, perhaps, the Batman is also an 'uninspired Picasso'?"

"Alfred..." Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. He had been at the Batcomputer since returning from patrol. Catwoman left without incident and the examination of the roof revealed an otherwise ordinary pair of glasses. Alfred was swabbing them for DNA analysis and examining them for production details.

"I know, I know. Did you know recent studies have proven that having multiple hobbies is beneficial for one's mental health?"

A sequencer hummed to life softly in the near distance, processing the swab.

"It's been unusually quiet for the summer."

"Perhaps it is too hot for even Gotham's hottest-tempered, sir." Alfred offered, producing a comfortably hot cup of tea to off-set the ironic chill of the Batcave.

"Crime rises with the temperature. A hotter summer would invite more criminal activity. Gotham--especially Gotham--is not impervious to this pattern. There is an anomaly..." Bruce trailed off, engrossed with his research. The blue light contrasted the red of his straining eyes as they flitted across the screen, poring over Underground forums and headlines from local news outlets of all caliber. "Chamomile?"

Alfred stood silent, taking a slow sip of his own tea, noting his charge's heavy eyes fighting to stay open, reminiscent of simpler days with a young boy just as stubborn as the man before him. "You need to rest."

"Crime doesn't rest."

"Evidently it does. I am sure the city will stay quiet long enough for one night for you to as well."

It did. That's what kept him awake, staring at his bedroom ceiling from the disgusting comfort of his king-sized mattress, focused on the night's soundscape riding in on a forgiving breeze through a parted window. It's not that he couldn't sleep. He didn't want to. Not with this feeling in his chest that an unknown is about to descend upon Gotham.

It was dying, the soundscape. The quietest part of a night was its end. There's a moment when the sun and moon meet from across the horizon and all life stills, settling down to rest or pausing before the stir. Calm. He stretched out his fingers, pressing his palm into the sheets before gripping them once, releasing them to smooth them over with his palm, grounding himself. Calm.

Calm was all Bruce Wayne ever was in the face of the press. By noon, the quiet had began to subside, overcome by the buzz of gossip and reporters, echoing information he had confirmed by breakfast.

With a tray of coffee and a nutrient-rich breakfast, Pennyworth had discovered Bruce in the Batcave before the birds could start chirping. "Good morning, sir. How did you rest?"

"A patient from Arkham Asylum is suspected missing."

"Oh dear. I take it that you did not, then. I take it also that this patient is one the Batman should be particularly concerned about?"

Scroll, click. "No. I've already confirmed the usual suspects are accounted for." He didn't look away from the screen, fingers manipulating the mouse passively between tapping away at the keyboard.

"And yet...?"

Nothing. He had to make an appearance at the museum before he could finish running the program cross-referencing Arkham patient records with the police report he picked up.

"Mr. Wayne!" "Mr. Wayne!" The herd of reporters and cameras encircled him. "Will you be postponing the opening night of the museum?"

"Can we get a statement?"

"Have you heard about the Arkham escapee?"

The sun cast a perfect silhouette behind him as he turned and faced the press, his tailored black suit and slicked hair outlined on the Herringbone patterned terrace, polished Oxfords glistening in the daylight. He adjusted his matching tie. A hush fell over the crowd in a beat. He's about to speak, they could feel. His straight teeth caught in the sun, a billion-dollar smile decorating his face as he pointed at no one in particular. "You had a question?"

A familiar voice piped up, the interviewer from the night before. "Yes--Vicki Vale with the Gotham Gazette--with a possibly criminal psychiatric patient on the loose, will the museum's open-door policy still be in effect? Will the museum opening be delayed? Will--"

So many questions. "Ms. Vale, I trust that the GCPD is more than capable of locating and securing this person, so there should be no need to delay the opening or to change our open-door policy. We don't even know if this missing patient is a criminal or not, but that doesn't change my stance: this center is for everyone."

"So, to be clear, Mr. Wayne," another reporter's voice cut in, "You welcome criminals into your establishments?" Several cameras flashed, wasted in the sun.

A dry chuckle escaped him for a beat before he licked his lips and spoke, a headache threatening to take root in his temple from the summer heat. "I don't believe it's my place to deny the public education. The public is welcome to the museum. To clarify, Mr. ...?"

"Mr. Jones, Other Magazine."

"To clarify, Mr. Jones, my position on crime has not changed. Ultimately, the museum should not be seen as a reflection of my opinion on crime in Gotham, but on the value of education in Gotham." His short, manicured nails led his fingers through his hair from his forehead, wiping the humidity's condensation from his brow. He touched his temple, pressing in an effort to delay the slowly blooming headache. "It's getting hot, so I'm going to have to cut this short, unfortunately. I have time for one more question before I go."

"Given its history of escapees and breakouts, can Arkham Asylum expect to have security increased by Wayne Enterprises, er, WayneTech?" The voice rose over the rest.

"Good question. Who asked it?"

A hand raised, pen tucked between its index and middle finger, just above a messy head of hair and a pair of crooked glasses that, like the voice, rose over the heads of present company from the back of the mass. "Clark Kent, Daily Planet." Their eyes met briefly. The reporter wore a mildly expectant, yet totally polite expression, eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed by the weight of unasked questions. The corner of Bruce's mouth twitched up.

"Yes, Arkham can expect to receive all the support Wayne Enterprises can offer in ensuring something like this does not happen again. We want nothing but the best to facilitate the wellness and safety of their residents."

"How--"

"That's all the time I have. Thank you all." They're not satisfied. He dipped his head in turning towards the museum entrance. The crowd loudened incoherently, a few occasionally clear "Mr. Wayne"s heard above the chatter, punctuated by clicks and flashes of the scattered cameras, capturing photos for the sake of it.

The lobby was in the kind of disarray that denoted progress. Tools laid strewn about, holding down physical copies of the floorplan from being blown about by the oscillating standing fans dotting the space in no obvious pattern. Voices were scattered, echoing in from halls and spilling down from the second floor in indiscernible conversation. He stopped above a stray blueprint, absently hooking a finger into his tie knot to tug it away from his collar, hoping for a sort of reprieve from the thick heat.

Soft steps, hesitant but purposeful. Not now. "Uh, Mr. Wayne." He threw a glance over his shoulder. Glasses. He fixed his tie.

"The Daily Planet is in Metropolis, isn't it?" Eyes idly taking in the architecture as Bruce began to wander away, hands slipping into his pockets.

"Yes, it is. We have a, uh, vested interest in the sciences. LexCorp and all, you know." The same soft steps, trailing behind him, holding his lazy pace. "I, uh, have a few more questions. If-if you don't mind." No doubt.

"Go."

"Oh! O-Okay, um, how exactly does WayneTech contribute to the security of Arkham Asylum?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be very secure, now would it?"

"Well, it's not very secure... with, uh, all-all due respect, Mr. Wayne." Oh?

Word Count: 1.4k

"Have you considered taking up acting?" The light of the electrics blinked in the reflection of the lens nearest the interviewer's head as she shifted in her seat, tilting her head in the process. He blinked back, feigning bashfulness.

"Aha, no, it never occurred to me. I don't think I'm made for the silver screen."

"Really? I think I speak for everyone when I say that cameras seem to love you, Mr. Wayne." Indeed, they do. He noted three industrial cameras trained on him, surveilling him, awaiting a witty response to clip.

"Oh?" He raised a manicured eyebrow, "Do they really?"

Bruce tilted his head in kind, flitting his eyes to the centermost camera, again to the live studio audience, and once more to the interviewer before him. He met her eyes with a twinkle and the corner of his mouth twitched into a playful smirk, a calculated slip, "I didn't notice."

The audience's echoes of her laughter faded naturally as she looked away to regain her bearing.

"But, ah, seriously, you're a natural." Anyone would seem so if they spent the better half of their youth on the worst side of the camera.

He chuckled, "Well, thank you. But, believe me, if you've seen me dance, you'd know I'm better off supporting the arts, not participating."

"Speaking of, it's no secret that you're funding the opening of a new arts and sciences museum. Would you mind telling us a little bit about that?"

"No, not at all. Gotham's Museum of Arts and Science History is being established with the express intent of making both art and science history more accessible to the public. Next Friday evening, we'll be hosting the opening night which, to truly embody the mission of--we've been calling it "M.A.S.H."--will be fully open to the public, free of charge." It was upon those last words that the audience felt moved enough to cheer and applaud without the prompting of a stagehand.

"Wow, that's really wonderful of you, Mr. Wayne." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and, in the same move, swiped away a bead of sweat forming on her temple from the heat of the electrics before shifting in her seat once again, crossing her legs at the knees. "I've got to know, though, when you say the public, does that mean you are extending an invitation to the Batman as well?"

"Well, if he has the time in his schedule of doing whatever it is he does in the shadows, he is more than welcome. The arts are for everyone. Even the dark, mysterious types."

"Even criminals?"

The electrics hummed over the tiny mechanical whirrs and clicks of the cameras zooming in and refocusing on his face. She was angling for a soundbite for views where the audience was waiting for a new opinion to adopt regarding crime or Bruce himself. They leaned ever so slightly in their seats, creaking quietly as they awaited his next words.

"Like I said, the arts are for everyone. I imagine a life without art leads to a life of crime. If you can't see the beauty of the world, you're bound to recreate its ugliness. The least I can do is bring some beauty to Gotham in the continuing efforts to return our home to what it once was. Who knows, maybe Gotham's criminals are simply... uninspired Picassos."

-----

The sounds of the city below were a familiar melody, punctuated by a screech and spray of a taxi skidding to a halt, reluctantly halting to accommodate a gaggle of young adults crossing the road, braving the rain for the sake of a good night. The shape of their giggles and light conversation echoed into a nearby alley and broke off into the night noise. Uneven footsteps and mostly indiscernible words interrupted the monotony of the patrol.

"... damned thing."

It was workers spending their resting hours at work, hoping to avoid the pain of laboring in the humidity that had been characteristic of this Gotham summer. Priceless works of art and displays on scientific discoveries were shuttled into the museum at a steady pace, a fleet of men and women moving swiftly and undisturbed. Unusual. A new building in this city often invited opportunistic crime, a stray, nameless citizen trying to make life a touch easier. Easier by way of making someone else's harder, more often than not.

Small-time thieves wouldn't have had the foresight to intercept the trucks and career criminals could not have circumvented the security around the museum's development. It was critical that it went up with little to no difficulty. He meant every word he said in that interview. At least about the museum.

The people deserve more than "the least I can do". He shook his head once, dismissing the thought.

It was lifeless on the roof of the museum and those of surrounding buildings. In fact, aside from the rain, the occasional taxi, and the slowing happenings of setting up the museum, the night had grown still. The cowl's audio system crackled alive, the police radio speaking over the fleeting thought. "We have a situation down at Noonan's. Some guys are getting rowdy and the bouncer's nowhere to be found, over."

"Roger. We're headed that way."

Trouble begets trouble.

His cape whipped. Primed to grapple to a roof behind the museum, a darker something pulled at the corner of his vision. His boots made naught a sound as he redirected, examining the ground and listening for discrepancies in the city's soundscape. He caught the rain easing up to a light drizzle, droplets falling slower and out of rhythm. The clouds started to part.

"Catwoman."

It had been weeks since he had seen the woman who slinked out from the shadows nearest the museum, voice sultry and smooth. "Aw, how'd you know?"

The cape didn't whip so much as flutter before she found herself face to face with the mask of night, his crossed arms falling just below her shoulders.

"What are you doing here?"

"A girl can't say hi to her part-time boytoy?"

"Selina."

The lady sighed, letting her shoulders slack before knitting her fingers and reaching above her head, her leather suit tightening impossibly as she stretched. "Fine." A hand dropped to rest on her hip, the other between their chests, nails up and palm down. "I'll level with you, darling. The new museum has piqued my interest. That pretty boy has cash for days and he's handing over a week to the whole city. I'm thinking about getting myself something small but pretty, since you never do."

"Someone would notice. And the security's too high, even for you."

"And how would you know?"

"..."

"Right. Anyway," she took the cape in a gloved hand, walking it around the pillar of a man slowly. "What are you doing up here?"

"My job."

"That's not what I meant."

He knew what she meant. The hairs on his neck stood. She dropped the cape, but continued to circle him, her mechanical claws dragging along the midsection of his suit. They were catching on the micro-indentations of the suit, sending tiny vibrations down to his skin, his nerves. She peered up through her eyelashes, unknowingly landing the eye contact she sought to simulate. Her eyes were green and unblinking. The moon's reflection twinkled up at him. His right eye twitched.

"Gotham could benefit from a center like this."

"You would say that. But what about that Bruce Wayne?"

"What about him?"

"Heard he doesn't care for you much. If I was you, I wouldn't waste my night protecting stuff he could easily afford to replace." Her fingers. Her claws had been withdrawn and she began to poke at the surface of his armor with her fingertips, pressing through the skin of her gloves as if he might feel the skin of her bare hand if she pressed hard enough. It twitched again.

He slipped his hand from his chest and firmly took her by the wrist, stilling her before pulling her to face his front, using his other hand to hold her still at the waist. "That's why you're not me."

A beat of silence. She raised her free hand to his neck, thumb resting lazily on his jaw for another beat. A soft, imperceptible click from gritting and immediately un-gritting his teeth when she followed along the bone. He didn't blink and his eyes didn't water. Despite staring right at where his eyes were, she wouldn't have known if he looked away. He didn't look away. The thumb of her glove was wet.

"I wouldn't want to be."

___________________

[Check out Part 1] Volcanic eruptions were a disaster of the past and, as such, there were no measures in place to protect against them. The land and people that were not destroyed by the Yellowstone “overflow” were not yet in the clear and were, instead, met with a different fate.

As it happened, while the brilliant minds that stayed on Earth focused their energies on preventing the eruption and working to create a more efficient and equitable society, they had allowed all Terran residents to forget about and, eventually, lack awareness of systems of nuclear weapons and power sources in the Earth. Some speculate that they had not been completely forgotten but were uncovered and in the process of being analyzed shortly before the eruption. Others argue that they had been repurposed for functions unknown [whether or not they were unrecorded or simply unrecognized due to time is also debated]. None of those details matter though. Return, then, to the scene. The ash and lava had settled - humanity had experienced half of its first extinction-level event in millennia. Fortunately, for a society unused to gore and true misery, bodies didn’t litter the ground - for there were no bodies to litter the ground with. Mourning simply wasn’t enough - and there simply wasn’t enough time to mourn. The window between the eruption and the activation of the nuclear weapons has been estimated to be anywhere from one week to twelve hours. Had these devices been in peak condition, there would be no story left to tell of the Terra(n)purists. But time, as it tends to do, wore these “missiles” down and reduced their effectiveness to a third of their original. Why the potency dropped as such a significant rate is also yet to be determined (though there was an era in their history when they summed it up to “divine intervention”). Instead of obliterating all life on Earth - it only mutated them. Of course, there were a number of Humans killed by launch and explosion of these rockets for cities had been erected on the land that governments used to harbour these weapons away from the innocent and the dangerous. But, again, those who weren’t killed so violently had been subjected to undergo mutations. Due to the abundance and aggression of the various chemical compounds in the air, mutations happened relatively quickly. It was like a virus. It crept into their systems. Sometimes, it would kill them immediately. Sometimes, slowly. Sometimes, never - that was when the changes would begin. As records presently state, in the beginning, the mutations were too diverse and some Humans could not be differentiated from affected wildlife - as such, their evolution - if they had one - did not mimic the majority’s. However, there were four common denominators: (1) laughter, (2) the desire to (or attempting to) manipulate fire - despite injury, (3) shoulders, and (4) patchy exoskeletons created from reactions between melanin, keratin, and uranium nitrades. 

---

Today I indulged myself by exploring the bottomless pit of my YouTube watchlist. Lo and behold, Alt Shift X’s 40 something minute video on All Tomorrows. I never began to watch it and I never heard much about “All Tomorrows” before this morning. Needless to say, it scratched the haso + worldbuilding + author + creature design + theorizing bits of my brains maybe a bit too well. So why are you here peeking into my blog? Because I’m gonna do it again. “It” being writing short space fics until I burnout or no longer receive praise.

--

All Tomorrows seems to pose that all humans left Earth for Mars. However, knowing human nature, that simply wouldn’t happen. There would surely be a group of people either unwilling to leave or unable to leave - perhaps because of personal philosophies, religion, health, or finances. Regardless the reason, there will be humans left on Earth and - to deter the ones leaving from regretting their decision and to encourage their descendants to stay on Mars, misinformation was spread. “Those who stayed on Earth were racist and xenophobic cowards. They were terrified of what people Mars might be the home of. They were afraid of leaving the familiar.” They were so dubbed the Anti-Martianists or Terrapurists. The so-called Terrapurists never learned of these names and, as such, continued to call themselves Humans. 

So then there was only the poor, the sick, the scared (because it was a frightening prospect to leave a planet for one no human had set foot on in known history), the close-minded, the ignorant, the eager, the hungry, and those who had been overlooked by society. They could rebuild the world for themselves. Some geniuses had chosen to stay on Earth, that they might preserve and restore the planet before it could finish dying. To save you the tension and angst, yes. They were successful. But communications with the red planet were not - for reasons then unknown. Or so they said. It is argued that the “Overlooked” had interfered with comms, so they may enjoy the world that was made for them. That their utopia, their paradise would not be corrupted by those who had forgotten them and their ancestors (for this took a century - only a century - and as such the original pain still burned hot in the descendants). 

Unfortunately, as is a trend with Human successes, the good times did not last too long - though it did last longer than some periods - only about three centuries before what was once known as the Yellowstone volcano erupted. The aforementioned geniuses were well aware of the threat it posed and set forth to prevent it. Again, they were mostly successful, which is more than what could have been said of their distant human ancestors who would have seen fit to pray to and feed the volcano instead. The technology they conjured had slowed down the movement of the magma and the tectonic plates to a speed so slow that even their computers were unable to detect the virtually molecular levels of movement. The process to slow down and “stop” the pre-eruptive activity was a sensitive and chronologically costly matter and, once all came to a stand still, the treatment was concluded - because it would have been a waste to continue when they achieved their goal (effectively freezing the tectonic plates and magma in place). The eruption elicited a reaction not dissimilar to that of those in “Pompeii”. Volcanic eruptions were a disaster of the past and, as such, there were no measures in place to protect against them. The land and people that were not destroyed by the Yellowstone “overflow” were not yet in the clear and were, instead, met with a different fate. 

--

Fighting can relieve or sexual tension between the right people. Humans are known to be especially sexual and aggressive - likely for a reason.

@faeriereader @nubigenouss

(AN: AO3 has a waiting list of 35524 people so, I’m gonna write both versions of the 5th part of this story here. One will be somewhat expected - while trying not to violate TOS and the other won’t be - that’s the plan at least. I hope you enjoy both. Thank you for your support so far.)

--

I had never been quite so excited to be defeated in combat - I had actually never been excited to be defeated in combat. It would be disgraceful. And that’s what made me want it more. In Human terms, that’s taboo. No Drakean language has a word for taboo - there’s just the things that are acceptable and the things that aren’t. It would be acceptable of me to suppress my feelings - of which I felt more than one, which I was beginning to suspect was not exclusively a Human trait, but, rather, it was especially Human to express multiple emotions simultaneously. It was not acceptable of me, though, to dedicate my brainpower to research in Human anatomy and, more specifically, the compatibility between Humans and Drakeans. There was nothing to be found on the matter - much to both my chagrin and delight. Yes, I didn’t know what would happen or if it could happen. Yes, I wanted to learn first-hand. Something I was able to uncover through more observation and conversation than textbook research was that Humans, unlike Drakeans, engage in coital affairs for more reasons than reproduction. Naturally, I was terrified at the idea of violating a cultural standard on my part, but I was sure she was violating a cultural standard on her part. (That is, until I was so graciously informed of “alien-fuckers”.)

Human-Erin was on duty on the bridge while I had a free day. I spent it resting. Well, I wanted to. Human-Marcus was not fond of that. He was keen on discussing my scarring wound - insistent on probing into my relationship with Human-Erin. I would be lying had I said I did not give it much thought. And I proved to be a liar. It was neither something he needed to nor something I needed to admit. I preferred to keep my desire for Human-Erin’s warmth a private matter. Her big, brown eyes were all I saw when I closed my grey own. As per his persistent nature, Human-Marcus was relentless with his queries - even offering to regale me with accounts of his own encounters with Human-Erin. Offers that I refused. Offers he made good on despite said refusals. He told me one story of him and Human-Erin under “the bleachers”. My stomach disagreed with the story and I left our shared quarters. I felt ill on hearing him recount his “adventure” of Human-Erin and I went so far as to wonder why he would tell me that in the first place. Perhaps it was commonplace in Human culture to discuss “partners” one once had with friends who may now have the same “partner” so as to prepare them on how to treat the “partner”. However, it didn’t feel very friendly. It felt almost territorial. And considering what I knew of Human-Marcus and his property, I was likely right to feel that way. I was not right, though, to remain feeling bothered when I met with Human-Erin in the gym.

It was nothing of my concern. But wasn’t it? Why did Human-Marcus find it fitting to explain to me his past with Human-Erin? And why didn’t the tightness in my lungs go away? I had to ask her. I had, after all, asked her a question that was bearing on my mind and it had gotten me a rematch.

She stripped to her “bra” and “running shorts” again and bowed to me. She didn’t do this before and I didn’t know why she was doing it now, but I reciprocated. I had entered the gym in nothing but my uniform pants. They were sitting lower on my waist than usual, virtually settled at my hips. I was comfortable and that’s all I needed.

“Human-Erin. Before we begin, I have had a question for you all day.”

“Yes?”

“You and Human-Marcus... you had a ‘relationship’. Is that correct?” Her posture shifted, her eyes focused on the ground and she began to side-step in a circle, hands opening and closing. I followed suit, keeping my eyes on her and my hands open, tail steady and low to the ground.

“A long time ago. What about it?”

“He was telling me about your ‘escapades’ from ‘high school’-”

“Why?”

“He wanted to discuss the mark you left on me.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him I had no interest in talking about it but he was in an especially talkative mood.”

She stopped moving and finally looked up at me. The tightness was mildly alleviated.

“I’m suddenly not in the mood to spar. Not with you, anyway.”

My ears drooped. “Why?”

“I don’t know what he said about me and I don’t want to know. As long as he told you anything about who I was in high school, I do not feel comfortable ‘sparring’ with you.”

“But-”

“But nothing.” She walked past me, her garments under her arm and a distant look on her face. I had been so patient that day. My arm stuck out and intercepted her, keeping her from the exit/entrance to the gym. “What’s the big idea?”

“I didn’t hear anything.” She looked me up and down.

“I don’t care.”

“Please. Just for one Terran minute. I promised I wouldn’t take it easy on you. Letting you leave would be just that.”

“I hate to make people liars,” she muttered. “Listen here: if I win, I leave. If you win, we can uh... keep going, if you so wish.”

“Thank you.”

“The minute begins at the first approach.” 

Human-Erin threw her clothes across the room whilst stepping backwards. When she stopped, she took no stance and made no approach. She simply circled - so I did as well. She was visibly irritated and I was well aware that Human attacks are less measured and, thus, more dangerous when they are irritated. I had considered striking just as she jumped forward, one foot leading her through the air with her arms close to her chest. To dodge this flying kick, I squatted, forcing her to go over my head and land on the mat behind me. I spun around on the heel of my left foot. I really didn’t want to win because I’d have to be on top. But I didn’t want her to leave either. There was a feeling I felt with her specifically that I desperately wanted to explore.

She landed on both feet and a hand, staring right at me. There was an unpleasant smile on her face - it was supposed to be unpleasant, but it felt like I was going to lose and it lessened that tightness in my lungs. Unfortunately for me, I had to focus on winning. I mirrored her before pouncing, knocking her onto her back. Her arms were easy to take control of where her legs would not stop moving. She kicked my abdomen until I felt forced to try and clutch the points of impact with one arm. It was then that she rolled from underneath me and pushed me onto my back as I teetered on one arm. She stood up. 

“That was only about ten seconds. Get up and fight me.”

I laid still.

“Get. Up.”

I maintained my unresponsiveness.

She set one foot on either side of me and squatted, lowering herself until she stood on her knees.

“Oh... You wanted me to force you to the ground. Is that right?”

She was totally correct, but I wanted to do some provocation of my own.

“Answer me, will ya.” Her hands walked up my chest until they fell past my shoulders, creating walls on either side of my head. Her face was parallel to mine and I didn’t believe myself to have seen someone so beautiful in frustration.

“Fine. Let’s play the quiet game. You better not scream now.” Her head dropped from my line of sight in a moment. In the next, my wound’s healing process was interrupted. The scale-bed was torn again and the raw flesh underneath was exposed. Pain and an inexplicable pleasure ripped through my body. A scream rolled from my throat and nearly burst past my teeth. Then she was kissing me again. As I bled onto the mat. I knew I was bleeding because I could taste it on her tongue.

I wasn’t able to find a reason in my mind that wasn’t heavily tied to suppressed primal urges. I don’t think she minded.

My arms encircled her waist tightly, pulling her closer to me before rolling over, releasing her once she was on her back. I caged her with my limbs and she didn’t struggle once. I didn’t say a word. I knew what the quiet game was. I held her down by her shoulders, my claws out and threatening to pierce the skin. She leaned into it, biting her lip as the skin gave away. Silence. Her hands found my neck and used it to bring my face to hers. 

“I think you wanna take this a different direction.”

“You lost.”

I initiated the kiss first, letting her hands roam my torso and lower. She learned, that day, where to find my heartbeat as she lowered my pants, her warm hands brushing my thighs and finding *me*. Her lips eventually left my mouth and wandered down to my neck. Similarly, my hand wandered down and made quick disposal of her shorts, feeling her *her* on the back of my hand. It was warmer than the rest of her and I wanted it so bad. Gripping the back of her thighs, I lifted her legs up and pushed myself only so far away from her head. I worked my head between her thighs and was face-level with her *her*. It was brown on the outside and pink on the inside, like her tongue. It was glistening in something wet. I flicked my tongue out and tasted *her*. It felt like the inside of her mouth, but warmer and sweeter. My tongue pushed into its opening, going as deep as it could, desperate to taste her core. The deeper my tongue went, the harder she breathed and the more the wet flooded my taste buds. My *me* was uncomfortably stiff. My grip was tightening on her thighs, even as my tongue left the inside of *her* for a pink button. I was as gentle as I could in sucking on it, curious to see if she would appreciate it. She eagerly whispered praises to me, her fingers tugging on my mane. Her back arched as she pushed her *her* closer to my face, offering it to me. [AN: I am so bad at this.]

“Pty... Pty, stop.” I obeyed immediately, despite my intense urge to see what would happen if I didn’t. Her *her* was pulsing slightly, the wet almost promising to drip.

“Did you not enjoy it?”

“No, god no. I want you to put it in.”

“What?”

She huffed and brought herself to her knees, gesturing for me to do the same - and I did. Her hands planted themselves on my chest once again before she shoved me away, forcing me onto my back. My belly - as well as my *me* - was fully exposed. Human-Erin crawled towards me until her *her* was aligned with my *me*.

“May I?” I nodded quickly, seeing her intentions.

She didn’t lower herself very much before I could feel her wet on the tip of me. Her star-crafted hands were on my shoulders, granting her balance as she proceeded to take me in with pain written on her face.

“This is hurting you?”

“Yeah, but I want it.”

About half of my *me* was surrounded by her pink warmth when it struck something inside of her, causing her to yelp in some sort of pain and joy. I was terrified to move, should I injure her, but I was content with lying still and watching her pleasure herself with me. I eventually worked up the courage to take hold of her hips while I watched her breasts bounce. Her head been thrown back, a string of lovely and muffled moans leaving her as she repeatedly found that spot in herself with me. A sudden surge of need overcame me alongside a shock of rapture down my *me* and I squeezed her hips, holding her still so I could drive myself upward, finding that spot with ease and then pushing into it, perhaps the rest of me would fit. 

It didn’t, but she rewarded my efforts with a short scream that she interrupted by kissing me. The pink constricted around me, making me throb once. The spot didn’t give, but her eyes locked onto mine as she did. The constrictions continued as did her moaning. Her legs betrayed her and she dropped farther onto me, creating a bump in her belly for but a moment before the rest of her collapsed with a sigh. I popped out of her, visibly on edge. Her body had never felt so hot - I was so excited to wear my new burns. 

--