No context, just putting this here. Have a picture of my cat or something whenever I add it.
Also I'm Kat, I'm 28, my pronouns are they/them. Something something rapidly escalating threat if you misgender me something something. I dunno, I wanna take a nap.
If you follow me or interact and your blog doesn't have an age, you're getting blocked, have fun.
My tagging system makes sense to me. No promises for you. Ask if you're curious.
all those fics of blowing varka under his desk are a lie. nothing else is fitting under there. his thighs are clipping the top ffs. if he pops a boner that thing is gonna smash through the wood.
The evolution of Togo Shiba's cowardice over time. How quickly he is undone when you are involved.
Word Count: 6.2K
Dividers both by cafekitsune
Tags: afab but gn!reader (reader uses they/them pronouns, but no gendered terms are applied), angst with a happy ending (look the man's scared and has commitment issues accordingly), polyamory (reader is in a relationship with both Azami and Shiba), dry humping, oral sex, biting, everyone's a bisexual switch in my fics (reader is a switch, Shiba is a switch, the only full dom in this relationship might be Azami and even then I'm not convinced)
Author's Note: Remember when I said I'd disappear for a year? I lied.
This is a sorta sister fic to It All Comes Back, it's good as a standalone, but some of the original dynamics are laid out there. It's also the fic for you if you want want an Azami smut scene and not just for him to briefly show up and discuss having had sex with you. Also, fair warning, this one isn't just smut, it's smut with set dressing. Hence the tripled-or-so word count.
Also also apologies for forgetting to post this one here, it's been up on my AO3 for a bit before I remembered you guys hadn't seen it yet. RIP.
Togo is standing under the eaves of your home.
It is raining. He is smoking.
He knows you know he’s there. In much the same way that he knows you know better than to be direct. To invite him in.
He needs to know the consequences of waiting too long. Like a cold dinner serving on the counter, like a glass pot of tea left to sit under a long burned-out tealight, like the lights of your apartment going out as the night turns to the earliest possible hours that could still be called morning.
He is safe here, he could argue. He could actually argue that quite effectively, your defensive wards are the best drawn, new, devised to overlap and cover the weaknesses of the standard ones the Kamunabi are taught. So he is quite literally very safe, standing here under your protection.
He is not comfortable here. The air is humid and the rain and night sky do little to chill it. He’s been standing without moving for too long, his feet beginning to hurt in a specific way he usually walks off by now. He could be comfortable inside, where you have the air conditioner blasting, where he could take a shower and scrape off the muggy remnants of a long day.
But then he would not feel safe.
He does not go inside.
He snubs out his cigarette, disposes of it where you had thoughtfully left a firesafe trash bucket for him, and not even a half-second later he’s on the far side of town, near a large, still-busy street he could walk onto without anyone wondering where he came from, where he’s going.
He is masked by distance and time and space and all those little details he can control in an objective sense, but not in a subjective sense.
He is strong, but even with strength, he is not even a quarter as safe as he was under the protection of your home.
He feels safer now, though.
Safer, and guilty for all of it.
The problem with Togo Shiba is that he is excellent at recognizing patterns.
If he leaves his dinner on the counter for too long it goes cold. If he leaves his tea on the counter for too long it turns bitter. If he leaves you without any reason to believe he’d be joining you to spend time together, you turn the lights off and go to bed.
If it were as simple as that, maybe he would have stopped stringing you along by now.
You keep trying to teach him about the consequences of waiting, but he has never learned. Because every time you still save food for him. Every time, you set out somewhere for him to put out his cigarette. Every time you leave the balcony door unlocked for him.
You try to teach him the consequences of waiting to tell you he loves you and he never learns because you are constantly making him aware of the simple fact that your love has not diminished.
Even when you do direct your attention elsewhere, he still has a place at the table, a place in your heart. It doesn’t help of course that your other lover is Azami, who he’s been sleeping with on and off for a decade and change running now, who, if he allowed himself to be reasonably self-aware he would say he loves.
(He is aware of it, the roots of it laced through every part of him, but if he doesn’t name the stinging thistle, perhaps it and he will stay alive for long enough to be safe.)
It doesn’t help that Azami keeps pushing you and him closer together. That he keeps making you do things as a trio, that he keeps ensuring, but more so reassuring Togo that your love for him is there. Not even begrudging. Not unwilling. Azami sees to it that you get the chance to express that you chose to love them both. To want them both.
But you still don’t invite him in when you see him on your balcony.
He knows the door is unlocked. If he wanted to be inside, closer to you, he would be, by now.
Instead you set aside for him some of what you were making for dinner and in the morning throw it away when it becomes clear he never set foot past the doorway.
Instead you leave him someplace to toss his cigarettes safely.
Instead you make him tea, when it’s cold out, only to have to dispose of it, too.
Instead you wait for him to come into your home when he feels so in his head with his emotions that he can hardly breathe.
And every night you do there is some new remaining proof that he did not take you up on your offer.
So it goes.
When Togo comes in tonight, it is because he knows you are not alone.
Azami had told him that he would be there, too, and, presumably, you had been told as well that that particular invitation had been extended.
From the trail of clothes that he caught in the living room, however (all yours, of course—he knows how Azami keeps his clothes on like a shell until you’re fully bare), he doubts that making dinner was much in your mind for the night.
All the same, when he slowly opens the door to your bedroom, he finds Azami sitting in your bed, awake and looking perfectly sated in casual clothes that were a noted departure from the Kamunabi uniform that sat in a crumpled pile near the foot of the bed. Beside him lay your sleeping form, curled facing away from them both. His hand strokes a slow, even-tempo pace through your hair, the same gesture that would always make you purr in your contentment, in your enjoyment of gentle touch.
“Hey, Shiba.” The words come slightly before his visible eye flicks to him leaning in the doorway. “Easy night?”
He shrugs, still looking at you, asleep. “I’d ask how yours was, but uh…”
Togo’s eyes flick, dark, idle, to the bare skin exposed by the low sling of the old t-shirt you were wearing.
It’s one of your favorites, the original design long worn-out, now used as a practice garment for your embroidery patterning. Always something new on it, whenever you decide you need to practice, it’s the garment you go to. The pattern now is a honeycomb lattice by the fraying collar, framing a clear bite mark sitting at the nape of your neck.
He swallows thickly and hopes Azami doesn’t catch it.
“Do you usually leave them like this?” He asks the question to the nape of your neck, wanting to know less about the teeth (he knew his lovers, he knew they came prepared to bite, especially Azami), more about the way that you had clearly been given a workout if the way you were still dozing peacefully was any indication.
“Hm?” Azami’s gaze flicks to you just as Togo’s flicks to him, as though he needed to figure out what the question was before answering, a mote of laughter warbling in his voice, “Oh, no.”
He thought not, usually he’s much more considerate as to the energy you need for tomorrow. He always had been with him, too, with their encounters.
“Did something happen?” he asks, the next obvious jump to his memory of Azami always being…rougher, in a manner of speaking, when there was something sitting heavy in his mind.
He opens his mouth to say something…and then pauses. His lips press together.
His smile is fond. Sad.
He doesn’t fault Azami for not wanting to say. For a lot of reasons, ranging from government secrets to simple fear and weakness.
Oh well. He wouldn’t judge him for biting to root himself to the real world, to you. He had his own weaknesses, too.
“You gonna stand there all night?”
“The bed wasn’t exactly the most comfortable the last time it had all three of us in it.” A lie to keep him on his feet. He can’t settle down if he doesn’t settle in.
He’s saved from Azami’s undoubtedly scathing skepticism by the sound of a phone buzzing. Not his, and not yours he had passed in the living room. Which left Azami to pull out his, and left his face shifting in barely masked irritation.
“They won’t want me in here when I take this,” he murmurs, his voice quieted, dampened by disappointment—ah. A work call, then. But when he stands, gingerly, trying to get out of bed without waking you, he asks, “Stay here with them? They always wake up when I leave them alone for too long.”
He may be a coward in this regard, but he at least isn’t cruel. He’d already left you alone plenty of times before this, he doesn’t like the idea of letting Azami do the same. He circles, trades places with Azami, and perches at the edge of the bed, his eyes now on you.
You haven’t even stirred.
His eyes narrow, fondly, and he finds himself leaning over to you. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. It lingers how he can’t.
Your hair smells like honey. Azami must have pampered you some after he worked his day off with you.
And suddenly he is uncomfortably aware of the man’s gaze on him, uncomfortably aware of his body, his actions.
By this point, Azami had known for years too much about the core of who he is, was, will be for him to feel comfortable, even as he had always felt safe. He could never pretend there was distance between them. He had to artifice some before he went too far, and even then it never worked.
But Azami had asked him to stay. With you. With him, incidentally. And he wasn’t able to say no.
His steps continue down the hall just a moment too late for Togo to believe that he hadn’t been looking at you both through that crack in the door.
He couldn’t help but roll his eyes, shaking his head affectionately. He’s tempted to call the man a freak, but he was in bed with him anyway, and besides, he was tempted to do the same thing not too long ago when he spotted you and Azami. So he can’t fault him.
Or he could fault them both, call them both freaks. The thought amuses him enough for a half-second.
“Hi, Togo.”
He doesn’t jump, but he does blink and look over at you, surprised at the sound of your voice, warm, muddy with sleep. Your eyes are barely open, but you were still looking at him all affection. All kindness.
It makes him ache.
He ignores it, smiling softly. “Hey. Did I wake you?”
You shake your head, loosely, and make a little sound like ‘mm-mm’, and when he brings his hand down to rest on the crown of your head, he swears that if you could purr, you would at that moment. It’s cute, unbelievably so.
But no cuter than when you shuffle slightly, scooching yourself towards him to lay your head on his thigh, your cheek squished against the muscle there.
“What’s this?” he asks, and you sigh, content, wrapping an arm around his back, loosely.
“Feels like I never get to cuddle you anymore,” you mumble. “Wanna take advantage of the chance.”
He swallows the ache again.
“Wouldn’t cuddling require me laying down?”
You barely open your eyes, and the image is very much like you just narrowed your eyes accusingly. “If you lay down in my bed while you’re wearing your shoes, I’ll—”
“I’ll take them off!”
“You didn’t last time!”
“I—look—”
He knows you can feel the way his legs shift when he toes off his shoes, can hear the thud of them hitting the floor. You’ve already started giggling by the time he asks, “Better now? Do I have permission to lay down in your bed now?”
Your eyes narrow again as your giggles die off, this time playful as you sit up (struggling just a little, he notices), twisting yourself to face him. You hum, a long, thoughtful note and consider him.
You reach out to the collar of his shirt, and for a moment, the mood slows. Time stretches as you look on him, fondly, rubbing your thumb over the topmost button of his shirt.
He feels himself in love with you again.
“Yes,” you answer, definitively, to a question he only hazily remembered asking before you launch yourself at him, the brunt of your weight hitting his shoulder, your arms wrapping around him as you knock him off-balance into the warmth of your bed.
You were still giggling while he surrendered himself to a slightly uncomfortable half-minute of wiggling into a comfortable position.
When you and he settle, it leaves you both facing each other—he doesn’t want to stop looking at you, taking in every detail in a single sentimental moment.
“How long have you been awake?” he asks.
You don’t answer for a second, thinking a moment about the hazy edges of sleep. “Since Soshiro said he needed to go to take a phone call.”
Togo blinks. Maybe Azami was right, maybe you do have some sort of instinct about being alone. “Were you worried?”
“No. Because I knew you were there.”
“You could sense me, huh?”
“Soshiro had to be talking to someone, I don’t think he’d trust me with anyone but you.”
It takes him a second to swallow down the ache this time. “Good thing, too,” he replies. “I don’t think I’d trust anyone but him with you, too.”
“Does that mean if he has to go deal with something, you’d stay?”
He freezes, for just a half-second too long, perhaps. You recognize that internal panic.
You look very much like you’re trying to put on a brave face when you course-correct. “It’s alright if you have to go.”
He doesn’t like that look on you. He doesn’t at all.
“You don’t have to be so selfless. You can ask me to stay.”
He couldn’t stop the words in time. Something about being like this lowered his inhibitions, only for him to regret it when your expression crumples. He wonders if you’re about to cry, especially given the vulnerable state you’re undoubtedly in. If you do, he doesn’t know that he’d forgive himself easily.
“What if you say no?”
His stomach clenches, like he was just punched in the gut, his eyes sliding closed. Fuck. Your voice sounds so small, so vulnerable. He shouldn’t have asked that, shouldn’t have let the conversation meander this way. He should have just held you, lulled you back to sleep until Azami came back. Now this, it…
Fuck.
He opens his eyes. He leans in. His forehead presses gently to yours, and his hand, large, warm, comforting, sneaks up to cup your cheek. “You think you could be brave enough to ask anyway?” he asks, a soft plea. Trust him. Let him love you, let him sink into this. His voice still sounds firm in a way that’s convincingly confident when he adds, “I’d say yes if it was you.”
He could be brave enough anyway, if it was you.
That night, you fall asleep bundled up, held tight by both your cocoon of blankets and Togo’s own arm curling you close to him, tucked under his chin.
Togo falls asleep still dressed in his day clothes. He didn’t even get under the covers before he fell asleep and that was it.
He wakes up to you, recovered emotionally and almost recovered physically, having wriggled free from the blankets enough that you could twirl a lock of his hair around your finger.
Your lips tilt in a way that’s convincingly confident when you wish him, “Good morning, handsome.”
He is brave enough to stay for breakfast.
When you push him down onto your couch, he’s having a hard time picking up whether you’re angry at him, or just horny.
It could be both, but at least the odds of it just being anger diminish rapidly when you perch yourself in his lap, pressed right up against him, and kiss him. He makes a surprised noise, but kisses you back—and when you pause to bite at his lip at his amused follow-up, he decides that angry and horny seem the best bet.
He plays cowed by your behavior and hums, a low, rumbling sound of surrender in his chest, paired with his arms around you, and—oh, you must be really mad, your hands find his and guide them away, behind his head onto the back of the couch.
He’d call your pace rough if he believed you capable of it.
This is just…hurried. Frantic.
Desperate.
That, he knows you can be.
He’s seen it, before, when it was the three of you. When was the last time he gave himself the chance alone with you?
You’re pouting. It’s cute. But it is counterintuitive to him wanting to melt into you, to give in, fully.
Let him give in. Let him forget ever having run from this drowning sensation to begin with.
He wonders if you can feel his own desperation when you kiss him. Whether you’re torturing him by pulling away from your kiss, or rewarding him for keeping his hand still behind him as you released him to instead wind your fingers through his hair, tugging it gently, drawing your lips up his throat, your tongue, a kiss.
He feels the sensation of your teeth, and another surprised sound leaves him, this time saturated in sugary want—
(Amusement at the way you and Azami both sink your teeth into your lovers dies in the face of all his blood rushing below his belt at just this bare amount of stimulation—sparks of pain and proximity.)
He chokes out a soft, “Fuck,” but when his free hand comes to lay on your waist—not even control the pace, just squeeze, just touch you, please—you catch it, and guide him back into helplessness before you.
You’re pouting. It’s cute, but at this point cute has his cock, pressed right up against you, twitching in his slacks. You’re not saying a word, though, just watching him, and the scrutiny does something that has him twitchy in a different way.
When he leans in to kiss you to make it stop, you back off, and he deflates, his head rolling back onto his hands, leveling you his best pout in return. It doesn’t work, but he needs something to do, around not being able to look away from you.
Around letting his mask of amusement and calm crack.
His need is plain as day in the way his eyebrows furrow, his eyes drop lidded, his jaw clenches. His gaze traces over you in turn, but the distraction your lips hold proves too much again and again. He can’t level the same proper scrutiny you’re giving him, not now, not like this, not when his attention span is currently resting below both his and your belts.
He wonders if he can learn how to transmit his thoughts to you. Let him kiss you. Let him taste you again, let him have you, touch you, let him want and take and give freely, please.
When you lean in, his mind soars, a smile twitching on his face as you brush your lips against his—
But when you pull away after so little, he groans, his muscles tensing in their restraint to keep his hands exactly where you put them.
“Ask.” It’s the first word that’s left you since you both stumbled through the door of your home.
“What?” Again, attention span isn’t his strong suit at this point.
“You want something. Ask for it.”
Maybe this is revenge of some sort. Surely he hasn’t tortured you this much during your previous encounters, Azami always loved giving you exactly what you wanted too much to let him. Maybe that would have to change in the future, but in the now, he’s breathing, “Kiss me?” and hoping the breathless laughter that follows it doesn’t disqualify him from any reward his obedience earned.
You smile.
When you free his hands, he’s not sure of what to do with himself, so he stays still as you slide your touch up his arms, his neck, cupping his jaw and taking his face in your hands. Gentle. Gentle as he’s always known you.
And then you have the nerve to kiss him sweetly.
He hates to admit he’s shaking. That he’s been reduced to this little out of nowhere.
Maybe this is the cost of him avoiding having you like this for so long, that just this much—and the promise of even just the tiniest bit more—was enough to get him like this.
He’d be embarrassed if he weren’t so wrapped up in you that by the time you pull away he feels like kindling, feels like dry brush in August. If he were any more of a coward he might have decided he needs to run, but his desire to run doesn’t outweigh his desire to be close to you. He can’t think, can’t breathe without taking in your scent, without drowning in jasmine, sugar, and sandalwood. Stuck clinging to your forearms, leaning his head into your hands, his eyes squeezed shut, his expression betraying every inch of concentration it’s taking him to form the words, “I didn’t realize how bad I am at fighting you.”
You smile at him in response, and he laughs for a half-beat as he realizes he’s doomed. Not in the way of tragedies that he had always felt he was, just doomed to this. To feeling overwhelmed, to having to fight that urge to run in exchange for the beautiful reward of stealing your hair clips in the morning, of making you coffee, of watching over you while you nap in the afternoon sun, warm and languid.
Doomed to have to figure out how to not love you like a coward.
“I think you could if you tried,” you offer, either intentionally unhelpful or missing the point entirely. Perhaps some secret third option if your addition is his only clue, “Or are you saying you don’t want to try to fight anymore?”
He draws in a slow breath, nodding. Yeah. Fuck it. Let him drown. Let him be eaten with guilt for the simple fact that you’ll always have him even if he can never figure out how to not be scared to tell you how much. Let him orbit you, unable to escape your dance.
He leans up, now, closer to you, his grip on your arms just as needed, just as grounding and desperate. His forehead lands on your cheek—it’s not very sexy or romantic, but maybe he can get away with the cute you show him when you’re sleep-drunk and craving closeness, because he needs to be able to speak, he can’t kiss you and call it done. He needs to say it, to be able to say it. Even if he needs to escape your scrutiny when he does.
“Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”
When he feels you stiffen, surprised, he tries to stifle his laugh. It’s like you didn’t think you would get as far as getting him to admit to it. What would you have done if he hadn’t? Torture him for it, deny him just like you had mere moments ago?
No. You’re too much like him. You like giving him what he wants too much to refuse him for too long. And you’re far too patient with him (far more than he deserves) to try to force him to tell you the truth before he’s well and ready.
He loves that about you. One of many traits near to his heart.
His lips land soft on your throat, and you make a startled noise that he can’t help but laugh at. He sees this for what it is, sees that you’ve handed off any sort of power you might have had in exchange for his answer, regardless of whether you realized it or not.
He has his hold on you still, and you still haven’t moved.
Maybe he shouldn’t take this as permission, but well. What kind of menace to you would he be if he were to let this moment pass?
Apparently an obvious enough one that the second he shifted, you were already protesting, “Hey, wait—”
But, as in many things, you acted too slowly, and with a surprised shriek (you always were so very undignified with sudden movements or heights or. Well. A lot of things related to him showing up and teleporting you with no warning) you were flipped over onto your back on the couch, his large hands pinning your arms in place now.
You are…beautiful, like this. You’re beautiful all the time, really, but like this, eyes wide in surprise, lips parted, flushed…
He gets it, now, why Azami gets so clingy over you when it comes to the bedroom, why he pins your hands, or presses you down onto the sheets to make it so you can’t run. Your helplessness at his hands does something to him that sends a shiver racing up his spine, a grin sparking on his face.
He leans down and you surge up to meet him halfway when he kisses you. It’s like that was the cue you needed to move, now your legs are hooking around his, he feels just as bound in you as he had when you pinned him down. Him being on top doesn’t change a lick about who’s in control, not really. If he wants you to give in, you have to make that choice, simply this wouldn’t be enough to stop you.
But he wants that, now, he thinks, pressing his body close to yours. Wants to see that helplessness again, wants to coax it out of you, wants to hear you whine his name. He’s already told you the plain truth, he’s not fighting this anymore, he needs to figure out some other route—
You slip one of your hands free from his grasp and he barely manages to break away from your kiss to try to warn you off it—just in time for you to try the same trick again in pulling his hair.
Unfortunately, being prepared for it doesn’t make much of a difference—the sound he lets out, surprised, horribly turned on, it clearly sparks something in you, too, and he decides he has enough of your attempts of abject cruelty in denying him.
He shifts, wedges his knee between your thighs to let him properly settle the weight of his hips against yours and let you feel just what you’ve done to him. Let you feel the fullness of his desires. He grinds his hips to drive the point home, and you whimper—oh he is doomed—now you’re scrambling to make some attempt at recovering from the embarrassment of losing control of yourself. Tugging him down again by his hair to kiss you, trying to wrap around him in a way that lets you control the pace of his hips, only to come to the horrible realization that Togo is much stronger than you.
Gentle. But stronger. And by this point, he’s not going to hide that. Not when you’re half-trapped under him and he’s wanting to see you give into him again.
(He shuffles away the almost-equal want to have you demanding his obedience for later, right now he wants to see what Azami’s always searching for.)
His hips start at a nice pace, solid pressure that finds you squirming under him—at first, it seemed, to try and run away from the stimulation, and then out of a desperate chase for more as your body’s wants speak clearer than your desire to keep control of yourself.
He can’t quite tell if you’re trying to control him at all anymore. The hand you have in his hair is no longer actively tugging like a leash to dictate where he goes—your grip loosened some time ago, though you’re still, it seems, trying to keep him close, keep him kissing you. Clinging, grounding—he slides his hand keeping your arm pinned to instead wrap around your hand, and you cling there, too.
His lips quirk, and he wonders whether the only way you’d actively try to reinforce control now would be if he tried to back away, distance himself. It’s not quite the surrender he was hoping for, but it is something closer, something useful while his hips rock slowly and force friction on your clit, his cock twitching every time your hips jolt against his to chase more, more.
If you want him to escalate, you would have to ask for it. But you don’t want to, do you? Not because you dreaded the asking, but because you didn’t want to stop this, stop having him so close to you.
So maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe he’ll get to spend a long, long time kissing you—sloppily, hungry, letting all those little sparks of pleasure percolate, settle low in his gut while he’s rutting his cock against you. While his free hand wanders, squeezing your thigh, your hip, sneaking under your body to press into the small of your back which loosens a delicious cry to be swallowed by his lips. He decides quickly enough that he has to hear that again, tearing away from your kiss to start sucking at your neck while he rolls his touch up and down over that sensitive spot on your back.
You’re arching your back, whining—and before he can even think to wonder, you let out this sucker punch of a noise, and the prettiest wail of his name, your hips jolting,
Oh. Oh you’d just cum.
He feels his cock twitch—you must, too, given the soft whine you let out—and rolls his hips against you again, again, once more, long, even strokes while your hips speed up, your leg trying to wrap around him for better leverage to ride out the remainder of your orgasm but not doing much more than just squeezing around him while he does the work of anchoring you against him so you can enjoy every second of the pleasure he’s given you.
He only recognizes the fact he’s been talking you through it when he catches himself murmuring right up against your ear, “That’s it, that’s it, good pet,” in the way he remembers Azami doing once before. It earns a whimper in response that has him realizing he isn’t content with just this anymore.
When you settle, your hips slowing to a stop, he acts—he shifts, pushing himself down your body despite your hands, grip weak, reaching for him desperately. He’d feel bad, but he had an intention in mind.
“Ah—Togo!”
Another undignified sound of surprise leaves you as he yanks down your pants and underwear together—it’s not particularly smooth, either, taking a couple tries and shifting his hands under you to barely get them down to your calves, but it does the job. Even if it has you squirming and surprised, tugged down to the edge of the couch, he doesn’t much think about that because he’s too busy spreading your folds apart to get a good look at you.
Fuck you’re so wet.
He draws in a slow breath to fight against the way he can feel his cock throbbing at just that, just looking at your pretty, sensitive, soaked folds, and his eyes flick up to take in your expression as you lean up on your elbows.
Embarrassment, want, nervousness, and that pretty glimmer of surrender plain as day.
He doesn’t wait any longer to taste his prize.
It’s an instant of sensation when his tongue touches you—the taste of you overwhelming him, the moan you try to choke back and half-succeed at, your thighs jolting around his head, surrounding him in the warmth and plush of your skin. The long, low sound it pulls from him is muffled against your skin, but you still seem to twitch sympathetically in response.
It's only fair, it feels, for the way he feels his cock twitching for every sound you make for him. Little shards of pleasure and want tumbling down his spine as he sucks on your clit and presses the flat of his tongue up against you, presses it into you to taste you, you arch up against his hands while they try to keep you firmly in place. It’s a treat to get to have you like this—not a rarity, but a treat nevertheless, something he earned. Something he deserves to take his time with, surely.
He has a half-second to realize how good this feels before you try to goad him into speeding up by tugging at his hair and babbling some long, whining mix of his name and please before his realization of the issue no longer includes the word close, just cumming with a choked noise buried against your pussy, shivering breaths and moans that have you whining in sympathy, a breathy oh fuck before your hips twitch. His do, too, rutting into the air to get some little extra friction to ride this out, but he settles for you tugging on his hair again, eyes rolling back, and he can’t help but laugh, driven fully stupid, it felt, by the endorphins.
You try very hard to manage to ask him, “Did you just—” but you don’t get to finish your question around the moan he pulls from you, pleasure sweeping away your coherence away in the flood—from the awed and more-than-slightly-turned-on tone he could take an educated guess anyway. Even if you had managed a full sentence, he wasn’t about to answer you, not when that would require his mouth, which has a much different purpose at the moment. You’ll get to ask him questions after you’ve cum again.
He enjoys pushing you through all your sensitivity. Enjoys the way you struggle under him, enjoys your pleas and the way your voice turns desperate, broken down, overwhelmed. He gets to experience this. You chose to give this to him, he intends on making it worth it.
He can take his time, now, his mind equal parts cleared by his orgasm and muddled by you, consuming every thought and want. You’re his only focus, listening to every reaction while he draws his tongue over your clit, finding one rhythm that has you going rigid like an electric current and sticking with it until you’re curling in on him, squeezing around his head, making it hard to breathe, but the short, breathless shout tapering off into a shivery whine and babbling, the flood of your orgasm in his mouth, your body relaxing and then arching, the sight of you, flushed and dazed and struggling to catch your breath—all of it. All his, right now.
Did you know you say thank you when you cum? So polite. He wonders where you picked that habit up from, but he’s not going to point it out, what if you stop? He just takes in all those little noises and notes he needs until your shivering abates, turning into languid gasps for air and open moans as his tongue delves into you, desperate for the last few tastes he can get before you start pushing at his head.
“I’m done—I’m done—” you gasp for air around your hands trying to get him to stop. And now he listens, graciously, earning your body melting into the couch cushions and your relieved laughter, your hands still reaching for him to take—this time not control, but simple affection. “Fuck, Togo, what the hell,” you mumble, smiling, your head lolling as you roll partway onto your side to look at him, still too dizzy from your high, too tired to sit upright as you struggle to catch your breath.
He can’t help but reciprocate your grin, though softer, when your hand starts carding through his hair, gently. “You didn’t want me to run anymore,” he murmurs, in a moment of surprising eloquence given the circumstance. “Maybe I want to make sure you don’t start.”
“By trying to bribe me or trying to wear me out so I can’t?” you ask. His eyes flash mischief. You groan. “Nevermind, I don’t want to know.”
“Y’sure? You are the one who posed the question.”
“Yeah, but if I challenge you I don’t think you’ll stop at two orgasms.”
He hums, pressing a kiss to your knee. “The night is still young. And we are unsupervised.”
“Can we start with a shower first? Maybe a nap?”
“Together?”
He means it as a joke, mostly, but you don’t take it as one—and when the exasperation on your face melts swiftly into affection, when you squeeze his hand and murmur, “Yeah. Yeah we can. Together.”
Suddenly he doesn’t want it to be a joke anymore, either.
Now his mind is on your hands, gentle and precise, running over his body, through his hair, treating him with the care you treat your spells. Now his grin reblooms, boyish and pleased as anything when he scoops you off the couch to hasten exactly that, even as you yelp and smack his shoulder.
my problem with my re-reading kgrb is that each time he comes onto the page i am . not paying attention anymore. information retention? gone. azami retention? sky high. it's great. 🥲✌️
I’ve started catching up on Fields of Mistria, and I finally broke a certain seal in the mines. So to celebrate, I had to sketch our exhausted dragon !
Bro I'm Just A Whole Dude @bitchgray - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
