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some of you need to realize that your faves would be having unsafe bdsm sex because they don’t actually know what bdsm sex is, they just want to fuck and also kill each other. you must understand this.
you don’t have to write safe practices and contract agreements. your audience knows not to apply any of this in their real lives, sasuke doesn’t know what a safe word is im begging you please write the toxic yaoi
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guy who sighs to you "you're gonna be the death of me one of these days..." with the most loving, fond, happy, wouldn't-wanna-be-anywhere-else-in-the-world-than-with-you grin on his face <3
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JING YUAN MAKING YOU PISS YOURSELF.......WOAH PLU.....
The first time it happens is after you drink yourself sick at the first party he takes you to, months after your marriage. Jing Yuan has to carry you back to his carriage for how much you’re stumbling and you nearly vomit on the ride back to his home—in retrospect you wish you had, perhaps that would have been enough for him to let you be… or perhaps nothing would ever be enough—and at first, after guiding you to the bedroom he forces you to share with him and helping you into your nightdress himself and bringing a glass of water to your lips, you think he might simply want to play caretaker for the night.
Until one cup has become many, and your vision has steadied enough to see how those golden eyes hold none of the softness that seeps through when he’s feeling nothing more than affectionate. In fact, when they fall upon your face as you turn away from the current uncountable glass, they seem to glint with something terrible.
(your gaze catches the sight of the near-empty crystalline carafe on the bedside table and, good god, the pressure in your abdomen becomes so terribly, abundantly clear)
“Ah,” Jing Yuan breathes quietly, sounding so horribly fond, “have you sobered enough, my dear?”
Your breath catches, and you squirm in his hold, lifting one hand to smack the glass away and throw yourself to the other side of the bed. The sound of it shattering on the floor barely registers, not when you have more pressing matters—in the most literal sense, as your husband in all his brutelike strength has caught you around the waist with a single bulky arm and hauled you back. Despite your frantic struggling he isn’t hindered in the slightest as he settles you into his lap, knees hooked around his own in the most awful spread. His arm remains a vice around your torso and your protests have given way to trembling pleas that rush out between hiccuping breaths. When his other hand comes around to bunch up your skirts, you thrash with renewed energy as the heat of it makes your stomach twitch. The sound you make is wretched, something like a dying animal.
“Shh…” Lips press against your temple, that hand disappearing for a fleeting moment to brush sweat-slick hair from your forehead. “You’ll feel better when you let go.”
There are a great many insults on the tip of your tongue. They all flee from your mind when his hand returns, pressing against the softness of your abdomen until you ache and your legs flinch and you arch, shoulders inadvertently bared for your husband to bury his face into the crook of your neck and groan in satisfaction—because you’ve also pulled your hips back, away from the oppressive palm and into something worse… something hot and firm and fat against his thigh, something that twitches when your whole lower body clenches on instinct.
There’s a pit burning a hole in your throat, an aching pain as the pressure increases upon your poor bladder, lungs burning with hiccuping gasps as you fight to catch your breath. Sobered, it’s true, but not enough—and you’re beginning to think it’s no longer the wine that has your head spinning so terribly.
Your husband hasn’t stopped his sweet nothings, murmured against the shell of your ear, coaxing, as if you can’t hear how breathy his own voice has become; as if you can’t feel how his hips grind upward into the spread of your thighs and his palm presses harder and it all squeezes more and more until you think you might pop from the pressure.
You gasp for air, scramble for purchase, anything to stop the madness as the ache blooms into a hot, tingling sensation that spreads through you and leaves you ever more lightheaded.
And then something breaks.
Whatever warmth had been flooding through you is replaced with one far more tangible, the goal Jing Yuan had been after the whole time, would have stopped at nothing to draw from you before the end of the night. In a sense, as soon as you feel it, there is relief—the physical kind of course, all-consuming as what you've been holding back comes rushing free, but also in the knowledge that you are one step closer to respite, even as your face burns and a darkened spot begins to spread upon your nightdress and your husband's robes and, surely, the bedding beneath him.
“That’s it,” Jing Yuan rumbles, warm and syrupy sweet. “There you are, my beautiful wife.”
The dam of your tears bursts at the sheer pride in his tone, great heaving sobs wracking you as he finally releases his grip around your waist only for thick, callused fingers to find your center, parting your sopping folds. The pads dip into your entrance, something of a tease, and your body clenches in automatic response even when they're gone as quickly as they'd appeared. Instead they find the throbbing bead of your undeniable arousal, even as you still gush with the release of your bladder, and set about bringing an entirely different release with the kind of intimate precision he has honed through countless nights as mind-melting as this one.
You're unsure if it's the still-foggy haze of your mind or the mortifying pleasure of your emptying bladder or the sheer unadulterated skill your infuriating husband has developed when it comes to your body (all three, most like), but all it takes is a few tight circles from his deft fingers before you come crashing over the cliff, turning your head back to muffle your keen into his chest as you gush. You hear the sound of it, feel it against your already drenched skin; flushed from your head to your toes, you focus on the waves of overloading bliss coursing through you, determined to wrench some form of satisfaction from this torturous happening.
For once Jing Yuan is silent. It's a blessing you have no time to enjoy—not when he's lifting you higher, turning you about, so fast and easy you might as well be one of his spoiled housecats plucked up and deposited into his lap. He has you on your back, legs to the sky, both ankles held achingly tight in one hand as he looms over you. Eyes wild, hair falling free from its ribbon, bare chest heaving, he pulls his robe open with haste to free the angry shaft you've been feeling this whole time and slot it between your sodden thighs.
Once, twice he thrusts, the head catching against your tender clit, then a third that ends with a stutter of his hips and a sticky spurt across your stomach before he collapses and finally releases his bruising hold on your legs.
And there you lay for seconds that stretch on into infinity, the warmth of it all slowly fading into a clammy, sopping mess. You wiggle your hips and get a protesting moan in turn, and suddenly red-hot indignation fills you.
“You’re sick. What madness has ahold of you?” you hiss, slamming your palm into his chest as he chuckles, warm and fond like you’re a pair of lovers and the utter mess of your lower half is proof of mutual passion and not whatever concoction of lewd desires he’s just subjected you to. “Let me go.”
“Ah,” he sighs, nosing against your jaw and then inhaling deeply as if to take you in. His mane of hair tickles at your neck and you reach up to grab it in an attempt to yank him away. It hardly moves him. “My dear, you spoil me.”
The indignant shriek that spills from your throat is muffled by a kiss—something ravenous, teeth catching your lower lip, tongue licking into your mouth like a conqueror. You’re breathless when you manage to pry yourself away and turn your face desperately into the bedding, but all it seems to do is give him access to nibble sweetly at your jugular.
“Call a maid,” you demand stubbornly, ignoring the shakiness of your voice, and finally he stills.
For a moment he’s quiet. Then he lets out a huff, breath hot against your skin.
“I will clean—“
“Not me. A maid will clean me.” Even to you it’s so terribly lacking in command.
You can feel the frown against your throat even before he pulls away. Still, he takes you by surprise—his hand slides beneath your neck, still wet, and holds you by the nape. Now, finally, he looks at you with that softness; there's a safety to it, the knowledge that he has glut himself enough to be satiated for the night and only wishes to hold you long into the morning. Still, that handsome face is displeased as it trails down your form.
His free hand reaches out to grip at bare thigh, easing your sodden skirts up higher and higher until you are bared to him, and his whole body—honed and hardened and scarred as it is—goes slack. Even his grip on your neck releases in favor of cradling your head.
“My darling wife,” he speaks softly, fingers trailing up along the inside of your thigh until they find the coarse, wiry hair of your mons and tangle themselves within it as you’d done mere moments ago to his alabaster locks, “if you think I would let any living soul see the mess I’ve made of you, I might suggest you don’t know me as well as you seem to think. I will clean you, bathe you, and bring you to your room.”
And hold you so tightly for the rest of the night that you might suffocate, you finish bitterly, but the general’s use of you as a living pillow for him to doze away with well into the morning is perhaps the most pleasant of his proclivities, so you choose not to protest as he hauls you to sitting and eases the fabric of your nightdress over your head—and pretend not to notice when he fists the fabric and lifts it to his face. Whether to nose or tongue you don’t wish to know, so you cast your gaze aside only to catch the wicked glint of the shattered glass strewn upon the floor next to the bed.
You hope he can see in your eyes how you’re thinking of those scattered blades stained scarlet with his blood. You think he can, if the way he drops your favorite nightdress over them and reaches out to brush the knuckle of his finger against your cheek is any indication.
He leans in to press a sticky kiss against your brow—then directs himself lower, catching your lips properly in something sweet, lingering, nearly yearning.
