( when mavis moves his hand, his fingers spread, trying to maximize the points of contact. feels the thunder of her heart beneath his fingertips, even through the fabric.
can she feel how his races to match? )
You're so warm.
( so very soft despite all her sharp edges. he used to dream about this, about touching her like this, but in the vague ways of dreams. )
[ she squeezes his hand before dropping hers back to his ribcage, exploring the dips of his muscles, the bulge of his shoulders. like claiming territory. he doesn't stop her, doesn't push, just squeezes and what soft parts of herself she gives him. it makes her stop, pressing her forehead to his. ]
( — or to have to stop. still, her question does make him pause, considering.
however, it hasn't escaped him, the position he's in. how it places her in a position of dominance and control. from there, it's not hard to move right along to their duel. the terms.
[ does it matter, what she wants? the question is dizzying.
mavis chews on her lip.
she has never had to answer these concerns before, never had to navigate the realities. she has seen couples continue to fight, glee in their eyes with the promise of a challenge. they had always seemed happiest. as aristaeus had put it: they'd seemed like partners.
it could be that he regrets the terms, that now that she was weak and defeatable, that he hadn't wanted her. maybe he thought her weak for yielding. or it could be that he is too injured, still, and she is some kind of pervert for taking advantage of his weakness.
the bond between them ripples as she probes at it. no. it's neither. it's honest. ]
You're supposed to. [ she swallows. ] You can't just give it to me without a fight. That's ... [ she's blushing. what kind of kinky shit. ]
I don't know; this sounds like an elaborate scheme to murder me while I'm weak and vulnerable.
( as close to teasing as he ever gets.
the question is how. moving too quickly pulls on his injuries. it doesn't take a genius to figure out that there's only so much luck he can count on, there.
he huffs, frustrated. then, inspired, he shifts his hand from her of her neck. ) Is this what you want?
( a rhetorical question. he can tell just how much she enjoys it. how her pulse spikes when he adds pressure. )
[ the dishonor wouldn't be in him sleeping; it'd be in her doing it after he'd already won the challenge.
it doesn't matter, in the end. his hand closes around her throat, and she tilts her chin up to give him room there, despite what she'd just finished saying about the lewdness of submission. a breathy noise eeks out of her and her fingers curl on his chest to make fists.
she shifts, and her weight on his pelvis offers a pleasant sort of friction. ] This ... [ she brings a hand to cover his, squeezes it on her throat. ] ... isn't about what I want. [ how embarrassing would it be, if it were? no. the whole point to him fighting is trying to take what he wants instead of letting her have what she does. ] What about you?
( she's honest, at least. if he'd been in her place, he can't be sure he wouldn't have gone through with it.
but then she's tilting her chin: it's an invitation that's at least half deflection. they'll be circling back to that later. )
What do I want? ( his fingers twitch around her throat, like he's testing how much she can take. ) Usually, I'd have you on your stomach by now. ( but fucking in the breeding center is absolutely nothing like fucking in the real world, it turns out. it's not neat and impersonal. there's no suppressants to smooth over all those jagged, unpleasant edges. )
But since we're improvising, I want you to take me out.
[ on her stomach. she remembers his hand in her hair and his knife around her throat and how it had reminded her of challenges she'd watched where they had not made it back to their tents or even out of the challenge circle before they were rutting together, how it made her ache to be wanted like that.
the image is disturbed by another. by black curtains and a soft robe and aristaeus, alone, in a room that he doesn't find cold but mavis does. the disparity knits a single line between her brows.
she takes his meaning, though. it is not the contest of wills and strength that her culture tells her this should be, a wrestling of control as they both try to conquer each other — but it's what she wants too. tentatively, she unfastens his pants, opens the fly and plunges her hand down inside.
his cock feels softer to the touch even than his lips, despite the stiffness of muscle, rigid like a dagger's hilt in her hand. the angle of her wrist is awkward, and the hand around her throat keeps her from looking down at him properly, but her thumb searches along the widened head, exploring the unfamiliar shape. she has never been close enough to a man to do this before. ]
( not that she needs the warning. her touch is tentative, if curious. the muscles in his stomach twitch and flutter; he is not used to this. it feels so ...indulgent.
it makes him restless. makes him want to claw his way right out of his skin. but, instead, he exhales a slow breath. tries to ground himself. )
If you're this curious, maybe next time I'll make you use your mouth.
Make me? [ she scoffs, then uses her other hand to prod at his shoulder, where she knows the wound is still healing. ] You aren't much of a challenge.
[ how willingly he surrendered. even now, with his hand squeezed around her neck, he is at her mercy. she closes her fist around his cock to remind him of this. ]
( he sucks in a breath; air hissing across his teeth, as he bucks up into the grip. there's a brief, confusing stretch of time where his body is insisting one thing while his mind is vehemently insisting on another.
they decide to split the difference. )
Big talk, ( the hand on her hip shifts, slapping down on her ass with enough force to ensure he has her attention. ) for someone whose life has been literally in my hands. Now either get me ready or get the fuck out of my bed.
[ she jolts, a shocked noise almost like a squeak erupting from her throat. higher and sharper than any she's made. it sounds like someone else's voice. this feels like someone else's life.
the cold air makes it sting worse, even after the initial pain is gone. like a burn, it prickles across her skin outward. ]
What do you mean? [ ready? she had only ever seen anyone fall into it. already fully hard, ready to press into the other. even as she asks it, her cheeks are reddening, her voice a little scratchy with the squeeze of his fingers around her throat. it's shameful, in a way. but it's not like she's conceding yet. it's not like she is eagerly complying. ]
Keep touching me. ( a memory filtering across the bond. that room, again. dark, soothing colors and a weight to his body that feels unnatural but is welcome all the same.
in the memory, he's touching himself: quick, perfunctory strokes that are meant to get the job done. what does it say that here, in reality, he's half-hard already? )
Stupid. [ she mumbles it out, even as she shifts her weight, the wet patch in her underwear made more irritating as it spreads. ] What do you think I'm doing?
[ he wants to tell himself he's in control, she decides, and she's had enough of that delusion. it is easy to intuit and mimic the stroking movements she has witnessed before — both between two rutting clan members, and in memory, with his own hand.
under her touch, he grows rigid in her hand. grows the operative word, and mavis' hips wriggle as anticipation crawls across her skin. there is a challenge in the size of him, where she has only ever had her own slim fingers to fill herself, and it begets a hunger in her. ]
( which is a strange thing to say out loud, especially when it's true. "playful" isn't the first word that comes to mind where she's concerned — much less this.
does it make it better or worse that it's working, though?
the cot groans. aristaeus, thoroughly distracted by mavis' clever fingers, isn't particularly concerned about the bed's structural integrity just now. rather, he's rolling up into the touch. )
I can play with it if I want. [ the roughness of her voice has nothing to do with his hand at her throat, which is loosening with distraction. the strokes of her fist grow more confident. ] You're not going to stop at me.
[ it feels lewd, rubbing his submission into his face. wrong in a way that is unfamiliar and exciting. her eyes fix on the taut tendons of his neck, the way his whole body clenches as he arches up into her touch. maybe he has the right idea, letting himself embrace the feeling. he certainly seems to be enjoying it. ]
( his eyebrow lifts. oh, so that's how it's going to be?
the decision to move happens in a split second — less of a chance that she reads him and reacts that way. it's an ambitious (and, frankly, ill-advised) move, and they narrowly avoid rolling right off the mattress in the process.
but they don't. he gets her under him, chest heaving from the exertion.
the pain is ... manageable, really. he's dealt with worse on the training yard; the tension in his jaw is just reflex. he has absolutely not gone soft. )
[ there's no comfortable, painless way to pin her, as it turns out. joints strain in uncomfortable directions, boney limbs knock together, and then she is flat on her back, hair a tangled mess against the pillow as she stares up at him.
it hurts him to do it. she can feel phantom pain in her own shoulders — she deserves to share that with him, she thinks. but it doesn't stop him.
she tries to surge up, to steal a kiss from him, all hunger awakened anew by recognizing itself in him. but his hand around her throat determines whether she makes it, even as she uses one hand to pull at the back of his neck, to draw him down to her, the other still fondling him. ]
her half-hearted attempts to dislodge him go nowhere ㅡ they weren't meant to, he thinks, so much as mavis wants to give that illusion of protest. to feel like she's been conquered again, and fully.
well, he's fine with obliging.
she's got her hand on him again, though, and the shiver passing through his body is only partly due to pain. )
Terror, ( he tells her, quite sincere. she has been a terror since the day they met; he wouldn't have it another way.
he bends to kiss her, his other hand slipping between them. there's a moment where he debates the merit of just tearing the clothing off her, but decides against it. there's no coin yo be frivolous, even if he is starting to suspect this was done deliberately. ) Next time don't wear so many layers.
[ underwear. a shirt. she'd shed the rest before joining him, desperate to leech from his warmth directly. it makes her face hot to think that even this is too much for him, abhorrent for the obstruction it provides.
a whimper as she squirms under the threat of his hand exploring the damp middle of those panties. her fingernails dig into the soft skin near his metal implant. ]
Just push it out of the way. [ her legs curl around him now, drawing him down to her with some urgency. ]
Still too many. ( it aggrieves him deeply, her need to wear clothes. particularly right now.
but shoving her underwear to the side is the kind of idea he can get behind. it's neat. efficient. they can review her need to wear underwear at all later.
her fingernails dig into his skin. it starts another cascade of feeling that's much harder to pin down. not quite pleasant, not quite a pain, just a hair to the left of being too much.
he exhales, fingers curling into the soiled fabric before pushing it aside. shoving it, really, because they've both waited enough already — and he has a point to prove. )
[ his fingertips brush against sticky, sensitive skin, and mavis shudders. a sense of clawing panic is buried under there, like something has gone wrong because no one has ever and her brain has therefore determined that no one should, except that she wants this and more. the eager twitch of her skin is proof enough of that.
she draws her legs tighter around him, as if by the sheer force of her heels bearing into the back of his thighs, she might drive him inside of her and relief the aching deficit. her spine arches slightly with the effort. she releases his cock only so that her hand, too, can pull at his waist, palm flat on the small of his back. ]
( it's a shame that he can't take a moment to admire her like this: skin flushed and hair mussed, looking every inch the wild desert creature.
it's a shame, but he's too busy aligning himself. with pressing in — thinking to be careful (because it turns out she hadn't be lying about her inexperience, and while he's not one to worry about the niceties generally, he also would rather avoid tears) but she's warm and slick and his focus slips, and he surges forward. )
Fuck — ( articulate to a fault.
the angle is all wrong. still, the heat of her body, the pressure and scent of her is ... it's a lot. but he realigns, tries again, and this time it's better. not easy, her body isn't used to this, but something clicks and it feels like something has shifted into focus around them, finally balanced. )
[ the first push is imperfect. she is slick inside, but his skin drags against hers. an awkward burning sensation startles her into digging her nails deeper into him.
but the next rock of his hips is better, more practiced, and she is able to figure out how to arch herself to slot against him, and he slides in and in and in until she holds all of him there within her, and she'd been right to wonder how he could fit, to think it an act of violence to make space for his cock inside of her, for though the stretch is numbingly sweet, that sense of fullness feels like being pushed to her very limits, to the muscle-shaking instant before collapse.
from her lips, a hungry sound. startled, breathy, half-pained and more like a yelp than anything she has ever heard from herself. she barely recognizes it as her own voice. is that the pitch or the feverish dizziness?
she wraps herself around him, squeezes, buries her face against the slope of his neck opposite where she had driven a knife into him and bites down like she means to take a piece of him with her. it's all she has to do, pinned beneath him this way, for when she tries to rock her hips, it's more wriggle than thrust, and there is only so much room for him to begin with, and the friction is dissatisfying. the next noise is more strangled, more needy, more insistent. ]
( it feels wrong to say she relaxes, but the tightness around him resolves into something more sustainable. (later, he will reflect on the fact that he should have been paying a little more attention to his own body and its reactions because — well. )
teeth pinch against his skin, and he bucks into her, harder and deeper like he's trying to get at the very core of her. this, at least, feels familiar. that moment when instinct kicks in and things become markedly more simple. that she's marked him again, a second (or is it third, now?) time sends a frisson of something through his veins.
the audacity of this girl.
he grunts and, on the next thrust, things spill over. a heady rush of sensation that knocks the wind out of him. )
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can she feel how his races to match? )
You're so warm.
( so very soft despite all her sharp edges. he used to dream about this, about touching her like this, but in the vague ways of dreams. )
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[ she squeezes his hand before dropping hers back to his ribcage, exploring the dips of his muscles, the bulge of his shoulders. like claiming territory. he doesn't stop her, doesn't push, just squeezes and what soft parts of herself she gives him. it makes her stop, pressing her forehead to his. ]
You're not fighting back.
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( — or to have to stop. still, her question does make him pause, considering.
however, it hasn't escaped him, the position he's in. how it places her in a position of dominance and control. from there, it's not hard to move right along to their duel. the terms.
he wets his lip. ) Do you want me to fight you?
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mavis chews on her lip.
she has never had to answer these concerns before, never had to navigate the realities. she has seen couples continue to fight, glee in their eyes with the promise of a challenge. they had always seemed happiest. as aristaeus had put it: they'd seemed like partners.
it could be that he regrets the terms, that now that she was weak and defeatable, that he hadn't wanted her. maybe he thought her weak for yielding. or it could be that he is too injured, still, and she is some kind of pervert for taking advantage of his weakness.
the bond between them ripples as she probes at it. no. it's neither. it's honest. ]
You're supposed to. [ she swallows. ] You can't just give it to me without a fight. That's ... [ she's blushing. what kind of kinky shit. ]
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( as close to teasing as he ever gets.
the question is how. moving too quickly pulls on his injuries. it doesn't take a genius to figure out that there's only so much luck he can count on, there.
he huffs, frustrated. then, inspired, he shifts his hand from her of her neck. ) Is this what you want?
( a rhetorical question. he can tell just how much she enjoys it. how her pulse spikes when he adds pressure. )
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[ the dishonor wouldn't be in him sleeping; it'd be in her doing it after he'd already won the challenge.
it doesn't matter, in the end. his hand closes around her throat, and she tilts her chin up to give him room there, despite what she'd just finished saying about the lewdness of submission. a breathy noise eeks out of her and her fingers curl on his chest to make fists.
she shifts, and her weight on his pelvis offers a pleasant sort of friction. ] This ... [ she brings a hand to cover his, squeezes it on her throat. ] ... isn't about what I want. [ how embarrassing would it be, if it were? no. the whole point to him fighting is trying to take what he wants instead of letting her have what she does. ] What about you?
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but then she's tilting her chin: it's an invitation that's at least half deflection. they'll be circling back to that later. )
What do I want? ( his fingers twitch around her throat, like he's testing how much she can take. ) Usually, I'd have you on your stomach by now. ( but fucking in the breeding center is absolutely nothing like fucking in the real world, it turns out. it's not neat and impersonal. there's no suppressants to smooth over all those jagged, unpleasant edges. )
But since we're improvising, I want you to take me out.
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the image is disturbed by another. by black curtains and a soft robe and aristaeus, alone, in a room that he doesn't find cold but mavis does. the disparity knits a single line between her brows.
she takes his meaning, though. it is not the contest of wills and strength that her culture tells her this should be, a wrestling of control as they both try to conquer each other — but it's what she wants too. tentatively, she unfastens his pants, opens the fly and plunges her hand down inside.
his cock feels softer to the touch even than his lips, despite the stiffness of muscle, rigid like a dagger's hilt in her hand. the angle of her wrist is awkward, and the hand around her throat keeps her from looking down at him properly, but her thumb searches along the widened head, exploring the unfamiliar shape. she has never been close enough to a man to do this before. ]
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( not that she needs the warning. her touch is tentative, if curious. the muscles in his stomach twitch and flutter; he is not used to this. it feels so ...indulgent.
it makes him restless. makes him want to claw his way right out of his skin. but, instead, he exhales a slow breath. tries to ground himself. )
If you're this curious, maybe next time I'll make you use your mouth.
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[ how willingly he surrendered. even now, with his hand squeezed around her neck, he is at her mercy. she closes her fist around his cock to remind him of this. ]
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they decide to split the difference. )
Big talk, ( the hand on her hip shifts, slapping down on her ass with enough force to ensure he has her attention. ) for someone whose life has been literally in my hands. Now either get me ready or get the fuck out of my bed.
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the cold air makes it sting worse, even after the initial pain is gone. like a burn, it prickles across her skin outward. ]
What do you mean? [ ready? she had only ever seen anyone fall into it. already fully hard, ready to press into the other. even as she asks it, her cheeks are reddening, her voice a little scratchy with the squeeze of his fingers around her throat. it's shameful, in a way. but it's not like she's conceding yet. it's not like she is eagerly complying. ]
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in the memory, he's touching himself: quick, perfunctory strokes that are meant to get the job done. what does it say that here, in reality, he's half-hard already? )
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[ he wants to tell himself he's in control, she decides, and she's had enough of that delusion. it is easy to intuit and mimic the stroking movements she has witnessed before — both between two rutting clan members, and in memory, with his own hand.
under her touch, he grows rigid in her hand. grows the operative word, and mavis' hips wriggle as anticipation crawls across her skin. there is a challenge in the size of him, where she has only ever had her own slim fingers to fill herself, and it begets a hunger in her. ]
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( which is a strange thing to say out loud, especially when it's true. "playful" isn't the first word that comes to mind where she's concerned — much less this.
does it make it better or worse that it's working, though?
the cot groans. aristaeus, thoroughly distracted by mavis' clever fingers, isn't particularly concerned about the bed's structural integrity just now. rather, he's rolling up into the touch. )
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[ it feels lewd, rubbing his submission into his face. wrong in a way that is unfamiliar and exciting. her eyes fix on the taut tendons of his neck, the way his whole body clenches as he arches up into her touch. maybe he has the right idea, letting himself embrace the feeling. he certainly seems to be enjoying it. ]
You like being helpless.
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the decision to move happens in a split second — less of a chance that she reads him and reacts that way. it's an ambitious (and, frankly, ill-advised) move, and they narrowly avoid rolling right off the mattress in the process.
but they don't. he gets her under him, chest heaving from the exertion.
the pain is ... manageable, really. he's dealt with worse on the training yard; the tension in his jaw is just reflex. he has absolutely not gone soft. )
Maybe I just wanted you to do all the work?
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it hurts him to do it. she can feel phantom pain in her own shoulders — she deserves to share that with him, she thinks. but it doesn't stop him.
she tries to surge up, to steal a kiss from him, all hunger awakened anew by recognizing itself in him. but his hand around her throat determines whether she makes it, even as she uses one hand to pull at the back of his neck, to draw him down to her, the other still fondling him. ]
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her half-hearted attempts to dislodge him go nowhere ㅡ they weren't meant to, he thinks, so much as mavis wants to give that illusion of protest. to feel like she's been conquered again, and fully.
well, he's fine with obliging.
she's got her hand on him again, though, and the shiver passing through his body is only partly due to pain. )
Terror, ( he tells her, quite sincere. she has been a terror since the day they met; he wouldn't have it another way.
he bends to kiss her, his other hand slipping between them. there's a moment where he debates the merit of just tearing the clothing off her, but decides against it. there's no coin yo be frivolous, even if he is starting to suspect this was done deliberately. ) Next time don't wear so many layers.
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[ underwear. a shirt. she'd shed the rest before joining him, desperate to leech from his warmth directly. it makes her face hot to think that even this is too much for him, abhorrent for the obstruction it provides.
a whimper as she squirms under the threat of his hand exploring the damp middle of those panties. her fingernails dig into the soft skin near his metal implant. ]
Just push it out of the way. [ her legs curl around him now, drawing him down to her with some urgency. ]
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but shoving her underwear to the side is the kind of idea he can get behind. it's neat. efficient. they can review her need to wear underwear at all later.
her fingernails dig into his skin. it starts another cascade of feeling that's much harder to pin down. not quite pleasant, not quite a pain, just a hair to the left of being too much.
he exhales, fingers curling into the soiled fabric before pushing it aside. shoving it, really, because they've both waited enough already — and he has a point to prove. )
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she draws her legs tighter around him, as if by the sheer force of her heels bearing into the back of his thighs, she might drive him inside of her and relief the aching deficit. her spine arches slightly with the effort. she releases his cock only so that her hand, too, can pull at his waist, palm flat on the small of his back. ]
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it's a shame, but he's too busy aligning himself. with pressing in — thinking to be careful (because it turns out she hadn't be lying about her inexperience, and while he's not one to worry about the niceties generally, he also would rather avoid tears) but she's warm and slick and his focus slips, and he surges forward. )
Fuck — ( articulate to a fault.
the angle is all wrong. still, the heat of her body, the pressure and scent of her is ... it's a lot. but he realigns, tries again, and this time it's better. not easy, her body isn't used to this, but something clicks and it feels like something has shifted into focus around them, finally balanced. )
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but the next rock of his hips is better, more practiced, and she is able to figure out how to arch herself to slot against him, and he slides in and in and in until she holds all of him there within her, and she'd been right to wonder how he could fit, to think it an act of violence to make space for his cock inside of her, for though the stretch is numbingly sweet, that sense of fullness feels like being pushed to her very limits, to the muscle-shaking instant before collapse.
from her lips, a hungry sound. startled, breathy, half-pained and more like a yelp than anything she has ever heard from herself. she barely recognizes it as her own voice. is that the pitch or the feverish dizziness?
she wraps herself around him, squeezes, buries her face against the slope of his neck opposite where she had driven a knife into him and bites down like she means to take a piece of him with her. it's all she has to do, pinned beneath him this way, for when she tries to rock her hips, it's more wriggle than thrust, and there is only so much room for him to begin with, and the friction is dissatisfying. the next noise is more strangled, more needy, more insistent. ]
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teeth pinch against his skin, and he bucks into her, harder and deeper like he's trying to get at the very core of her. this, at least, feels familiar. that moment when instinct kicks in and things become markedly more simple. that she's marked him again, a second (or is it third, now?) time sends a frisson of something through his veins.
the audacity of this girl.
he grunts and, on the next thrust, things spill over. a heady rush of sensation that knocks the wind out of him. )
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