<h1>Contents</h1>
<div><h3>Nash</h3>
» [[OC Kiss Week 2023|nash - oc kiss week 2023]] <br>
» [[Shower - pt 1|nash - shower 1]]<br>
» [[Shower - pt2|nash - shower 2]]<br>
» [[24-Hour Nash Lockdown|nash lockdown]]<br>
» [[Nash - Competition|nash - april 2023]]<br>
» [[Bonus content - Injured Nash|nash-injury]]<br>
» [[Nash POV: Chapter One|nashpov-c1]]</div>
<div><h3>Rohan</h3>
» [[OC Kiss Week 2023|rohan - oc kiss week 2023]]<br>
» [[Rivalmance|rohan - rivalmance]]<br>
» [[Rohan backstory|rohan-pov]]</div>
<div><h3>Leanna</h3>
» [[OC Kiss Week 2023|leanna - oc kiss week 2023]] <br>
» [[OC Kiss Week 2022|leanna - oc kiss week 2022]]<br>
» [[Leanna POV (NSFW)|leanna - POV]]<br>
» [[Leanna POV - Chapter One|leanna pov]]</div>
<div><h3>Ki-Ha</h3>
» [[OC Kiss Week 2023|ki-ha - oc kiss week 2023]]<br>
» [[OC Kiss Week 2022|ki-ha - oc kiss week 2022]]<br>
» [[Ki-Ha POV: Chapter One|ki-ha pov]]</div>
<div><h3>Rhaxa</h3>
» [[OC Kiss Week 2023|rhaxa - oc kiss week 2023]] <br>
» [['"I like being close to you - you\'re warm."'|rhaxa 3]]<br>
» [[Chapter One: Rhaxa POV]]</div>
<div><h3>Imxa</h3>
» [[OC Kiss Week 2023|imxa - oc kiss week 2023]] <br>
» [[OC Kiss Week 2022|imxa - oc kiss week 2022]]</div>
<div><h3>IVI</h3>
» [[IVI Design]]</div><h3>Imxa: OC Kiss Week 2023</h3>
<h4>No content warnings.</h4>
Her laugh rumbles through you, low and heated, her eyes - always unblinking, always intent - unreadable as she curves her thumb, the sharp edge of one claw biting into your lower lip.
“That you have,” she murmurs, and the praise sits warm in your chest, heat blossoming through you as you lean into the coolness of her touch. She leans forward slightly, tail twisting around your ankle as heat rises in your cheeks, heart beat picking up. She toys with your lip, dragging it down, claw sharp against the soft skin.
Never breaking eye contact, you close your mouth around her thumb. Let her feel your teeth, a soft bite. She tastes of metal, like licking the blade of a knife, and even as you hollow out your cheeks and suck, drawing a low growl from somewhere in her chest, your skin prickles, hindbrain screaming.
She hisses, soft and impatient. Drags her hand from your mouth - your teeth catch her scales, and it has to be painful but she doesn’t comment, dropping from the booth you’re in and hauling you to your feet. You laugh as you’re all but dragged from the bar - other patrons discreetly turning away, apparently unconcerned for your safety.
Maybe they saw you sucking on her finger and decided it’s none of their business. Maybe they took a look at Imxa, with her broken claws and jagged teeth, and decided there’s no hope for you.
They’d be correct, either way.
She bundles you out of the bar, cold air hitting you both hard as you stumble on the icy pavement, leaning your weight against her with a laugh. The alcohol’s warm in your stomach, stokes the fire Imxa’s proximity is setting. She curls an arm around your waist, hauling you in close, and buries her nose in your neck. You shiver, arching against her, your hands sliding up cool scales as her teeth graze your throat.
“Imxa-” Your voice doesn’t sound like //you//. Too breathless, too needy. Imxa hums, the vibration coiling low in your stomach. You lean more against her, tilt your head up - exposing your neck, baring yourself to her, and she drags her claws up the column of your throat, more gentle than you’d expected, claws just barely grazing your skin. “We should- somewhere more private…”
You trail off as she trails one finger down your neck, hovering over your collar. Your heart’s pounding under the thin skin, nerves and arousal burning in heady combination in your gut, lips parting in a soft gasp as the sharp edge of her claw bites into your skin.
“Sure,” she purrs, soft and teasing in your ear. Nips at your earlobe with those vicious teeth. Takes a couple of steps forward, pushing you back until you’re pinned against the wall, arching away from the cold concrete with a gasp. You’re in an alcove - can barely call it an alley, just a small inset off the street outside the bar. An old doorway, now filled in, maybe.
Imxa’s jaws close over your shoulder, and all thoughts of doorways and alcoves flee your mind. You groan, slide your hands down the sleek scales of her back to the rangy muscles of her thighs, gripping tight. Your voice is barely recognisable, a desperate rasp dragged from low in your chest.
“Imxa…”
Her hand is cold, splayed across your stomach. You tilt your hips invitingly, earn another low ripple of laughter as her claws bite crimson into the soft skin above your waistband.
“Here?”
Her voice is soft. Teasing. A streetlamp spills toxic orange light onto the damp, dirty stones, pooling on the street nearby. Your mouth is dry, her hands only slightly warmer than the air around you. You have to bite your lip to keep from moaning as her hand drifts lower. Wrap your fingers around her wrist, and you’re not sure if you’re going to hold her back or encourage her, heart pulsing in your throat. She tilts her head, waiting, predatory, unblinking eyes fixed on you.
You lick your lips.
“Home.”
Your voice is rough, her laugh rougher.
“Now.”<h3>Rhaxa: OC Kiss Week 2023</h3>
<h4>No content warnings.</h4>
You know them well enough, by now, to know the limits. Know they won’t mind as you push them over, onto their back, settling your weight across their torso like a warm blanket, stretching along the length of them and dragging your palm down the curve of their neck. They bury their face in the crook of your shoulder, cool and dry and smooth like river-rocks, their tail curling around your ankle as you throw your head to the side. Your spine’s a line of molten heat, arching up of its own volition; Rhaxa’s tongue is light against your pulse, tasting your skin slow and leisurely, and you moan softly, encouragingly.
They shift, rolling you back against the cushions of the couch, drag their cheek against yours, nip at your ear with teeth meant for killing, not pleasure. You shudder.
Your skin never feels quite as soft as this, as when they’ve got their teeth on you and you know they could rip your throat out in an instant. Crane your neck back to give them better access, and Rhaxa makes a sound - not really a sound, you feel it more than you hear it, shuddering from their chest to yours - as his teeth score furrows in the skin over your pulse. You’re squirming, pushing yourself against him, alight with restless energy, clothes too constricting, skin too hot except in the places where he touches you, smooth and sharp and soothing. Their claws leave little lines of fire in your skin, tiny sparks travelling up your spine. You’re panting, making harsh little sounds as Rhaxa nudges his nose against your collarbone, slow and relaxed.
He makes his way down your body, idly pushing your clothes out the way. Apparently determined to make it last, you groan as xe rubs xir jaw over your ribs, over your chest; the texture of scales scraping over one nipple has you gasping, thighs twitching. Your hands scrabble against xir neck, nothing to grip onto, and there’s a certain eroticism to that, a heat to the reminder of what you’re doing.
What you’re doing it //with//.
The air smells like sweat and oranges. Your mouth tastes of salt. You’re half-sitting, sprawled back against the couch cushion with your shirt rucked up around your shoulders. Exposed.
Vulnerable.
Rhaxa drags his tongue from your navel up your sternum, claws around your hips to keep you still as you arch up, gasping. Comes to a halt at the dip of your collar, lingers there. You squirm. Duck your head to press your lips to the scales under xir eye, xir jaw, letting xem feel your teeth. They let out another low rumble, craning their neck, and twist, pressing their muzzle against your mouth.
It’s not really a kiss; can’t really //be// a kiss, given their lack of lips, but you don’t find that too much of an obstacle as you lick at xir teeth, hands curled around xir jaw. Drag your tongue over theirs, the sensation eliciting sounds from both of you.
You’re still not quite sure if //eroticism// means the same thing to him; if he feels the same urgent, searing heat that you do. Not quite sure it translates.
What you //do// know is that he likes the affection. The closeness, the contact. Your hands on his body, his wings curled around you both, every part of your body craning for his.
You think they like the neediness, too. The way you’re gripping them, too tight, nails pulling at the edges of scales, your voice hitching on a moan.
Perhaps they don’t need //erotic//; perhaps it means the same thing. Maybe the citrus-sharp scent in the air is the same as your gasps, your throaty murmurs as Rhaxa slithers down your body, making sure to drag their hands across as much skin as they’re able. You shift your hips, let them drag your clothes out of the way and push your thighs open.
Gasp at the first cold touch of their cheek on your sensitive skin. You’d been worried about this, at first; it had occurred to you to research, to find out if this could hurt them. Or you. You’re no prude, but anaphylaxis isn’t sexy.
Apparently, it can’t. Or they just don’t care. They are, after all, omnivores - a joke you know Rhaxa doesn’t entirely //get// (though it had earned a hyena-like cackle from Imxa), but you don’t need xem to get your jokes when xir head’s between your legs, scales rough against the soft skin of your thighs. The first drag of their tongue is electric, sizzles up your spine.
Cooler than a human tongue. Longer, too. More mobile. They hold your legs open with their claws, serration digging sharp little crescents into your skin, and though they’re being careful - always being so careful with you, and you almost wish they weren’t - you can feel the occasional brush of fangs, the threat of those teeth never far from your mind.
It adds something. Another layer of danger. You’ve always had your wires crossed, there; something connected wrong in your brain, that frisson of fear rapidly melting into something hot and slick at the base of your spine, has you gasping and rolling your hips up for more. There’s no leverage, nothing to grab onto on Rhaxa’s smooth head, so you hold the sofa cushion instead, one hand buried in your own hair in sharp, grounding pressure, the other aching with the force of your grip. Let your head drop back, throat exposed, panting at the ceiling as Rhaxa hauls you closer, increases the pressure of xir tongue.
It doesn’t take long. You’d be embarrassed, if you weren’t too busy watching white dots swim behind your eyes. Rhaxa’s got you pinned to the couch, stilling your thrashing, but there’s not much they can do about the cry that tears from your throat, eyes rolling back in your head as you come, hard and sudden, every muscle in your body coiling tight.
They wait for you to come down, easing their grip a little. Soothe some of the sharper marks on your thighs with gentle licks, nudges of their nose. Then, just as you’re starting to get your breath back, slumped limp into the cushions, they press their mouth back against you. Your gasp is sharp, startled, body wrung out and protesting at the sensitivity, the ache of it - too much, too soon - but Rhaxa doesn’t stop, and you can’t bring yourself to tell them to before the discomfort starts to fade, replaced all over again by molten heat. You whine, dropping your head back and all but melting into the sofa.
It’s going to be a long night. At some point, you’ll probably have to drag them up for air, but-
-but not yet.<h3>Leanna: OC Kiss Week 2023</h3>
<h4>No content warnings.</h4>
You chuckle, press your face into the curve of her neck. Feel her pulse pounding under your lips as she cranes her head back, arching into you. Scraping your teeth against her soft skin, you can taste salt, sweat, the slightest hint of body lotion and perfume, a heady, intoxicating mix. Your hands are wandering, sliding over the soft curves of her body - her hips, her waist, her stomach, lazily cupping one breast as you kiss her neck, and she hums, fingers tangling in your hair, mumbles //baby// into your cheek and tugs you up for a hungry kiss, wet and messy.
You hook your fingers in her belt, tug her away from the stove - safety-minded, that’s you - and push her back against the table across the room, where the air is cooler and less humid, where there’s space for you to grip her waist and lift her onto the surface, her legs wrapping around your hips instinctively. You grind against her, both of your moans lost in another desperate kiss, your hands roaming more insistently, now. She tugs your shirt up, nails scraping over your back, little lines of heat blooming and twisting under your skin as you drop your mouth to her collar, hear her panting above you. Kiss your way down, pushing fabric out of the way, unbuttoning her shirt to nip at the swell of her chest, drag your thumb over her nipple, standing out through the lacy material of her bra. Take a moment to flash her a heated look, catching the material with your teeth and letting it snap back against her skin.
“Pulled out //all// the stops tonight, huh?”
“Thought I’d treat you.” Her voice is breathless, her eyes bright. “Like it?”
“Mmh.” You close your mouth over her nipple, drag your tongue over the silky material. Suck, hard, her hand clenching in your hair, hips jerking up against you as she arches her back. Her other hand clenches in the tablecloth, one glass of wine tipping over. You both ignore it, even as the smell of wine fills the air, far less intoxicating than the scent of her skin, the sounds she makes as you kiss your way down her stomach, hook your fingers in her waistband.
You’re both too impatient to linger: she raises her hips as you fumble with her zipper, tug her jeans down off her legs. Leave the lacy underwear on, though. Wouldn’t want the effort she’s put in to go to waste, after all.
You take a minute to appreciate the view, running your hands up her thighs. She’s leaning back on her elbows, fixing you with a heated look; her shirt’s unbuttoned, loose around her shoulders, the soft burgundy lace of her lingerie rich against the candlelit glow of her skin.
You skim your thumbs over the lace, feel her thighs flex, stomach tensing, and smile.
“Yeah. I like it.”
Her grin is bright, searing as she reaches down to take your hand, press it more firmly against herself. She’s wet; you can feel it through the fabric, shivering as you gently push her thighs apart to give yourself better access and press your thumb against her clit. Leanna tilts her head back, curve of her throat exposed as she moans, and you lean forwards to press your lips to it, scattering kisses along her neck, her collar, before dropping to your knees. Hook your arms under her thighs to drag her closer to you, right on the edge of the table, and drag your tongue up the muscle of her inner thigh, nip at the soft skin at the edge of her underwear. Her fingers comb through your hair, her laugh strangled as she meets your eye.
“Tease.”
“You went to all this effort.” You scatter more kisses along her thighs, lips skimming over the place between her legs. “I’m just appreciating it.”
Her chest heaves as you press a featherlight kiss to her centre, dip your fingers under the fabric to drag through the wetness there.
“Appreciate it //faster//.”
You have to muffle your laugh in her thigh, and when you look back up at her, her eyes are bright and warm.<h3>Ki-Ha: OC Kiss Week 2023</h3>
<h4>No content warnings.</h4>
You can feel the shudder down your spine, thighs tightening around his as his breath fans hot across your fingers. His thumb presses into your palm, fingers twitching under the pressure, flexing involuntarily; Ki-Ha ducks his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours, lips brushing over the sensitive web of skin between your thumb and forefinger. Dragging up the length of your thumb, brushing over the pad of your fingertip, and your lips part as he kisses it gently, soft and chaste and innocent as the sky, save for the way he’s watching you. Taking you apart with his eyes, and he’s only kissing your hand but you might as well already be naked for the way you’re //aching//, throat tight, spine arched with the effort of keeping still.
“Ki-Ha-”
His name comes out breathless, a plea for mercy you know isn’t coming as his eyes flash. When he hums, you can feel the vibration in your fingers, the rough brush of his stubble sharp against your sensitive skin.
“Hm?”
“I-” you lick your lips, gratified by the way his eyes dart down, and let yourself grind down just to hear his shaky exhale, rolling your hips against his thigh. His hand catches your hip, encouraging you to keep moving as he cups your jaw with his other hand, thumb dragging over your lower lip. You tilt your head back, grip on your self-restraint loosening just a little more as you grind against him, closing your lips over his thumb. He groans as you suck, hard, suddenly impatient, teeth scraping over his skin as you meet his eyes. Hold his gaze, captivated - and, if his expression is anything to go by, captivating in turn - and desperate, swirling your tongue around his thumb as you roll your hips down. Ki-Ha settles back, apparently content to let you do the work: drags his other hand lazily over your abdomen, teasing, fingers dipping below your waistband, over your navel.
He drags his thumb from your mouth, presses it warm and wet to your lower lip, forcing your mouth open. Your stomach is tight, thighs aching with the strain as you rock against him, and if you’re not careful you’re gonna come like this, fully clothed and riding his lap. The thought isn’t offputting; if anything, the idea coils the heat in your stomach a little tighter, has you grinding down a little harder, body twitching as you groan. Ki-Ha hums again, contemplative and thoughtful and unfairly composed, hand curling around your ass to tug you closer.
“C’mere,” he grunts, hooks his other hand in your collar, pulls you down so he can kiss you, hard and wet and searingly hot, groans as you nip at his lower lip, your movements jerky and erratic, your teeth clacking together. You drag your tongue over his, gasp sharply as he twitches, rolls his hips up against you. Your lips are wet and swollen, your nerves singing, voice coming breathy and staccato as you mumble into his mouth.
“Ki-Ha- I- fuck-”
You’re incoherent, biting out swearwords and moans and something that could be his name, over and over, and it’s when he growls your name, low and hot against your neck that you break, coming with a punched-out gasp. Your vision goes white, eyes rolling back, hands gripping his arms hard enough to leave bruises, and it’s several long moments before you melt against him, slumping into his arms with a hum, face buried in his neck. He lets you sit that way for a while, gently stroking your hair, your back, scattering kisses over your cheek and neck. When you’ve started to regain some semblance of responsiveness, he takes you by the jaw, makes you meet his eyes. Touches your lower lip with his thumb, eyes sparkling.
“You were saying something about resting?”
“Mmh.” You kiss his thumb again, lean in to press your forehead to his. “Definitely. We should both be in bed right now. Preferably the same one.”
He laughs, warm and rough. Squeezes your arm gently. “Lead the way.”
“Alright.”
After a long moment, in which you don’t move save for a few deep breaths, you clear your throat.
“I’m going. Once my legs are working.”<h3>Nash: OC Kiss Week 2023</h3>
<h4>No content warnings.</h4>
Their hands are warm, tentative where they rest on your arms, their body heavy over yours. Their thumbs dig into your wrists, rub gentle circles over your pulse, and their eyelashes brush your cheek as they blink, your own eyes drifting blissfully closed as they press kisses to your cheek, your earlobe, the curve of your throat. You arch your back, tilt your head to expose more neck, hum with satisfaction as their teeth drag against the soft skin under your ear. You’re pleasantly boneless beneath them, limp and pliant as they lazily work their way down your throat, lingering over your pulse with soft lips.
You //could// break free of the hold they’ve got on your wrists. It’s tempting - the idea of freeing your hands, running your fingers through their hair, tugging it loose from its severe bun (wisps pulling free, now, whispering across your skin in a way that’s both ticklish and promising) - or just //tugging// it, slanting their head so you can kiss them properly, so they’ll stop teasing you and-
-they tug your wrists a little higher up the bed, stretching you out as they grind their hips down, and you arch into them with a groan.
Maybe there //is// something to be said for this position.
Still, you’re only human, and you don’t have Nash’s endless patience. You hook a leg over their hip, grinding shamelessly up against them and grinning as they huff, breath hot against your neck, dropping their forehead to press against your collarbone.
“Nash-” You rasp it out with a needy sound, arching again - and you hadn’t meant to show your hand //quite// so much, but their reply, muffled and hot against your neck, is just as broken. Settles under your skin, blossoming under your pulse.
“Fuck it,” you mumble. Plant your other leg on the bed for leverage and push up, snapping your hands from their grip. One goes to their hair, curling into the soft silk mass of it, twisting until it tugs tight against your fingers and you tug their head back, bite at their lips in a vicious kiss. Your other hand twists in their collar, keeping them flush against you as you push them back, clambering inelegantly into their lap and chasing their lips with yours. They groan, ragged and harsh as you snap at their mouth, lick at their teeth. It’s messy, heated, has you both gasping and gripping at one another, and the sound Nash makes as you grind down into their lap is downright filthy, panting into your mouth, their hand curling around the back of your neck.
You snarl into their mouth - all of it not //enough//, too many clothes between you, desperate kisses only serving to feed the ache of it, twisting up your insides tighter and tighter until something has to snap. You push forward, tugging their hair back. With a low groan, Nash concedes, leaning back, never breaking their mouth from yours as they try to shift their legs.
In retrospect, you probably should have seen this coming. A single bed isn’t //ideal// for these sorts of activities (you’ve ended up on the floor before, though never so dramatically), and neither you nor Nash are exactly //unobtrusive//.
Still, you might’ve been paying a little more attention. As it is, you have a moment to register them freezing, mouth opening against yours in a decidedly unsexy way - and then you’re falling, hitting the ground hard. Your landing is softened; Nash’s, not so much. They grunt as they hit the floor, your weight crashing on top of their chest a moment later and knocking the air from their lungs. You’re fumbling, struggling to push yourself upright, take your weight off them, and it takes you a second to notice the shaking of their shoulders, the way they sling an arm over their eyes. You pause in your efforts, rest your hands on their chest (feel it shaking under your palms) and tilt your head, grinning down at them.
“That was on purpose.”
“Uh-huh.” They drop their arm, pillow it behind their head, and return your grin. Their other hand finds your thigh, squeezes it gently. “If you’ve had enough, you can just say. No need to throw me out of bed.”
You lean down, press your chest against theirs. Rest your chin on their collarbone, and grin as they comb their fingers through your hair.
“Never.”<h3>Rohan: OC Kiss Week 2023</h3>
<h4>No content warnings.</h4>
You pull back, stare at xem for a moment in the clinging darkness. No vivid green, here, no pale blonde - just muted greys and blacks, the pair of you reduced to a single shape, your outlines blurring together.
Rohan tilts xir head, baring xir neck in a clear invitation.
You take it.
Drop your mouth to xir pulse, gentle until you find the bruise you’ve already left and bite down, and xe gasps, jaw flexing against your cheek as xir mouth falls open, xir hips arcing up against you. Your jaw aches, your teeth wet and coppery, and something sticky smears your lips as you drag them down the arch of xir throat, scrape them against xir sharp-edged collar. Xe’s only wearing a loose t-shirt - //your// t-shirt, in fact - and it’s easy to shove it up, out of the way around xir shoulders, press the length of your body back against xem as you drop your mouth to one nipple and bite down. Slide two fingers into xir mouth, over the sharp edge of xir teeth, muffling the sound xe makes as you suck hard, swirl your tongue around the metal barbell. Xir lips close over your fingers, xir tongue dragging over the sensitive skin; you hum, ducking your head further to leave a bite mark on xir ribs, something fierce swelling in your chest. The searing heat of it burns away the sepsis, the chill in your blood replaced with scorching, agonising //want//, brutal and demanding.
Rohan mirrors it, teeth sharp against your fingers, hand curling hard in your hair to drag you back up to xir mouth, your teeth clacking together in a bloody smear of a kiss. You wrap your wet fingers around xir throat, just tight enough to feel the tendons under your palm, to feel xir moan as you press the other between xir legs, wrist bent at an awkward angle to fit between you. Xir breath shudders, comes fast and harsh, hands curling around your hips as xe tries to move, unable to shift under your weight. It doesn’t take long; neither of you are in control, Rohan pinned to the ground with your hand around xir throat, your every nerve and muscle fibre alight with tension, and within a few minutes xir back arches, a hoarse cry tearing from xir throat as you kiss xem, exhale shakily into xir mouth.
Xir hand curls in your hair, body going limp beneath you. Xir lips are slack, your own swollen and bruised; you can still taste blood, and you’re not sure whose it is. You’re on a knife-edge, ready to snap at any moment, breathing hard against Rohan’s mouth.
Xe nudges your nose with xir own. Xir voice is rough, wrecked, and the words alone are nearly enough to break you.
“Tell me what you need.”
You’re not sure - need xem to stay here, like this, warm and loose and sharing your air, need xem never to move again; you need xem //begging//, pleading, clinging to you the way you’re clinging to xem. You snap at xir lip, push xir thigh up until it hooks over your hip.
“Say my name.”
Xe says it.
Then, when you line yourself up, snap your hips against xirs with brutal force, xe screams it, and this time, there’s no //nearly// about it.<h3>Nash: Shower (Pt 2)</h3>
<h4>No content warnings.</h4>
They’re in the shower when you get back. You can hear the water running, the soft splashes of movement as you drop your bag on the floor and flop down across the bed. It’s still light out, though the sky outside is tinged steel-orange, clouds gathering ominously on the horizon. The wind through the open window is cold, picking up speed.
With a groan, you straighten, amble across the room to close it. You’re left in silence, the sound of water filling the room. You think about asking Nash how long they’ll be; it’s been a long day, and you could use a shower, yourself.
Then again…
The wooden door is warm when you lay a hand against it. It’s not locked; steam billows around you as you step inside, and you have to suppress a smile at their consistency.
“What are you doing?”
They’re just a dark shape, blurry behind the fogged-up glass, but you can see enough to know they’re scowling as they turn to face you. You grin. Shrug one shoulder.
“Thought I’d join you.”
There’s a pause. You imagine their throat working, swallowing hard.
“You could’ve knocked.”
“Yeah…” you tilt your head, take a step closer to stand on the other side of the glass. Hook your hands in your shirt, and slowly lift. “Probably.”
Nash doesn’t reply.
You pause, shirt still held half-up. The air is hot and clammy on your skin, heart beating close to the surface, nipples pebbling as the fabric drags over them. Sink your teeth into your lip, and flash a smile you know they can see, their eyes flickering downwards.
“So?”
Nash blinks. Their head moves, pulling back to look at your face. “So?”
“You want me to leave?”
They don’t reply. Through the smoky glass, you can’t read their face, can’t tell if it’s nerves or irritation. Biting your lip, you let your shirt drop a fraction, covering your exposed skin.
Nash moves.
“Don’t.”
Their voice is a rasp, all but drowned out by the water. You smile at them, slow and predatory, splay your fingers a little wider on your chest and raise an eyebrow.
“Don’t //what//?”
“Don’t leave.” They’re not even trying to keep their eyes on your face, now, voice hoarse but building confidence. “Take it off.”
Your fingers tighten in the fabric of your shirt. “That an order?”
Their teeth flash white, a smile as sharp-edged as your own.
“You plannin’ to get in fully dressed?”
They raise a hand as you laugh, push back the dark, wet mass of their hair. Your skin prickles, heat thrumming under your ribs, in your lungs, fuelled by the steam you’re breathing in. It twists in your stomach, a welcome ache as you tug the shirt over your head, drop it on the floor. Spread your arms, half a challenge.
“How about now?”
There’s a moment’s pause. Nash clicks their tongue, and moves. Pulls back the sliding glass door, and you have to take a moment to remember how to breathe. Your eyes lock onto a droplet of water running down their throat, gathering in the hollow between their collarbones. Spilling lower, down their chest - and when they clear their throat, you take your time dragging your eyes back up, don’t bother to hide your grin.
Their own eyes fixed on you, one eyebrow raised. As you look up, they pointedly drop their gaze, slow and deliberate.
“Take those off.”
Water’s beading on your skin, now, the heat almost overwhelming. You drop your hands, hook your fingers in your waistband and tug it down, just a little.
“Aren’t you gonna ask me nicely?”
“This was your idea.” They reach out, hook a damp hand in your waistband. Warm water on your skin, calloused knuckles dragging against your navel and you shiver despite the heat, lips parting as you instinctively lean closer. Nash drops their head to meet you, resting their forehead against yours. You’re already all but soaked from the steam alone; it’s barely worth complaining about, especially when Nash tilts their head, presses a slow kiss to you with warm, wet lips. You slide your hands up their arms, open your mouth and groan against them, hips rocking forward at their insistent tug.
“Take them off,” they mumble again, soft against your lips, fingers toying with your waistband. You snap at their lip, catch it between your teeth and bite down.
“Ask nicely.”
It had been a joke, before, but now, with their hands burning prints into your skin and their breath harsh against your mouth…
Nash tilts their head. Breathes it out soft and urgent, eyes half-closed and voice caught up in their throat, in your chest.
“//Please//.”
It’s a blur, after that. You get them off in a rush, wet fabric sticking to your clammy skin, Nash’s hands as much a hindrance as a help. You bite at their neck, their jaw, drag one hand over their chest as you push your pants down with the other, leaving them in a pile on the floor. Splay your hands on Nash’s chest to push them back into the cubicle, back until they’re pinned between you and the wall, water spraying over you both. They bury their face in your neck, breathing hard as you slide your hand down, lower, feeling the muscles of their thighs flex against you as you curl your fingers, tilt your head to let them suck a bruise over your pulse.
The angle’s awkward, the heat overbearing. It’s hard to breathe through the steam, your skin sticky and clammy and Nash’s hands digging bruises into your shoulders as they gasp, breath hot on your neck. You wedge a knee between their legs, force their thighs apart as they sag against the wall, putting more of their weight on you as they twitch, hips jerking.
They drop their head back when you still your hand, leaning back against the tiles. Wet hair, eyes bright, lips swollen: you lean in, lick a path from their collarbone to their jaw, trace the route of that droplet in reverse with a groan that reverberates from your chest through theirs. They’re biting their lip, voice muffled as they whisper your name like a prayer.
Say it again as you drop to your knees. Press your mouth to their thigh, to the muscle, teeth and lips dragging over their skin as they shake, burying their hands in your hair. There’s water everywhere, warm and clean and not enough to drown out the taste of them as you press your mouth against them, drag a choked sound from low in their chest. You grin up at them, dig your chin into their hip, meet their eyes.
Nash brushes their thumb over your cheekbone, dragging water across your face, and on your knees with your hands raised, resting on their thighs, it feels a little like a baptism.<h3>Nash: Shower (Pt 1)</h3>
<h4>No content warnings. Nash POV.</h4>
Nash tips their head back, eyes closed. There’s water on their lips, running down their throat, steam clouding around their head. Their hair sticks to their skin, black tendrils dragging bright droplets behind them as they move their head, stretching out their neck, pushing their soapy hands through it under the spray. It’s hot - too hot, the dial turned almost all the way up, and their skin is flushed dark from the heat.
Opening their eyes, they squeeze water from their hair, watch it fall in a sheet to shatter on the tiles below.
Their body hurts. A good hurt - sort of. There’s a bruise forming on their thigh and their hands are shaky with the strain, but the ache in their muscles is the kind they savour, deep and heavy and promising to hurt for days after.
They stretch out their neck again, let the water run across their face.
Outside the bathroom, they can hear faint movement, a mattress creaking as someone flops onto it. The sound’s familiar, and Nash rolls their eyes.
“Get your shit off my bed!” They yell, voice echoing in the cramped bathroom. There’s a moment’s silence, then:
“I’m //not//-”
They don’t listen to the rest. Duck their head back under the water and let it block out the sound. They don’t need the denial; they’ve come back from enough missions to find their partner lounging on //their// bed, for no reason other than //it’s comfier//; Nash scowls, water in their eyes and sliding down their chest, at the image of that smug smirk, flashed up at them before that mercurial attention returns to the tablet, the book, whatever it is that’s so much more //interesting// than Nash’s ire.
Or worse, when they //don’t// get that smile; when something else is so engrossing that they’re deprived even of that, having to snap and snarl for scraps of-
-of //respect//, they tell themself firmly, and turn around. Let the water hit their back and shoulders instead, lean one arm against the water-warmed tiles and rest their head against it.
Because the smile is worse. The smile is //dangerous//. Sticks in their head like a fishhook, tugging and twitching. Because they always see things in that smile that aren’t there, and it makes them… antsy. Aggravates them.
Their hand’s drifting lower, and despite themself - despite the danger of it - they don’t stop, biting down on their lip to muffle the sound. Their blood rings in their ears along with the water, the world narrowing down to this - the shower cubicle, white tiles and their overheated skin and that //fucking// smile,
Maybe it’s not //despite// the danger, after all. Maybe it’s //because//.
Their legs are shaking. They’re scowling, free hand clenched into a fist against the wall, muscles aching, knuckles white; almost punishing, angry at themself, at the way their stomach twists, at the way their mind keeps drifting. Past the smile, the smugness, the annoyance.
Confidence. //Competence//. Skilled hands, good aim.
Probably not something they should be getting off to, but it’s too late to worry about that now. Besides, they’ve always liked people who know what they’re good at, and if there’s one thing their partner knows-
“//Hey//.” The voice cuts through their thoughts, over the sound of the water, over their own harsh breathing, accompanied by what sounds like a kick to the door. “Did you drown in there?”
-it’s how to //piss them off//.
Nash glares at the door. Even through the foggy glass, through the steam and the metal and the wall, they can hear that smirk.
“//No//!” they snap, pushing off the wall. Their voice is level, any shakiness disguised by the water.
“Then hurry the fuck up!”
There’s another thud - another kick to the door - and their mattress creaks again. Nash groans.
“Fuck you.”
There’s a distant laugh, and suddenly it’s so much less appealing than in their head. Rolling their eyes, they turn off the water, take a deep breath as cold air rushes in.
Better. Unsatisfying, but that’s not unearned, guilt blunting the edges of their frustration as they towel off. Pull their clothes on in the steam-soaked room, sticking to their over-sensitive skin, and drag another towel through their hair.
Sure enough, when they step out of the bathroom, their bed’s occupied. Rolling their eyes, they ignore the grin flashed in their direction, and slump down on the other one, propping themself back on their elbows.
“Would it kill you not to be an asshole for like, five minutes?”
They get a sharp grin by way of reply. Hope the twitch it elicits goes unnoticed. “You know, I really think it might. Can I borrow your shampoo?”
“No,” they say, slouching onto their back and pushing back their damp hair. Knowing full well, as the bathroom door closes, that they’re not being listened to.
It’s probably for the best.<h3>"I like being close to you - you're warm."</h3>
<h4>AFAB Operative.</h4>
You gasp at the brush of teeth, razor edges leaving a raised red line over your skin. Sharp claws follow, fingers cool and smooth, featherlight against your shoulder, making you shiver. They have a claw over your hip, pinning you back against the length of their body, their other a solid ridge pressed against your spine. You shift, craning your neck, as Rhaxa noses at the spot beneath your ear. Their tongue is mobile, their breath cool against your skin as they drag their mouth down your throat, scraping over the tendons there. They’ve got one hand under your side, fingers laced with yours; their claws are tiny, bright pinpricks of pain, just barely digging into your skin. Their other hand roams over your throat, your shoulder, bared where they’ve pulled your shirt away, the skin beneath sensitive and tingling.
You groan, raise your other hand to run your palm over their neck, nails scraping over their smooth scales. There’s no hair to grip, nothing to grab hold of, and you settle for curling your palm around their jaw, twisting your head to speak right against their mouth.
“You’re killin’ me here, darlin’.”
Rhaxa hums, a low rumble that trembles through your back, sets your skin alight and aching. You drop your head back to the pillow, baring your neck: invitation, offering, an act that feels like //submission// in a way it never has with a human. You’re rewarded with more teeth, more careful attention to that spot over your pulse that sends a frisson of heat down your spine, makes you gasp and tremble and arch your back. Their tongue is oddly dry, warmer than their skin; still cooler than any human’s, the forks indistinguishable on your skin.
Their other hand - the one you’re not clutching, long, fine fingers curled tight around your own - roams, pushing up your shirt, claws drawing razor-light across your stomach. Their breath brushes your ear.
“Is this okay?”
You groan, squirming, nod helplessly into the pillow. “Yeah- yeah, this is-” you pause, swallow. Claws drag over your abdomen, not so light, this time, and heat blooms along the furrows they leave. You gasp, find your voice once more along with a vestige of attitude. “More, if you’ve got it.”
Rhaxa hums, again. Their attentions to your neck are growing more focused, more deliberate, alternating the stinging scrape of teeth with the soothing brush of their tongue, picking up a rhythm that makes you groan, hips rolling into the unforgiving grip of their claws. Their hand creeps up, gentler now, the backs of their clawed nails smooth and confident as they trace the edge of a nail around one nipple, your eyelids fluttering as you moan.
They do it again, nails dragging over the underside of your breast; at the same time, their jaws close over your shoulder, a thrill running down your spine at the //danger// of it, those teeth a serrated kiss over your sensitive skin. When they release you, unhook their jaw to rub their cheek over the indents left behind, you let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding, sagging into their grip with a mixture of relief and sheer, shaky arousal. Your fingers skid over their scales, hands flexing helplessly as they tease you; all your wriggling is getting you nowhere, trapped as you are against the cool length of their body.
“Rhaxa-”
“Hmm?” They shift, pull you a little closer. Further onto your side, more of your weight against them, and you can feel their tail curl around your calf, the fabric of your pants bunching against your skin. Your laugh is breathless, shaky, as you turn your head to press your mouth to the muscular curve of their neck.
“Didn’t figure you for such a cuddler when we first met.”
Their finger drags over your other nipple, down your sternum. Leaves a line of stinging heat down your chest, heat that blooms and curls in your stomach, behind your navel, dripping down your spine.
“You’re warm,” they say at last. Their fingers are toying with your zipper, too light to feel through the fabric. They ignore the way you’re shifting, impatient little twitches of your hips, and huff a slow, cool breath into the space between your neck and ear. “I like being close to you.”
Their words are soft, sweet, a sharp contrast to the way their hand dips between your legs, one claw hooked in your zipper to drag it down tortuously slowly.
“Thanks,” you manage, mouth open against the pillow as Rhaxa noses at your neck, at the still-stinging marks on your shoulder. “I try.”
Their hand is driving you insane, claws scraping softly against the inside of your thighs, You lick your lips, shift to raise your entwined fingers to your mouth, pressing kisses to their knuckles. Rhaxa hums, a soft click in their throat, and you can feel their legs shifting behind you, one wing curling over your body. They’re still not touching you, not the way you want- //need//- and you twist, letting out a sound that’s not quite a whine. Definitely heading in that direction, though.
“Could just get you a heated blanket,” you mumble into the pillow, into their hand, obligingly limp as they roll you forwards, a leg between your thighs to nudge them apart. Their hand drifts higher, and you hiss as their claws curl cold and gentle against you. “You’d be just as happy. Less work for you, too-”
Finally, //finally//, their fingers brush against your clit, drag through the wetness between your legs. You gasp, stomach clenching, and they do it again, painfully careful with their claws.
“I’m happy like this,” they murmur, breath fanning across your shoulder. Their fingers curl, and you sink your teeth into your lip to swallow a moan. “Are you?”
“Mmh.” You swallow, drag in a sharp breath as Rhaxa draws a tight circle over your clit, fingers pressing down a little harder, now. “Could be- could be worse.”
Their fingers twitch, the claw that’s hooked over your hip pulling you closer, up into the cool arch of their body against your back as their slowly circling finger is joined by another. You muffle your moan into the pillow, feel their teeth drag over the muscle of your shoulder.
“You’re being sarcastic.”
The sound you make is strangled, half-laughter interrupted by a moan as Rhaxa presses two cool fingers into you, gently curled to keep their claws in check. You twist your head, press open-mouthed kisses against their neck, their jaw, taste metal and citrus in your mouth as their hand moves faster.
“What-” you pause, gasp, grinding your hips back against them. “What gave me away?”
Rhaxa clicks, low and warm and amused, their leg shifting between yours, fingers curling. Pressing your lips together, swallowing a moan, you stretch out, arching your back against the curve of their claw, bracing yourself against the pillow to push against them in a luxurious stretch as their fingers glide over your clit again. Still too slow, maddeningly slow.
“Rhaxa-”
“I know,” they purr into your ear, roll more of their sinuous weight onto your back. Their hand moves, more purposeful now, fingers fast and demanding. You gasp into the pillow, breath hitching as your stomach clenches, back arching.
“Rhaxa,” you say again, breathy and harsh, less of a demand than a //plea//, now, their teeth closing gentle over your throat as you whimper.
It’s that, in the end, that pushes you over, makes you shudder and moan as your thighs clamp together, claws biting into your skin as you trap their hand. Their teeth over your throat, so tender, just barely denting your skin, and even then - even knowing they can taste your heartbeat, could tear you open here and now - the //danger// of it is enough to end you, has you drowning in the sensation, voice hoarse and wrecked as you come.
After, sagging back into their grip, letting your head loll back against them, you breathe out. Cup your palm around their jaw, and drag your hand down their scales, still trembling with the aftershocks.
“Okay?” they release your neck, nudge the space behind your ear in an affectionate kiss, and you hum, letting your eyes drift back.
“Good. You?”
“Mm.” Rhaxa coils their head over your shoulder, tucks their nose under your chin. They already sound half-asleep, one wing draped over your entwined bodies. “Warm.”<h3>24-Hour Nash Lockdown</h3>
<h4>AMAB Operative/strapon.</h4>
They moan, breath damp against your neck as they tilt their hips, the soft scrape of their teeth drawing a sound from your own chest, dragged out long and slow. You roll your hips, feel them tight around you, their fingers tight enough to leave bruises where they're interlaced with yours, and press your forehead against their temple. Let them feel your breath as you angle your hips, push your weight forwards to drive against them.
Nash tips their head back, gasping, and the light catches on the amber of their eyes, unfocused and hazy; their throat's exposed, soft dark skin with their pulse fluttering wildly beneath, and you take full advantage, drag your tongue across the tendons that stand out there to taste the salt on their skin. They gasp, hips twitching under you, stomach muscles twitching as they squirm, a strangled sound that could almost be your name dragged from their throat.
You repeat the movement, hips rocking against them, and you're rewarded with another moan, this time tinged with desperation, their thighs tight against your sides. They shift, drag their hand free of yours to grip your waist instead, your ass, encouraging you to keep moving, rocking your hips into them with increasing urgency. Their voice is wrecked, low and breathless as they open their eyes, focus on your face before drifting lower, the hand still clasped in yours clenching and unclenching desperately.
"Deimos-"
You roll your hips again, and the tendons on their neck stand out as they throw their head back, arching against the bed.
"//Fuck//, Deimos-"
Their voice tilts, breaks as you thrust again, pulling back a little even as their legs hook around your waist, and you bury your face in their neck, scrape your teeth over their earlobe.
"Nash- //fuck//, so fucking good-" your hips are moving of their own accord, pounding into them with a relentless speed that has your stomach twisting. You've lost control over your voice, too, forehead pressed against Nash's temple as you whisper, rasping filth into their ear as they arch beneath you.
It’s your name, gasped breathless into your ear, that pushes you over. Or perhaps it’s their hand threading through your hair and //tugging//, a sudden burn of sensation across your scalp, down your spine. Or the way they hitch their thighs up, clamping over your waist to pull you impossibly closer, their stomach clenching as you grind into them. Your breath comes harsh, stuttering with your hips. Nash is tight around you, twitching, your heart beating in your stomach and lower, and they gasp your name like it's the last word they know as they come, slick and hot and breathless. Your fingers ache with the grip you have on their hand, on the sheet, a hoarse cry strangled in your throat as you collapse against them, let them take your weight and press your mouth to the corner of their jaw.
Your blood is close under your skin, your whole body throbbing with your heartbeat. You take a shallow breath, your mouth half-full of Nash’s hair, their skin, their pulse thundering under your lips, legs wrapped tight around your waist. Their hand traces idle patterns on your back, your nape, dragging their fingertips through the sweat on your skin as their hips twitch with the aftershocks.
“Mmh,” they mumble, a quiet voice in your ear. It’s all you can do to shift your weight, pulling out - and they wince, slightly, take a deep breath as they relax their legs to let you slump to the side with a grunt. You’re still mostly tangled together, one of their thighs between yours, your shoulder and most of your torso still resting on their chest. You press a kiss to their scars, the nearest skin you can reach, and flex your muscles, revelling in the well-used ache that echoes the movement.
Your skin cools rapidly, and you press yourself tighter against them, burying your face in their chest with a groan. Their arm curls around your shoulders, pulling you closer as their breath hitches in a soft laugh. “Get the cover if you’re cold.”
“You get it.”
“You’re lying on it.”
“So are you.”
Their hand digs into your hair, fingers warm against your scalp. “Shame.”
“Mhm.” You melt into the touch, craning your head so they’ll drag their nails over your skin again, the sensation sparking down your raw nerves, shivery and oversensitive. They drag their hand down your spine, fingertips skimming over every vertebrae, and despite your exhaustion you arch into it, pressing against their side with a soft moan as they flex their thigh between yours.
“Nash-”
“Too much?”
You hum in reply, trapped between their hand and their body, pinned in place, squirming against them, and you’re not quite sure what the answer is.
Then they do it again, and you gasp, hips jumping. Your knuckles are white where you grip their shoulder, forehead pressed into their scars, and you breathe heavily against their chest as they drop their hand, pull you closer to grind against them. Their lips are at your temple, in your hair, their other hand a firm grip on your thigh, pulling it over their waist so you straddle them, still resting most of your weight on their chest. Your lips close over one nipple, flicking your tongue against it, and Nash groans, their hand tightening in your hair. You raise your head, blinking up at them as you rock your hips down lazily, none of the urgency of before.
Their eyes are lidded, heavy, pupils huge and their lips swollen as they shift beneath you. Use their grip in your hair to tug you up their body. It’s barely a kiss: you lick into their mouth, slide your tongue against theirs, bite at their lip before pulling back to press bruising kisses against their throat, their collarbone. They’re shifting beneath you, hips twitching, hand flexing on your ass as you slowly rock against them.
Neither of you are in any great rush, any more; your skin still tingles from before, your breath still ragged as you scrape your teeth over their chest. Put your hands on their shoulders and push yourself up so you’re straddling them, hips canted forwards. Their hands slide over your waist, up your back, and you can feel them shifting, raising their legs, and you lean back, pushing back your hair - putting on a show - as you rest your weight against their thighs.
Their hand drags over your stomach, over a thin, raised scar you don’t remember getting - broken glass from an explosion? A surgery? It’s been so long - so many injuries, so many scars. You frown slightly, down at their hand against your skin, and Nash shifts beneath you.
“You remember this one?”
You close your hand over theirs, stilling their fingers. Raise them to your lips instead, and press a kiss to the rough skin over their knuckles.
“No.”
Their fingertips drag over your lips, eyes intent, skin hot against your mouth. “Me neither.”
You hum, opening your mouth slightly. Nash’s fingers curl, just a little, grazing the edge of your teeth, and you close your lips over the tip of their index finger, the suggestiveness of it turned heavy and intimate as their thumb drags down your jaw.
“Must’ve been before we were partners,” you murmur into the skin of their hand. Their pulse is fluttering against your fingers, holding their wrist in place, and their eyes go impossibly darker as you tilt your head, drag your mouth down their fingers to kiss their palm. “Can we talk about something else?”
Their laugh is distinctly breathless, your weight shifting with the movement of their chest.
“Whatever you want, Deimos.”<h3>Ki-Ha: OC Kiss Week 2022</h3>
<h4>No content warnings.</h4>
Your body aches. Your muscles feel like stretched elastic, weak and floppy, every step its own small agony. The mugs in your hand wobble precariously, coffee spilling over the sides, scalding against your knuckles. You flinch, and the plate balanced on your arm tumbles, as if in slow motion, carefully arranged toast slices scattering.
"Fuck."
So much for that nice gesture. //Morning, babe, here's a half empty coffee and some toast off the floor.//
//Asshole//.
It makes you want to scream - a disproportionate reaction to some dropped food, but with your body in its current state you won't make another trip downstairs and back up. Unless it's to strangle Nash - and you give the thought some serious consideration. This is their fault.
Fucking Nash.
Nash "five am workouts are good for you". Nash "you won't make it up the stairs with two plates and two mugs."
Cursing them soundly, you crouch in the ruins of your romantic gesture and begin scraping butter off the carpet, mumbling threats to no-one in particular as you do so.
There's a soft sound, a throat clearing: you look up, find Ki-Ha blinking down at you, eyes still sleep-heavy, his hard edges softened in a thin t-shirt and sweatpants.
"What are you doing?"
"Breakfast in bed," you tell him, and pick a large crumb off the carpet. "For you."
"...thanks?" he looks bemused. You can't really blame him, and frustration stings your throat as you look at the mess on the floor.
"You're supposed to be in bed. You're spoiling it."
"I can see how that would ruin the experience," he agrees gently, squatting beside you. He picks up the upturned plates, lets you deposit your handful of crumbs. It's about that moment that it hits you, frustration melting as you start to snicker, on your knees amidst the crumbs. Ki-Ha's lips twitch, too, eyes warming as they meet yours, and as you lean forwards to rest your forehead against his shoulder, you can feel the shake of repressed laughter.
"You are spoiling it, you know," you tell his chest. "It's not much of a breakfast in bed if you're not //in bed//."
"It's not much of a breakfast at all," he points out, one hand raising to cup the back of your head. "Were you just bringing me buttered toast?"
"And coffee." You gesture to the mugs. "I //cooked//."
His lips are soft against your temple. "Coffee is not cooking."
"Ugh." You groan into his shoulder, lean more of your weight against him. "I try to do a nice thing-"
His shoulders shake as he laughs, hand cupping your jaw to tilt your head up. "Yes, I'm terrible." He presses a kiss to your mouth, warm and soft. "And I'm ruining breakfast in bed."
"Mhm." You lean in, fingers twisting in his shirt, and kiss him again. "No sense of romance, that's your problem."
"Maybe not." He holds your jaw in warm hands, meets your eye for a long moment. "I'd say breakfast is a write-off, but the other part could still be salvaged."
He kisses you again when you tilt your head, and that would be explanation enough, but then he murmurs, "Come back to bed?" against your lips, and your skin prickles.
"Oh." You think about it for a second. "Help me up?"
"Seriously?"
"Nash made me //run//," you whine, leaning more heavily against him, and helping as he hooks his hands under your arms to haul you unceremoniously to your feet.
"You poor thing," he says, utterly devoid of sympathy. All the same, you hum in agreement, leaning in to kiss him again. Wind your arms around his neck, leaving it up to him to steer the pair of you through the bedroom door. His lips are hot against yours, stubble scraping your cheek as you dip your head to press your mouth to his neck, bite softly at his ear. His skin, too, is warm as you push your hands under his shirt, palms splayed over his chest. You manage to tug the soft fabric over his head before he sinks back onto the bed, hands cupping your thighs to drag you into his lap. They curve around your ass, encouraging you to grind down against him as he lies back, leaving you sprawled across his chest, palms flexing against his shoulders as you roll your hips.
You groan softly, press your mouth to his chest, his sternum, the hollow of his throat. He works a hand between you, shifting his hips to push his clothes aside before working on yours, pulling them down just enough to bare skin, and both of you moan as you rock your hips against him. You hiss, spreading your palms on his chest to push yourself up, arching your back for leverage: his hand moves, skin slick and velvet-soft and sensitive, his eyes devouring you as you move. You're both panting, now, both close, and you bite your lip, eyes closing instinctively as your thighs clench.
His hand goes tight, your name barely more than a rasp.
"Open your eyes." He's shifting, hips jerking in barely controlled motions that make you gasp with each twitch. "Look at me."
"Ki-Ha-"
It's too much, hits you all at once, and your mouth drops open as you moan his name, feel him shudder beneath you.
You collapse onto his chest, breathing raggedly. A hand comes up to curl around your neck, fingers digging into your hair. His heart thumps wildly under your cheek, his voice a ruin as he says, "So… breakfast?"<h3>Imxa: OC Kiss Week 2022</h3>
<h4>No content warnings.</h4>
You sink your teeth into your lip, biting back a groan as Imxa drags cold hands over your thighs, black obsidian claws drawing red furrows in your skin. She skims her hands over your underwear, over your hips, a light, cool touch that has you shifting restlessly, pushing your hips up towards her, closing your thighs around her waist to drag her closer. Her answering grin is awful, all razorblade teeth and red gums, and she closes her broken claws over your legs, pinning you in place with surprising care as she dips her head to drag her tongue over your sternum. You groan again, unable to move in her grip as she reaches your collarbone, the slightest brush of teeth sending shivers across your skin, breathing coming in harsh pants.
“Imxa-” you groan, slide your hands up her chest, over her neck to cup her jaw, bring her up to meet your eyes. She nudges her nose into your throat, tucking her head under your chin to rub her dry, scaled cheek against your pulse, tongue flickering against your ear. You run your palm down the curve of her neck, muscles and ridges and bone rough against your skin. “I won’t break. You don’t have to be gentle.”
Her laugh is an ugly thing, low and harsh and hissing, claws flexing against your hips as she pulls back to look at you. You can feel her holding back, all that muscle held in careful check as she handles you, every touch light and soft. It’s- //nice//. It’s not enough.
You squirm in her grip, testing the strength of her hold; she doesn’t move, barely reacts, her claws not budging. Not tightening, either, showing no sign she’s even noticed. Her eyes are still fixed on you, half naked and pinned in her arms as she eyes you.
“You’ll break,” she tells you gently, and the certainty in her voice annoys you. You kick at her, catching her on one leg, and with a startled sound she pulls back, freeing you from her grip.
“I’m not a fucking porcelain doll,” you tell her peevishly, suddenly irritated, petulant. You push at her claws, drag yourself up to your elbows and glare at her. "I can take it."
Imxa pulls back slightly, head tilting. She's not //warm//, her body room-temperature at best and hands cold, but all the same as she pulls back you shiver, a rush of cold air that feels like //absence// across your skin.
Then her claws close on your hips and you're flipped over, pushed onto your front with something hard and heavy pinned across your shoulders. You go to push up, find yourself unable. Your hands scrabble in the sheets as a wet tongue drags up your spine, a sharp claw trailing after: it's just the wrong side of too much pain and you squirm, legs spreading wider as you try to get your knees under yourself. "Imxa-"
"Thought you could //take it//," she murmurs into the back of your neck, cool breath against your spine. There's a jeer in her voice, a frission of danger as the weight on your shoulders increases, pressing the air from your lungs. You sink your teeth into your lip, a helpless moan escaping as sharp teeth close over your shoulder. Light at first, then biting down, sinking into the muscle until it's sure to leave a mark, until you feel the skin break. You gasp, shuddering, fingers twisting in the sheets.
"Imxa-" you say again, forcing the words out through the twist in your throat. Your struggles are tokenistic, now, testing the strength of her grip rather than trying to get free for real. She hums in reply, swipes her tongue over the bite on your shoulder. Her claws drag furrows down your back, and you'll be a mess come morning.
You're a mess now, whimpering into the pillow as you try to grind back against her, working your hips into the cool bulk of her body. She shifts, nudges your head to the side to lick at your throat, a low purr rumbling through her body, through your back where you're pressed against her. Claws scrape lightly over your back, your waist, leave stinging lines over your stomach as she slides a hand over your navel, under your waistband. There's a dim worry, somewhere in the back of your mind, about those vicious claws and your more vulnerable parts, but then she's touching you, smooth and gentle and careful, her claws pinning you, perfectly still and entirely at her mercy.
Mercy, it turns out, isn't her strong suit.
She shoves your clothes roughly aside, razorblade claws featherlight on the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. She shifts her hand, flattens her palm against you, rough and cold: the shock of it makes you gasp, hips bucking - towards or away, you're not sure, but she's moving before you can make up your mind, fingers curling, shifting. You moan into the pillow, your own hands tight on the sheets, and Imxa presses her face to your cheek, a surprisingly tender kiss despite the way she's pinning you down. Your body jerks, hips twitching, and everything inside you clenches, twisting up tight as her hand moves. You bite down on your lip, a load moan escaping as she does something that turns your vision white, eyes rolling back, and you're so //fucking close//-
Imxa stops. Pulls her hand away, resting her claws lightly against your inner thigh, four sharp pinpricks against your sensitised skin. You gasp out a protest, a muffled whine as you try to twist around, to see why she's stopped. She doesn't let you, keeps you pinned in place, and you can feel the edge of her teeth on your spine. Your breath is ragged with anticipation, fingers clenching in the sheets. Imxa's movements are slow, unhurried as she pulls back slightly, her tongue dragging a slick path down the dip of your spine. You squirm, letting out a sound of protest, feel her soft laugh echo behind your ribs as her teeth leave imprints in your skin.
“//Please//-” you breathe, feeling her breath hitch, the slight pause. You lick your lips, press your advantage. “Imxa- please-”
—
Some time later - a //lot// of time later - you slump boneless into the bed, just barely able to turn your head to the side to take a shaky breath. Your body is a throbbing mass of bite and claw marks, muscles the consistency of jelly, and your head feels pleasantly thick, still spinning slightly. When you stretch, everything in you aches, bone-deep satisfaction permeating your body. Your eyelids are heavy, and it takes all your remaining energy to flop onto your back, roll your head to the side where Imxa's sprawled out across the bed, a couple of inches space between you.
"Alright," you try to say. "You win."
What comes out is more along the lines of //ngh//, a weak grunt from your abused throat. Imxa chuckles softly, but doesn't reply. Her tail is tucked around your ankle, the only point of contact between you; slowly, tentatively, you reach out a hand, wrap your fingers around the tip of one huge claw. She watches you intently as you do so, reptilian eyes unblinking, but doesn't pull away.<h3>Leanna: OC Kiss Week 2022</h3>
<h4>No content warnings.</h4>
Her hands are hot against your skin, lips warm and soft with the slightest edge of teeth as the two of you crash against the wall. You’re pressed together, chest to chest, thigh to thigh, Leanna’s hands trapped between you where she’d been trying to get your shirt off, yours tight on her hips, hauling her against your body. She moans into your mouth, hitches her leg up to arch her hips against you, all heat and hands and urgent, aching need.
You let her push you back, slamming the bedroom door open with your shoulders so you don’t have to let go of her body, all but tripping over yourself as she bites at your lips. You find the bed through sheer chance, Leanna dragging you with an iron grip on your shirt, her other hand sliding up your stomach, over your chest. She skims over the fabric of your sports bra, cups one breast in her hand and drops her head to your neck, trailing small, stinging bites across your pulse, your collarbone. Your breathless laugh turns to a yelp as she sits heavily on the bed, yanks you down into her lap with your hands on her shoulders. Between the two of you, you manage to wrestle your shirt over your head, drop it to the floor, and then you’re arching your spine, pressing against her as she kisses down your neck, your shoulders, scraping her teeth over the swell of your chest. Her hands are at your back, deftly unclasping your bra; you let out a shuddering breath as it comes free, her nails scraping your skin as she tugs it down your arms and throws it aside.
The noise you make as her mouth closes over your nipple isn’t dignified, exactly, but given that you’re sitting in her lap, thighs spread wide over hers and your back arched to press yourself as close against her as you’re able, it’s not your main concern. Her other hand is creeping lower, nails prickling against your stomach, and you groan slightly, hips shifting involuntarily.
Her hair is warm, soft against your face, lips and tongue hot on the sensitive skin of your chest. You’re clinging to her shoulders, rocking your hips against her thigh, and your stomach clenches tight as her fingers dip below your waistband, heel of her palm digging in just below your navel.
“Leanna-” you manage, and she tilts her head back in answer, lets you lean into her, breathing into her mouth as you bite at her lips, tongue sliding against hers. She hums in response, slides her fingers between your legs to draw out a sharp groan, a full-body twitch as you buck your hips, and her smile is faintly triumphant, smug and pleased and awed all at once as she gazes at you. Your brows are furrowed, mouth open and panting as she moves her hand, hips rolling rhythmically now, and you can barely see her through the haze of heat. She leans in, presses her lips just below your ear, breath stirring your hair and making you shiver as it blows across the shell of your ear.
“Been thinking about you all day,” she murmurs, and she sounds almost as breathless as you, her hand working faster, now, sharp movements that have you twisting and gasping in her lap. She’s watching your face, eyes intent, a flush barely visible in her cheeks as her fingers work against you. She licks her lips, and you track the movement, transfixed by her lips as she whispers, “Thinking about //this//. You. Fuck-”
You make a strangled sound, close your teeth over her earlobe and bite down, a short, stinging vengeance for the things she’s doing to you, twisting your insides up in her hand like so much cable drawn taut, tight, ready to snap.
And snap it does, a moan tearing from your throat as your hips jump, riding her hand as you bury your face in her neck, shoulders hunching. She keeps you there, drawing it out, for a few long moments, dragging in short, painful gasps as her hand wrings every last sound from you, until your shoulders slump and you collapse against her, twitching with sensitivity. Your mouth is dry, eyes closed, and you tilt your head, brush your lips against her throat with a low hum. Leanna shifts slightly, carefully drags her hand free, and presses a kiss to your ear.
“You still with me?” her voice is low, a rasp underlying the words. You smile against her throat, carefully loosening the death-grip you have on her shoulders - you’ll leave bruises there, small pinpricks in the shape of your fingertips, and the thought settles in your chest with a warm glow. Leanna brushes back your hair with a gentle hand, presses a kiss to your skin, and belatedly you realise she asked you a question.
“No,” you mumble, feeling her shoulders shake as she laughs. It’s that that gives you the energy to sit back, give her a hazy smile, her own eyes bright and focused. Her pupils, usually lost in the dark of her eyes, are dilated, huge, her lips parted. She returns your kiss hungrily, hand curling around the back of your neck, her own hips shifting beneath you as you press your tongue against hers. She follows you as you pull back, though her grip is loose enough to let you wriggle to your feet without complaint.
Your legs are still shaking, enough that it’s a relief to sink to your knees between her thighs.<h3>Rohan: Rivalmance</h3>
<h4>No content warnings.</h4>
Rohan’s hair is soft, tangled around your fingers. Xe’s making soft noises, breathy whimpers spilling from xir lips with every roll of your hips, mouth open against the pillow, xir fingers clenched in the sheet. You tighten your grip on xir hair, tug xir head back a little, and Rohan //moans//, back muscles flexing as xe rocks back against you, eyelashes fluttering as xir eyes roll back, teeth sunk into xir lip. A bead of sweat rolls down the dip of xir spine, and you shift your weight, leaning forward to lick it off; Rohan trembles as you drag your tongue up xir back, your weight on xir hips pressing xem into the mattress as you grind against xem. You bite sharply at xir shoulder, leaving a ring of red-purple against xir shoulderblade, and Rohan lets out a gasp that trails into a breathy laugh as your teeth scrape over xir skin, the newly formed bruise joining the many others that litter xir neck and torso.
“Remind me to make sure you’ve eaten before we next do this.”
You can see the curve of xir smile, the smugness in xir voice despite xir breathlessness, and you mirror it with one of your own, fingers tightening in xir hair.
“Is that a hint?”
“Call it constru-//nhh//-” xir words are cut off in a strangled whine as you snap your hips forward with bruising force, using your grip on xir hair to haul xem back. Xir whole body jerks, knuckles going white against the sheets as xe gasps for breath, and your smirk grows.
“Didn’t catch that,” you purr, grinding your hips in a teasing circle, thighs flush against xir own, and Rohan’s chuckle is lost in the pillow, neck straining against your grip. You tug, gently, inexorably, draw xem up until xir back is pressed against your chest, xir thighs spread over yours as you push up against xem. Xe tips xir head back against your shoulder, breath hot on your ear, the side of your neck as xe moans, raising a hand to grab at your hair. You bite at xem, retaliating for the sting in your scalp, scrape your teeth over xir pulse and bite down until xe whimpers, hips jerking against yours. Xir hand goes tighter in your hair, body tensing as you lap at the bruise on xir delicate skin. Xir back is arched, moans pitching decidedly upwards, the movements of xir hips growing erratic as xe rides you, the nails of xir other hand biting into your forearm. You curl your arm tighter, pinning xem back against you to feel xir heartbeat echoed in your own chest. Xe’s trembling, breath coming in short pants as you slide your other hand down xir stomach, over the sharp angle of xir hipbone. Over xir thigh, letting your nails drag against xir skin, muscles flexing beneath your fingers as you drag your hand slowly up.
Then stop.
Rohan //growls// in frustration, grinding xir hips down, seeking the friction of your hand, and you know xe can feel your smirk against xir throat, xir pulse jumping beneath your lips. Xe yelps when you push xem, a hand splayed between xir shoulders to pin xem flat on the bed, a hand hooked under xir hip to flip xem onto xir back. Xir hair is plastered to xir face, eyes glazed, but xe still manages a cocky smirk as xe lets xir thighs fall wide open around your knees. Xir lips are swollen, bitten raw, xir neck and chest mottled with bruises in red and purple and black, xir wrists marked with pink scratches from your nails where you’d gripped xem earlier.
Still breathless, Rohan tilts xir head, xir grin challenging as xe raises an eyebrow. Xe’s showing off, arching xir back, stretching xir arms above xir head, fingers tangling in the pillow as xe lazily squeezes xir thighs around your waist.
“Well?”
“Well what?” you retort, already grinning, already moving. Rohan doesn’t reply, just lets you shift, spreads xir thighs to make space for your shoulders as you lower your head, fingers pressing new bruises over the old. Xe’s already close, hips bucking at the first brush of your tongue, thighs clamping around your head as you grip xir waist and drag xem down against your mouth.
“//Fuck//-”
Xir voice is muffled, trapped as you are between xir thighs, and when you glance up you see xe’s biting down on xir wrist, back bowed nearly off the bed. You hum, pressing closer, drag your tongue up against xem with a filthy sound that has heat pooling in your own stomach, has you grinding down against the mattress as Rohan comes with a bitten-off moan, hips jerking and spasming in your hands. You hold xem through it, let xem come down with soft kisses to xir thighs, over xir hips, before propping yourself up on one elbow, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand.
Rohan hums, lets xir hand brush over your cheek as you push yourself back up xir body, slant your mouth over xir own and kiss xem, deep and lazy, letting xem taste xemself on your lips. It’s not long before xe’s moaning softly into your mouth, fingers tight on your arms, and you realise you’re grinding down, your hips between xir legs insistent and demanding. Rohan hitches xir thigh up, rubbing xemself against you with a lazy, satisfied smile curling the edges of xir mouth. You don’t break the kiss, biting at that smile as you fumble between your bodies, hitching xir hips up to slide home with a punishing thrust. Xir mouth drops open, the kiss turning uncoordinated and messy, sharing breath as you fuck xem with short, brutal movements that have you both panting, clinging to one another with bruising force.
It doesn’t take long, like that. Friction, tension, heat building in the pit of your stomach until you gasp into xir neck, hips stuttering, pinning xem to the bed with your weight as you slump onto xem. Rohan endures it gracefully for all of two minutes, before xe lazily slaps you on the shoulder, less-than gently encouraging you to roll onto your side. Xe pushes sweat-soaked curls back from xir brow as you sprawl onto your back, stretching out to savour the tingling in your legs, and grins at you.
“So-” it would be a lie to say you don’t feel a certain… smugness, at xir breathless voice. Or that you don’t find yourself watching, rapt, as xe sits up, stretching xir arms above xir head. “Working out some tension?”
Your eyes wander lazily across the tapestry of bruises you’ve left, xir skin mottled with bruises in the shape of your mouth. Your teeth still itch. Xe grins at you, at your attention, slow and easy and smouldering, and you grin back. For a moment, you’re something like friends.
“You don’t have to leave right away,” you tell xem in lieu of an answer. Regret it almost immediately, as Rohan’s sly smirk freezes, just for a second. Then xe pauses in collecting xir clothes to bat xir eyelashes.
“Why? You want to cuddle?”
It needles, that. Worms under your exposed skin, stinging, burning like humiliation, a bleeding edge against the still-warm glow of intimacy. “Fuck you.”
“Give it five minutes.” Xir winces theatrically, stretching again - entirely for your benefit, this time, in a way that makes your spine prickle - before rolling xir head. The faint, leisurely bliss is fading from xir expression, eyes once pleasantly hazy turning sharp and focused again. You hate how cold it leaves you, icy air stinging your sweat-soaked skin, the bedclothes suddenly coarse against your back under that cut-glass stare. It’s not fair, you reflect bitterly, how vicious xe can look, shirtless, barefoot, jeans unbuttoned and skin littered with marks //you// left.
“Might need to make it six.”
The joke falls flat in the rapidly-cooling air between you. Respite only comes when Rohan turns away, yanks xir shirt over xir head. “Sure.”
Xe’s pulling xir socks on, the bed dipping as xe sits on the end. Your feet almost brush xir back, and you find yourself tensing, fighting to stay casual without moving an inch closer. If xe notices, xe doesn’t show it.
“So-”
“Maybe next time.” Xir smile is frosty as xe straightens, now fully dressed and perfectly closed off. “We can fall asleep in each other’s arms. Wake up and make breakfast, then-”
“Stop it.”
“-//then//, we can go to the //fucking// farmer’s market. Is that what you want?”
You clench your jaw, fingers tight in the sheets. You’re shivering, the ache in your body suddenly nowhere as pleasurable as it had been, as it ought to be, your mouth dry and your throat tight as you take a deep breath. Rohan’s lip curls as xe eyes you, back rigid, shoulders tense - then xe turns, stalks out. You’re left naked and shaking, heart still pounding. The only heat flooding your body now is bitter anger, and as the door clicks closed, you let your head fall back onto the pillow with a groan.[[Contents|contents]]
<<link 'Settings'>><<run UI.settings()>><</link>>Project HadeaBonus Content Hub<img src="./circle.png" /><h3>Leanna - POV</h3>
<h4>No content warnings.</h4>
It’s the movement that wakes you up. It always is: although the sounds come first, your voice filtering through the thick blanket of sleep - first whispers, mumbling, snarls of rage - it’s the motion that gets you. When you raise your hands to cover your neck, or to protect your face from an imagined blow; even, sometimes, when I move, pull back to give you space or avoid an elbow to the face. That’s what wakes you. The movement.
Like screams are such a part of the soundtrack of your life that you’ve learned to filter them out, even your own, but //movement// - movement means //threat//.
Tonight, it’s my fault. I’ve been holding your hand under the covers, warm and still and more than a little sweaty, with the windows closed against the mountain chill, but… sweet. Your fingers closed over mine instinctively, naturally, the way they never quite do when you’re awake (when you have to think about it) and maybe I should feel bad for taking advantage, but you’re //cute// when you’re sleeping.
Until you start to dream.
Your hand tightens on mine, squeezing my fingers like you’re trying to snap them, like you’re falling, like you’re drowning, and I wonder again what you’re dreaming about. If it’s a memory or some new horror that has your spine arching like that, your body curving away from me as you try to make a fist with my fingers tangled trapped in yours.
They say you’re not supposed to wake someone who’s sleepwalking; they could hurt themselves. I won’t lie, I can’t see //you// being the one to get hurt, having seen what happens to people who startle you in daylight hours, but I still hold off waking you, hoping you’ll settle down. Sometimes, you do.
Tonight, I can feel my bones start to creak. Your fist is trembling with effort, your hands - strong, scarred, //sexy//, when they’re not crushing the life from mine - vices in the sheets. Wincing, I try to tug my fingers free, and it’s that, that tiny, foreign movement, that wakes you up.
You go still. I can hear a sharp intake of breath: a shudder, passing through you, and your grip tightens further on mine until I gasp.
“Baby,” I mumble, voice half swallowed by the darkness and the bedsheets, and there’s a note of pain there I can’t quite hide. “You okay?”
“I-” your voice, as always, is a rasp as you claw your way back to consciousness. “I’m…”
//Fine//. You always say it, even when no-one’s asked. //I’m fine.// Won’t even admit you //dream//, let alone have anything so pedestrian as //nightmares//, and I try not to push you on it. Tonight, though, with the blood rushing back into my bruised fingers, I raise an eyebrow in the dark. There’s a rustle as you raise your hands, rub your eyes. I can see the shadows move as you flex your hands, feeling the ache. “Was I… are you hurt?”
“No,” I lie, reaching with my throbbing hand to touch your face. My fingers feel clumsy, blood tingling under my skin. “Were you dreaming?”
“No,” you lie right back, breath hot against my fingertips. Your hand closes over mine again - gentle, now, controlled, and I find myself missing the desperation. You press your lips to my fingertips, my palm, my wrist, brush your thumb over my pulse and speak into my veins. “I’m sorry.”
“I love you,” I whisper back. Punishing you, just a little - for hurting my hand, for stopping, for the way your breath is traveling hot up my arm and the way my whole world is narrowing down to the places you’re touching me - because I know you can’t say it back, not now. Not unprepared, still flayed raw from the dreams you won’t even acknowledge, but it still makes your breath catch, your kisses pausing at the spot inside my elbow. Your fingers twitch over mine, and my hand throbs with remembered pain, an echo of heat low in my stomach.
Rather than answer - rather than acknowledge it - you move, pushing me onto my back to rest your weight on top of me, and the slick slow heat building between us fills my chest, my heart pounding against my ribs. I wrap my leg around yours, let you push your thigh up between mine, heavy muscle and warm skin grinding against me.
I bury my hands in your hair, pull - harder than usual, than when I do when I’m //playing//, and you //growl// into my neck, sink your teeth into my pulse. Your weight shifts as you raise one hand, grab my wrist to tug it free and pin it to the pillows, and I squirm shamelessly beneath you, rubbing myself against you as you link your fingers with mine (//again, again, again//, the ache spreading through my whole body, fingers, chest, cunt, making me gasp and arch up) and squeeze. I don’t fight it - don’t want to, don’t need to, and you don’t need me to either. It’s control I’m more than happy to give up, let you do what you want because-
-well. I think sex should be //kind//, but it doesn’t have to be //sweet//. Your other hand roams down my body, brushes over my nipples as you bite down on my lip, make me moan as you slide two fingers inside me, slick and easy. My mouth falls open, and you squeeze my hand tighter, press your thumb against my clit and drag your tongue over mine, too sloppy and open-mouthed to be called a kiss. I wonder, distantly, if you’re trying to stop me talking.
If so, it’s working. I moan, breath coming short, my chest heaving against yours as you fuck me, and despite the bruises on my hands and my neck your fingers are careful, intent but methodical, curling in a way that makes me shudder, toes curling, spine arching, my whole body twisting up into you.
“Lee- baby-” you pant into my ear, sounding almost as ruined as I do, ragged and hoarse, your teeth sharp against my ear, and all I can manage in reply is a strangled moan. “Come on,” you murmur, hand moving faster, the sounds coming from between us wet and obscene. “Come on, baby, come on-”
And I do. Shaking, gasping, I can feel my legs clamp around you, trapping your hand in place until even the aftershocks have passed. You keep kissing me, sweat and salt on your lips until you finally pull back, gently nudge my cheek with your nose.
“You okay? Your hand alright?”
Your grip on my hand loosens, thumb pressing into my palm in a slow massage. I stretch out, muscles aching, shivering as you pull your hand free, wipe it on the sheets.
“My hand’s //fine//, love.” I curl said hand around the back of your neck, brush my thumb over the ridge of scar tissue there. Pull you down for a kiss. Drag my palms down the curve of your spine, beaded with sweat, over your ass. Press down, encouraging you to grind against me, as much for the comfort of your weight as anything, the simple joy of muscle and soft skin. “Do you feel better?”
You laugh into my mouth, and it’s easily the best sound I’ve heard today.
Given that it’s just after midnight, the bar’s been set high, but as I squeeze your ass, slide my fingers over your belly and further down, I think I can beat it.
<h3>Chapter One; Rhaxa POV</h3>
<h4>Content warning: mild violence.</h4>
The air is rank, sour with the stink of gas and fire and fear. It’s too hot, too close, the sound of breaking glass still echoing through their skull. They lope through the streets, weaving through the crowds of panicked people, leaving screams in their wake. Overhead, the station falls in slow motion, a graceful arc as it plummets through the dome, steel girders bending around it like welcoming arms. The vibration as it hits the ground makes their teeth jump in their sockets, temporarily blacks out all sound, all sight: they’re blind, deafened, trapped forever in that moment of impact, and they skid to a graceless halt, wings outstretched, willing their senses to return.
It’s a moment too long.
The vibrations fade: their vision returns first, hazy with smoke and light. In the second before their hearing recovers, there’s a flash of white.
She crashes into their side, her claws dragging a searing gash down their flank, and Rhaxa snarls. Their head whips around, instincts taking over, and they sink their teeth into her shoulder, ripping at the bitter flesh. She can’t get purchase on them - Rhaxa dodges back, twisting away from her claws with desperate animal movements. This is not elegant; this is not what they were taught, not what they //know//.
This is pure, terrified, survival.
Rhaxa dodges a claw that would have eviscerated them, tearing them open from throat to gut; retaliates, an underhanded slice that the hunter catches with her broad, broken claw, the impact singing through their whole body. Claws locked together, serrated edges scraping against one another, Imxa grins at him.
“Nice try, princess-” and he can see the blow coming, a vicious jab to his throat, and so he drops, rolls, and their locked-up claws drag her down with them. The two of them roll, snarling, snapping at each other, soot black on Imxa’s scales and ash pale on Rhaxa’s. This is //bad//: she’s stronger than him, better-rested than him, more vicious than him.
But Rhaxa’s //desperate//.
Somewhere in the distance, gunshots echo. There’s an explosion — it’s been a day for explosions, starting long before the dome shattered, but they don’t have time to worry about that now.
They wrench their claws back, hissing with the effort of it - feel the chitin start to snap, tendons beneath straining.
Imxa’s stronger, but her claws are already damaged, and they give out first. The chitin plating on her claw bends, then snaps, and she roars in pain and fury as Rhaxa tears free, darts back until there’s a body-length of space between them. His side is starting to hurt, and he can feel blood oozing down his flank. He drops to all fours, keeping his claws and wings raised. He needs to buy himself time - time to //think//, time to //plan//. An extra thirty seconds to live.
“Why are you doing this?”
Imxa laughs, the sound like claws over metal. Her tail twitches, and she drops to all fours, mirroring his pose.
“You know why.”
“I know what I did,” Rhaxa concedes, resisting the urge to drop their wings in shame. //No shame. Not here.// “I don’t know why it matters to you.”
“Well,” Imxa prowls towards them, death on broken claws. It bothers them, more than it should, how hard she is to read. Makes it harder to fight her, harder to //talk// to her. Harder, even, to listen to her. “You stand still, and I’ll tell you.”
They’ll wonder about that, later. In all their brief acquaintance, Rhaxa’s never known her to //telegraph// her plans like that; it’s as clear a signal as they’ve ever known, a chance offered.
They take it.
Her jaws clash shut on empty air; her claws slice their thigh muscle, a superficial wound that’ll be healed in a day, as they launch themself past her, wings tight against their side, roll away from the follow-up blow - and run.
They run. It seems to be all they’ve ever done: it feels familiar, although it’s only been a few days, and Imxa may be stronger but they’re //faster//, their one saving grace, and they dig their claws into the hot, greasy asphalt and //run//.
The crowds are immaterial. Panicking humans stream around them: invariably, they scream when they spot Rhaxa, and their attempts to flee can only be a hindrance to Imxa, racing behind them. They leap a pile of rubble, take a corner at breakneck speed. They’re putting space between themself and her, now, stretching their damaged body to its limit to steal a handful of extra breaths, another minute’s existence: they race through a deserted square, streets becoming empty.
When they catch sight of a familiar transport, wings glittering in the firelight, they almost stop. They almost turn. Allow themself, for one of their precious stolen seconds, to imagine going to them, begging help, amnesty.
But there’s no salvation here, among the flames, and Rhaxa doesn’t want to die begging.
They keep running.
They have only the vaguest idea where they’re going: they need to get to the spaceport, get off this doomed, hellish planet. Even without the fires, Koreth is too hot, stinking, sweaty, full of humans leaking pheromones, the air too close and still. They miss the wind, fresh water- they miss-
//No//.
They don’t have the right to miss what they had. Not after this.
Letting out a hiss, Rhaxa picks up their pace.
The spaceport, when they finally make it, is overflowing with people. The air reeks: jet fuel and oil and fear and ozone, blinding in its intensity. Rhaxa clamps their mouth shut and tries not to breathe as the crowds part like water around them, screams and gasps trailing after them as they scramble down the ramp. Nearby, two figures are dragged on board a ship, and Rhaxa turns sharply as the doors start to close. They lunge, coiling through the gap with the last of their strength, and as the seals hiss closed behind them, they find themself able to breathe again.
The stink of fear still seeps in, but it’s softer, here. The room smells of bleach, clean and sterile - and, of course, the musky smell of humans, sweat and blood and hot metal. There are three of them - no, four, one of them tiny and cowering. Rhaxa straightens, feels the edges of their wound tug.
Outside, someone screams again. Rhaxa hears a snarl, and they recognise Imxa’s growling voice. They let out a sound, desperate and pleading, a low hum in the back of their throat, and focus on the human who smells like the ship.
“Fly.”The air in the gym is heavy, humid. It’s been a long summer, and the A/C’s broken several times since the temperatures climbed over forty. You can hear them now, straining and whirring, the blast of tepid air as you pass under a vent a pathetic defense against the heat. It’s cooler down here, at least, halfway underground with the windows blacked out against the glare.
You skirt around the mats, exchanging nods with the few other operatives in the place; it’s early afternoon, and just about everyone’s out. Either on missions, or preparing for them: it’s been a busy summer. Alterations to the charters in the outer segments, new deals going through at an extravagant rate, and, of course, the rising instances of union riots. You’re all feeling it. Your own body is a patchwork of bruises, barely starting to heal; you’d crawled in yesterday evening, just in time to hear the news, and pretty much passed out for twelve hours.
And when you’d woken up, Nash hadn’t been answering their calls.
That’s hardly unusual, but it //did// mean you had to drag your sorry carcass down to this sauna to find them, without so much as a coffee to carry you through.
They’re gonna pay for that.
You find them, sure enough, at the end of a row of mats, beating the everliving shit out of a punching bag. Prop yourself against the wall behind them, the concrete warm and clammy against your skin, and raise an eyebrow.
“You know, if violence doesn’t work, there’s always therapy.”
They pause - just for a second - before throwing a punch that rattles the chains of the bag, metal scraping on metal in a racket you can hear in your teeth. Then they catch the bag, stilling it with their wrapped hands, before rolling out their shoulders and turning to you.
“Speaking from experience?”
“Hell no. Violence always works for me.”
Nash snorts, though there’s not much humour in it. “Surprised to see you down here.”
“Are you?” You unfold yourself from the wall as they take a long drink, pause beside the bag. “Thought maybe you’d wanna talk about it.”
“What’s there to talk about?” They shrug, but there’s a light in their eyes, a crooked smile twisting their lips. “We’re gonna win.”
“//One// of us is gonna win.”
“...right.”
Nash tilts their head, meets your eye for a moment, and you can’t help it: you grin, a sharp, nasty thing, brought immediately to the surface by their expression.
//Competition//, the Director had said, and if you hadn’t known then that things would get ugly, you know it now. Nash is watching you, their eyes intent, calculating. You can’t resist a jibe, slapping a palm on the bag and giving them a look.
“And, you know, if it was about who’s best at beating up inanimate objects, you’d have it. But…”
You let the words trail off, shrugging. Nash’s smile grows, real amusement this time, and they take a step back, stooping to pick something off the ground. You catch it instinctively when they throw it, glance down.
Hand wraps.
Nash raises an eyebrow, raises their hands. The challenge is clear.
You straighten, rolling out your neck, and begin to wrap your hands. Nash doesn’t look away as you do so- not until a voice calls across the mats, and you both spin to glare at its owner.
“How about you two kill each other, and spare us the trouble?”
It’s Silas, another Operative, dressed lightly in a tank top and sweatpants, her own hands wrapped, same as yours. She’s grinning at you, and the expression isn’t entirely friendly, her words even less so; as the pair of you turn to her, she cocks her head, propping one hand on her hip. “What? Private conversation?”
“Come on, Si.” You tie off your hand wraps with your teeth, flex your fingers, and flash her a sharp grin. “We all know if you were half as good an operative as you are eavesdropper, you wouldn’t be so worried.”
“Fuck you.” Silas’s grin flashes. “If //you// were half the operative you think you are, they would’ve just announced it, right? Why waste everyone’s time with a competition?”
You shrug, wave a hand. “Make you lot feel less worthless?”
Nash fails to repress a snort, and as you catch their eye, the two of you exchange grins.
You’ll remember that, later.
Remember that they haven’t looked at you so openly since.The secondary fuel line’s burst. That’s the source of the smell, and the wispy smoke that’s steadily filling the room; there’s coolant leaking from the insulation, and glossy black oil congealing on the floor below the tear. He eyes it warily, with all the grim resignation of a man who’s climbed into a lion enclosure and found, predictably enough, a lion.
A pissed-off lion, which could set him on fire and send him spinning out into the cold void of space at any second.
Putting the metaphor aside - he was never much good at the metaphysical - Ki-Ha crouches, retrieves a patch kit from his toolbox. His back aches with the movement, new bruises igniting old pains, and he hisses out a breath as he straightens, scowling. First, he needs to fix the leak(s). Then he can redirect whatever fuel they have left into the generator - keep the life support system limping along. Then he can think about pulling the guts out of the now-useless fusion chamber and see what’s made it through; perhaps he can fix the internal communicators, if he can cannibalise the auxiliary generator, dead as it is.
Then, assuming they haven’t all been shot, or vented into space, or blown up, maybe he can take a nap.
But first, the leak. It’s a small one - only about an inch, ragged edges sluggishly bleeding coolant and oil. He doesn’t like that; the fuel lines should be high pressure. It should be spraying like a severed artery, not… oozing.
Pulling his mask on, Ki-Ha begins to work. He closes the nearby valves, ignoring the immediate pressure warnings that flash up on the next console (because of course the alarm systems would survive, cheerfully informing him that they’re all fucked with so many flashing lights it hurts his head to look at) and waits for the flow to stop, slowing to a steady drip until there’s no fluid left in this section. Carefully, he seals first the inner tube - fuel staining his gloves, dripping down his arms - and then the outer, sealing flexible cryomesh across the wound and soldering it down. A heatstick, no naked flames. Burns his hand twice, his limbs clumsy with adrenaline and exhaustion, but he ignores it, face twisted into a grimace until the line’s sealed.
This section, at least.
He works his way along every fuel line this way, shutting off the supply to sections until he’s fairly sure all the leaks are patched. It won’t hold for long, but it’s enough to keep him from drowning in engine fuel, and he’s not sure how short he should be making his mental timeline for the future anyway. His boots splash in iridescent fluid as he climbs down, his gloves wet as he rubs his face. He can feel a headache building behind his eyes, the high-pitched ringing in his ears piercingly loud. He slumps against a console for a moment, stripping off his gloves to rub his eyes, press the heel of his hand into his forehead.
The sound of the door scraping open - pushed manually, no power to those systems yet (he mentally adds it to the list) - startles him, and he straightens, reluctant to be caught wasting time. Turns his back to the door to dig through his toolbox as Leanna steps into the messy engine room, swearing softly as coolant laps at her boots.
“Shit.”
“I know.” He glances over his shoulder, gives her an apologetic look. “I’m working on it.”
She looks as exhausted as he feels, skin ashen, hair awry. He turns back to his tools.
“How’s it going?”
Her voice is soft. Tentative. Ki-Ha wishes he could give her good news; can’t quite find it in himself to be optimistic. Tries to say //fine, it’s okay, I can get somewhere//.
All that comes out is a grunt.
He can hear her moving, soft splashes tracking her footsteps, and he focuses on that, more than the ringing, as she approaches. Drapes herself over his back, arms over his shoulders, her cheek tucked against his. It’s a display of familiar affection, and he lets himself breathe it in, hands going still as he waits.
“You look exhausted,” she mumbles in his ear. Ki-Ha shrugs, gently as he can. He doesn’t want to dislodge her. Not yet.
“So do you.”
“Mm.” Her curls tickle his cheek. He can feel her heart beating against his back, her elbows digging into his shoulders.
“You okay?”
He can feel her breath hitch, hands clenching. Her jaw, too. He half expects to feel tears against his face.
“No.”
Of course not. He moves, at last, puts down his screwdriver to squeeze her hand gently. There isn’t much he can say; can’t think of anything that doesn’t sound trite, or stupid, so he just sits in silence. Holding her hand. She knows as well as he does that no matter what - regardless of any rescue that might come - they’re fucked. The ship’s dead; they’re walking around in the corpse of their home, their livelihood.
There’s not much you can say in the face of that.
After a few moments, in which he listens to his friend struggle to get her breathing under control and says nothing, she straightens. Pulls his hand with her, forcing him to his feet.
“Come on,” she tells him sternly, momentary weakness tucked away. She’s using her //Captain// voice. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
“I need to-”
“You need to eat something. You’re no good to me if you faint and drown in…” she raises one foot, squints at the mess that clings to her soles. “Goo.”
He snorts softly. “Alright. Fifteen minutes.”
“An hour,” she snaps back, and he knows better than to argue. “I need backup up there.”
//Right//. “How are the passengers?”
Her mouth thins, expression going tight as she glances at him.
“The unconscious one’s my favourite. The rest of them are on thin fucking ice.”<h3>Leanna POV: Chapter One</h3>
<h4>Content warnings: injuries, needles, medical discussions.</h4>
They’re spinning. For a long, airless moment, Leanna can’t figure out which way is up, her hand clenched painfully on the harness she’d just barely managed to strap into. Her eyes hurt from the pressure, her gums aching; there’s blood in her mouth, her teeth feel fit to vibrate from her skull, and her limbs are too heavy.
Then the ship rights (and she slams a hand on the wall behind her, as much a //thank-you// as a //well done// for the ship that’s shown mercy on her once again) and she spills forward out of her seat, stumbling to her feet. Takes a deep breath, and takes in the chaos.
One of the - she can’t quite make herself think of them as refugees, not armed like that - //newcomers// is limp on the floor, the other one already dropping to their knees to check on them. The alien’s curled in a tight circle, huddling around its injured side; the blonde one’s shaking xemself off, pushing back xir hair with shaky hands.
The little girl’s crying, and Leanna decides to prioritise.
“Hey, sweetheart,” she says, holding out her hand with a smile she //knows// is shaky. The girl sniffs, her lip trembling - and takes her hand, lets Leanna pull her shaking body in close to drop to haunches. “Joia, right?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Okay, Joia-” she reaches up, brushes a tear from her cheek. “I’m Leanna. I’m sorry about that - are you hurt?”
She doesn’t //look// hurt, not badly; the skin on her hands glistens in a way that looks burned, and there’s dust in her hair, but no serious wounds that Leanna can see - no sign that her //body//, at least, is injured. Leanna doesn’t like the glassy look in her eyes, though. Without replying, Joia glances over her shoulder, brows furrowing. Behind her, the other soldier - if that’s what they are - is crouched over the limp body, blood on their hands. They meet Leanna’s eyes, expression hollow, worried. She touches Joia’s chin, drawing her face around.
“Okay,” she says softly. “C’mere. Joia, we’re gonna get them to the infirmary, alright? I’ll take a look at your hands, too.”
“But what if-”
“Talk on the way. C’mon.” She straightens, carefully taking one of Joia’s hands. She doesn’t //like// interrupting, but the tension in the room is reaching a snapping point as the - //soldier? Mercenary?// - who’s still standing glowers at the blonde, hands going to their weapons as they position themself over the still-slumped body. As she stands, their attention snaps to her, and she gives them a warning look, before nodding to the body. “Can you manage?”
Their expression flickers. For a brief moment, she thinks they’ll argue. Then they’re stooping, hooking a limp arm over their shoulders and hauling their friend up as gently as they can. She stops to glance at blondie, snapping her fingers to get xir attention.
“You. Find Skylar- the pilot- see if he needs help. If not, you come back here and //sit tight//.” she rattles off directions, ignoring the blank look she’s getting in return, and turns to the alien. It hasn’t uncoiled from the corner, and she can’t help but feel a flash of sympathy, somewhere deep beneath the mind-numbing panic. She can’t hear the //engines//, the emergency lights washing everything in sickly green. She swallows hard. “Are you coming? I don’t know any alien first aid, but-”
It - //they// - shifts, uncoiling slightly. The tip of that whiplike tail twitches, and they shake their head. Drag themself painfully onto four legs, wings held tight against their body. “I’ll help with the pilot, if I can.”
Leanna suppresses a sigh, and tightens her hand on Joia’s. “Sure. Thank you.”
In the medbay, she ushers Joia up onto the bench at the side, turns her attention to the others. Her compact little infirmary feels uncomfortably full - too many bodies, the space not meant for this - and she all but trips over herself as she searches for dressing for Joia’s hands. It’s too much, her hands still trembling with the shock as she smooths burn gel across the girl’s knuckles. It glistens oddly in the emergency light, and without anything more urgent to occupy her, she’s starting to feel her own bruises. She seals adhesive grafts over Joia’s hands and turns to face the other conscious adult in the room. They’re wrapping bandages tight around their friend’s head, a deep scowl twisting their face. There’s dust in their hair, too, a split lip trailing black blood down their jaw. They pause periodically to swipe at it.
“What can I do?”
They glance at her as she speaks, skin turned grey in the weak lighting. Dust and blood mingle on their face, caked and cracking against their skin, their eyes hollow and black. They open their mouth, and pause. The body on the bed is swathed in bandages, obscuring half the face visible; they’ve left enough room for their patient to breathe, but that’s about it. Leanna lets out a slow breath.
“Not your strong suit, huh?” she smiles as she says it, but they flinch all the same, brows furrowing.
“If it’s not field medicine, I don’t know it,” they admit at last with a slight shrug. “Can you-”
“Not much better than you.” She drops Joia’s hand and takes a step closer. “Are there any other injuries? Gunshot wounds, broken bones-”
“No GSWs that I know of.” They rub their jaw. “A few broken ribs. It’s the head injury that worries me. I don’t know how-”
They’re gearing up for a spiral, hooking their hands behind their neck with a slightly panicked look. Leanna reaches out, squeezes their arm; drops it when they blink at her, expression vaguely shocked, and tries a smile instead.
“Alright. We’ve got the stuff for an IV, here - we’ve got painkillers and anti-inflammatories. That’s the best we can do until we know more.” She pulls out equipment as she talks, winding a flexible plastic tube between her fingers. The needle she pulls out glistens, even in its sterile packaging, and she presses her lips together.
“Can you-”
“Yeah.” They take it from her, hands steadier than her own. Their jaw is set as they fill it, eyes dark under the emergency lights as they glance up at her. “...thanks.”
“No problem,” she tells them quietly as the needle bites into bruised flesh.
She wonders how true that is.<h3>Nash - Injury</h3>
<h4>Content warning: depiction of injury.</h4>
there's blood on your gloves and you can see the inside of their body, raw and red and glistening in the white light of the void beyond. the floor is black and glossy, glossier now that it's wet, stained, sticky. your hands are the same colour, that same arterial black that burns against your skin.
"Nash," a voice is saying - distant and faint and desperate, and though you can feel your lips shaping the word you can't taste it. can't taste anything but bitter oil and copper. "Nash, Nash, Nash-"
a chant, like if you call them loud enough they'll come back to you. crawling, bleeding, but alive, their eyes bright and brown and vivid.
in this light, their eyes are black, and their skin is pale. the bandages you’ve slapped onto their chest are black-red, sticky under your palms. your own chest buzzes, a mouthful of static, your lips numb as they gasp for air.
"Nash- Nash, don't-"
your radio is crackling, the distant voice of your handler. they sound urgent.
angry.
your hands slip on Nash’s shoulder as you fumble, blood sticking tacky under your fingers under your nails bitter in your mouth and at the back of your throat and on their face and reeking of iron as you raise the radio-
//help me//-
and your teeth won’t stop chattering, your skin icy. at least it’s intact - which is more than you can say for them. closing your eyes, you breathe in the stink of blood and metal, force yourself to swallow bile. this time, when you raise your radio to your lips, your voice is steady.
“Operative down,” you hear yourself say. “I need immediate extraction.”
there’s an affirmative buzz on the other end, your handler - still angry, but now useful - spitting information down the line at you. you ignore them, keeping your hands on Nash’s wounds. the bandages are reduced to sticky red-black scraps, by now, but you don’t have any more: you’re reduced to trying to hold their skin together with your hands, soaked to the elbows in blood.
their breath sounds wet, when you can hear it at all. it’s erratic; their heartbeat, too, every weak thud sending fresh blood pulsing over your fingers.
you don’t remember the extraction team arriving. you barely remember them shoving you aside, loading Nash into the transport, you dragging behind like a broken leg.
what you do remember is debriefing with the Director on the way to the hospital. you remember her faint, pleased smile at your report. you remember her saying //congratulations on a successful mission, Operative//, and your numb reply: //Nash is hurt.//
you remember the rest, too.
//they will receive whatever care they need.
I’m sure you did your best, Operative.//<h3>Rohan backstory</h3>
<h4>No content warnings.</h4>
Rohan stretches, revelling in the smooth sheets against xir bare skin. The air is cold, the air conditioner a barely-audible hum, swallowed up by the dark. Xe's starting to get used to this.
//That's// a weird idea.
Rolling onto xir side, xe tugs xir leg back under the covers, skin chilled almost to numbness, and reaches out until xir hand brushes warm skin. There's a soft sound in response, a sleepy grunt that could mean anything, so xe takes xir chances and moves closer, pressing xemself against smooth, soft skin. There's another sound, this time in protest, and the covers shift, warm, sleep-loose limbs pulling away from xem, forming a barrier of thick, luxurious bedding and sharp elbows.
Rohan sighs, rolls back over, and buries xir face in a pillow that smells of lavender and laundry detergent. The blinds block out any light, the room pitch-dark and velvet-soft. The only sound is the faint murmur of the aircon, low and monotonous. They're far enough up that even the echoes from the streets below can't reach them; beyond the blinds is a view that makes Rohan dizzy, every time xe's here.
Xe swings xir legs off the bed, shivering in the cold. Scoops up a shirt from the floor - not xirs, too broad across the shoulders, the fabric too expensive, even crumpled in the dark - and shrugs it on, before making xir silent way through to the lounge. It's lighter, here, the air less artificial; blinds still obscure the view, but a tablet on the coffee table illuminates blue dust in the air, the air conditioning stirring the leaves on the synthetic plant meant to hide the unaesthetic vent.
Rohan throws xemself down on the sofa, taking a faint, petty joy - as xe always does - in kicking the cushions to the floor, stretching out against the expensive fabric. Xe can almost hear him clicking his tongue.
Pushing back xir hair, Rohan stretches xir arms above xir head. Closes xir eyes and imagines, briefly, that it might last: sprawled on an expensive sofa, cool fabric against bare skin, the rest of the world shut safely behind thick blinds.
When the tablet blinks, making the blue light stutter, xe opens xir eyes. Slowly, reluctantly, drifting back into a cold-skinned, lonely reality. There's silence from the bedroom, silence from the outside beyond the blinds. Silence in the lounge, the tablet making no sound as the //new message// notification blinks. Rohan licks xir lips, and settles back against the sofa.
Xe doesn't want to look.
Xe doesn't want to //know//. Doesn't want to be here, alone in the dark watching a notification blink on a screen that isn't xir own.
Xe //wants// to be back in that bed, wants him to roll towards xem, not away. Wants to turn off the air conditioning and open a window and hear drunks shouting in the streets below, see that cityscape that stretches into the beckoning horizon.
Xe doesn't want to reach for the tablet. Doesn't want to know his passcode. Doesn't want to feel that old sick dread as xe opens the message. Xe wants to be //wrong//.
Xe rarely gets what xe wants.<h3>Nash POV: Chapter One</h3>
<h4>No content warnings.</h4>
They’re on the sofa when the dome comes down.
The blinds are half-closed, splitting the light into black-blue-black-blue stripes, slicing across the ceiling. There’s a bowl of rice on their lap, fragrant and steaming; their legs are up on the arm, the TV playing softly in the background as they try to roll the ache from their shoulder. They’re balancing their bowl on their thighs, digging their knuckles into the muscle under their collarbone and hissing at the ache.
Then the sky breaks, and things start to blur. They’re on their feet - rice spilling pale across their wood floors, the sound of the TV drowned out by cracking, roaring, screaming.
Chaos.
Nash shoves the blinds aside, and for a moment - a long, cold drop that they’ll remember with all the clarity of a gunshot, later - they’re falling. There’s too much black overhead, the sky pouring through the hole in the dome in a plume of glittering smoke. The red lights - the emergency lights on the dome, the burning sky beyond - are caught in it, twisting in the inferno as flames catch on the ground below.
Something cold settles in their chest, ice spreading behind their ribs. They take a step back from the window, letting the blinds fall back. The light that cuts across the ceiling is red. Their hands shake as they dig through the sofa cushions; their communicator, tossed aside earlier, is dormant. The last messages, read over an hour ago, are still open on the screen.
//hey.
you busy?//
They dial one-handed as they hurry to the cupboard, yanking on a bulletproof vest with their free hand. Outside, people are still screaming.
They can smell smoke, feel the ground shaking.
No-one picks up.
They load a handgun, try again. There are shots ringing out, now; they can hear glass shattering, more screams.
Again, there’s no answer.
“Fuck.”
They grab another clip - as much as they can carry - and tuck it into their belt. The hall outside their apartment is silent, empty, echoing; the air is cold, and tastes metallic. Nash takes the stairs three at a time, gun held in one hand. They keep trying the communicator - keep getting no answer. Swearing, they pass an open door - one of their neighbours poking his head out, eyes wide and frightened. He glances at Nash, opens his mouth.
Sees the gun in their hand, and changes his mind.
The door slams shut as they pass, and their grip tightens. The street outside is quiet, the air thicker than usual.
The crash wasn’t near their place, but it’s between them and HQ. The smoke billows, all the way up to the shattered glass overhead, fragments glittering as they fall. The ground shakes as they hit the ground.
Nash makes up their mind.
With a shaking hand, they raise the communicator, and change the channel.
It crackles open, and an indistinct voice breaks through the interference, They press their lips together, take a breath of stinging air.
“Can you hear me?”
Distant, faint.
//> Nash?//
The voice is ruined, even with the static distorting it.
“Are you okay? Can you hear me?”
There’s no reply. They exhale. Their eyes are starting to burn.
“If you can hear me-” their voice cracks, and they clear their throat. “If you can hear me, don’t go to HQ. Get to the docks, okay? Meet me at the docks.”
They tilt their head back, watching the smoke drift upwards.
“We can’t stay here. Just… Don’t know if you can hear me.”
They cough. There’s no sound on the other end, now. They let some of their desperation show, voice dropping to a hoarse croak.
“Just be there, okay?”<img id="iviposter" src="./ivi-poster.png" />