Archive of Our Own

It’s not that Blake hates Atlas, it’s that she finds the city painfully limiting. There’s a place in the world for extravagance and opulence, but when you’ve structured every element of your existence around that theme, the only thing you’re left with is extremity masquerading as decadence. Blake’s lost count of the number of times she’s received pitying glances for voicing her wishes to return to the tropical forests and the open fields of her home. Not that she’s going to let that stop her. Atlas is nothing more than a brief stop of her tour – one that has, admittedly, gone on longer than she’d like – and they’ll still be measuring their dicks with their gaudy erections, whilst she moves on to enjoy greener pastures. Both literally and figuratively.

The other problem, of course, is that Atlas is freezing, and Blake is a creature of heat. Not that she’s currently doing herself any favours with the evening’s outfit. Between the shorts that both stop too high and sit too low, and the crop top exposing more of her torso than covering it, it’s a wonder she managed to make it halfway down a block, let alone the three that she’s already taken. Her legs are the warmest part of her, and that’s only because of the thigh-high boots that she’s wearing.

“Relax, Belladonna,” Neon teases, nudging Blake’s hip with her own. “You keep shivering like that and the bouncer’s going to think you’ve got something to hide.”

“I’m cold,” Blake retorts. There’s less bite than she intends. The cold’s stolen her capacity for sass along with her warmth.

“I told you to join us for the pre-game.”

“And I told you, I had to work.” Which is true. Technically. Blake did work today but she finished a full four hours before everyone was due to meet up at Neon’s. She just had more important things to put together. “Just tell me we’re close.”

“Oh, we’re close.” She giggles as she grins. It’s that overly high pitch she makes when she’s holding a secret. It also happen to be the same one she makes when she flirts, which is the part of it that really sets Blake on edge.

They round the next corner and Neon slips in front of her so that Blake can witness the full dramatic effect of the way Neon broadly gestures to the building across the street. It looks like any other building in Atlas. Cold. Clinical. Uniform. Lack of windows aside, it looks more like an office building than a night club.

“I thought you were taking me to the best night club in Atlas,” Blake says. There’s no hiding her disapproval. She’s meticulously crafted the events of this evening but most of them hinge on Neon backing up her outrageous party-girl claims. If the brightly coloured woman is all talk…

There’s a burst of laughter from their group as they step forward to cross the street. Flynt holds back long enough to lay a sympathetic hand on Neon’s shoulder, though when he speaks there’s nothing but light teasing in his tone, “I told you you wouldn’t get the effect you were looking for.”

Neon pouts. “It’s no fun if we’re already in there,” she says, crossing her arms.

Flynt shakes his head before turning towards Blake. “I know it doesn’t look like much, but I promise you won’t be disappointed.”

~

Flynt’s right, Blake isn’t disappointed. But she’s certainly overwhelmed. When Neon had bragged about the clubs in Atlas being better than the ones in Vale, Blake had assumed that the compliments were just another part of Neon’s tendency to exaggerate. But the place they have taken her to is nothing like any night club Blake has ever been in before. Granted, she hasn’t been in many – loud music and heaving crowds have never been her scene – but she has been in some. Though looking at her surroundings, Blake starts to think that maybe she needs to revise the definition of that statement.

The interior is built like an arena. A sunken dancefloor sits at its centre; bathed in flashing neon and sweeping spotlights. It’s absent of a DJ, of…anything, really. Just a perfectly cut hole in the ground and a throng of bodies writhing inside it.

The floor they’re on is the last before the pit, and it’s nothing but a ring of evenly spaced tables and a bar that follows the curve of the wall to Blake’s right. There are two floors above them, also ringed but noticeably narrower, and when Blake glances up she can see the silhouettes of strangers leaning over the top of brass barriers, gazing onto the dancefloor below.

“Over there.” It’s Neon’s voice in Blake’s ear, and Blake follows the angle of the woman’s arm to the opposite side of the pit. She finds fire waiting there. Quiet, for the moment. Contained. Golden hair falling into curls past her shoulders. Lilac eyes transfixed on the mass of bodies below. She’s dressed casually; faded denim jeans hugging tight against her hips, a plain white shirt rolled up at the sleeves to expose the curve of her powerful arms. She almost looks like she’s wandered in from the office, or accidentally stepped into the wrong one, and Blake feels suddenly underdressed for the occasion.

“Oh, Belladonna,” Neon mutters beside her. “You really have picked a fine one, haven’t you?” Her hands clasp behind her back as she hums, shifting her weight from one foot onto the other. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go over there? Soften her up for you?”

“You couldn’t handle her.” It’s never a good idea to challenge Neon, but Blake’s always had a bit of a possessive streak, and too many years spent keeping it on a leash have left it eager to make itself known.

Neon laughs, though whether she’s being oblivious or just wilfully ignorant to Blake’s bite, Blake cannot tell. “Even if I could, I value my furniture too much to bother. Werewolves,” she adds, “so uncivilised.”

It always catches Blake off guard when she says things like that. But then she remembers that Neon grew up with Weiss. That they shared the same circles, attended the same schools. Just because Neon’s managed to put up a wall between herself and her upbringing, doesn’t mean she’s managed to completely separate herself from it.

(There’s a lesson in that, Blake thinks, distantly. And it’s something about hidden truths and past selves. Something about the predator lurking inside the blonde-haired beauty casually sipping her drink across the room. Something about the plan that Blake has set in motion for tonight, and how she wants, and she wants, and she wants…)

 Neon’s hand wraps around Blake’s wrist and pulls her back towards the bar. “Come on,” she says. “We both know you aren’t going down onto that dancefloor sober.”

~

Blake isn’t sober when Neon pulls her onto the dance floor with the rest of Team FNKI, but she isn’t drunk, either. Three shots of whisky were all she needed to expel the chill from her bones and the lingering whispers of doubt from her thoughts. She needs to keep her wits if the night is going to go as she intends, but she can approach it a little loose. A little limber.

It might even be more fun that way.

It’s hard to tell how long they’ve been dancing when Neon leans in and whispers, “She’s gone.” The songs have started to bleed into each other and the pinpricks of moonlight that fall from the ceiling are lost to the synthetic lights baring down on them. Blake only knows that she seems to be slipping deeper into the comfort of being tipsy. She’s passed the point of inhibition but she’s still a long way from recklessness. She might be dancing without restraint, but she hasn’t invited anyone in from outside their group, taking her turn with Flynt and Kobalt and Ivori. She’s even shared a brief dance with Neon, but there’s not enough alcohol in her system to make her comfortable with the looks and jeers that that particular performance earned.

Blake senses Yang before she feels her. There’s a tension in the air that rolls across Blake’s back, and she feels the hairs at the back of her neck stiffen moments before a long, hot breath brushes across them. Hands settle against her hips. Firm. Sure. As though the Gods themselves had carved Blake’s form so that they could have a home there.

She watches as Team FNKI retreats deeper onto the dancefloor; bowed eyes and subtle, knowing smirks. She lets softness slip into her eyes and hopes it adequately conveys her thanks.

There’s a slight shift behind her and Yang bends forward until her lips brush the shell of Blake’s ear. “What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?”

“Dancing. Obviously.” She tries to keep her tone clipped and hopes it sounds convincing. Hopes that Yang doesn’t notice the heat pooling in Blake’s core.

There’s a chuckle and it sounds like snapping twigs and breaking branches. “I’m Yang.”

“Yang.” Blake weighs it in the hollow of her mouth and shrugs like she finds it wanting. She doesn’t offer her own name in response.

“Do you want a partner?” There’s a hint of something deep and predatory beneath the cheerful lilt of Yang’s voice, and Blake shudders involuntarily at the sound of it. She lets her body fall back just a little, knowing that Yang’s will be waiting to meet her, knowing how her curves will fit perfectly into that space that Yang has left for her.

Blake reaches back, sliding her fingers along the curve of Yang’s neck and up into golden locks. A familiar touch that betrays the people they are underneath. Mine, Blake’s heart sings as she tangles her fingers in Yang’s hair without hinderance. Mine because I’m yours.

“You think you can keep up?” Blake teases, adjusting the roll of her hips. Pushing them back and up.

Yang’s reaction is purely physical. Isolated. She pulls Blake a little closer. “I know I can.”

For a moment, Blake stumbles at the depth in Yang’s voice. She had expected it, anticipated it – invited it, even – yet she is unprepared for the way that her body betrays her at the sound. How heat flashes in her core and weak want begs and begs for her to cast aside her careful planning and give herself over to the promises hidden beneath Yang’s voice. It would be enough. It would be plenty and wonderful and every beautiful little adjective that Blake has ever read in her books, just as it always is when it comes to sex between them. But Blake knows it can be better.

She wants it to be better.

So Blake swallows her desire and lifts her chin and summons every facet of control that she can muster. “Prove it.”

There is no accounting for what follows. For the way that Yang’s fingers tense against Blake’s skin, or the heat that flares in the non-existent space between their bodies. How Yang’s lips settle onto Blake’s neck as though that skin had never been marred by her teeth nor soothed by her tongue. As though the mating mark currently hidden beneath a cascade of raven hair had been left by anyone other than the woman who currently holds her in her grasp.

She lets a sliver of control slip and submits - not to Yang, not to the wolf, but to the moment. To a set of heartbeats that pound in rhythm with the music. To the distinct chill of sweat on her arms and the aftermath of Yang’s kisses on her neck. To the teasing touch of Yang’s fingers at her waistband.

More. More. More!

Blake’s body concedes to the call and the subtler rolls of her hips descend into shameless grinds. The first, breathless notes of a moan trap themselves behind her teeth. Blake craves and Yang moves to please her – just as she always has, just as she always will – with slow and teasing fingers that climb over Blake’s stomach and follow familiar pathways to her breasts.

Blake almost loses herself there. Almost submits to the strength of Yang’s body and the sureness of her hands. Forget shame and modesty; it isn’t like anyone will notice if Yang fucks her there in the middle of this thriving mass. And maybe Blake wants that. Maybe that extra hitch in her breath and that coiled tightness in her core has nothing to do with Yang’s electric touch and everything to do with where they are, and what will happen if Blake is willing to let it get that far. Forget the plans. Forget the masks and the acts, the costumes and the plays. This is the only thing that Blake needs.

It's the brush of calloused fingers against the underside of her breast that saves her; realisation coming short and sharp that the fantasy she’s creating is too easily ruined by the nature of the woman at her back.

Blake’s hand shoots to Yang’s wrist, holding it in place. It’s the type of gesture she expects Yang to question but she doesn’t have the mind to offer an excuse beyond the obvious. She settles back in the comfort of old plans. Of memorised scripts. It’s easy with the words rehearsed for quiet command to silde into her voice, smothering the quivering want that wishes to make itself known. “Easy hotshot.”

Twitching fingers leave pricks of heat against Blake’s skin as their owner stills, and Blake lets her body come to rest alongside Yang’s. There is silence in their pocket of the dancefloor. A quiet that is defined not by the air around them but by their hearts and their souls. An agreement that this is as far as this chapter goes, and a promise that the next one will be better. That it will hold everything they wish for and more.

Blake leaves the turning of that page to Yang. This is supposed to be her hunt, after all, it’s only fitting that she gets to decide when her prey is sufficiently caught.

Yang’s never been one to disappoint.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

Blake lets the unseen smile betray the depths of her reaction. “I thought you’d never ask.”

~

Blake takes her to an estate on the upper-East side. It’s flashy, even by Atlessian standards. A rental from Weiss specifically chosen for this moment, not for its grandeur but its isolation. They’re half a mile from their nearest neighbours and surrounded by walls thick enough to dull the sounds that Blake’s anticipating will be unleashed tonight.

Pretence follows them inside. Blake orders Yang to remove her boots but continues wearing her own. She watches the way Yang’s eyes dart between them, how she catalogues the power play with rising mirth and amusement. Yang’s plans might have shifted the second Blake offered to take her home, but Blake’s merely following another page of her script. She’s had the pages memorised and well-weathered for days and she’s not about to concede on that anticipation just because there’s a wolf inside her walls.

The leash in her hands is taught and familiar, and she uses it to lead Yang to the bedroom. There’s no pace to her steps, no trace of the thrill pulsing inside her. She’s well-practiced in the art of tampering her emotions and what was once a skill for survival serves her well in newer, more enjoyable ways. She glances back at Yang and wonders for a moment if Yang sees the lead that Blake imagines herself holding. Whether she pictures the dark and well-worn leather when she follows silent and obedient behind Blake’s shadow. Is it a compulsion for her to follow as she does, with a gaze that is all at once too soft and too hungry? Or is it a choice that she makes willingly? A silent submission in the guise of love and protection.

Blake’s gaze must have lingered longer than she intended because Yang tilts her head to the side, a playful grin creeping across her lips. “See something you like?” It’s a tease. An offering. If Blake wants to shift course and hand power to Yang, all she has to do is ask for it.

That isn’t what Blake wants, so she snaps her head forward with a huff and replies, “Just making sure you’re keeping up.”

She takes note of Yang’s chuckle, picks out a punishment to assign from the list that she’s been making in the margins of tonight’s tale. She won’t say what it’s for, but she’ll make sure Yang knows she’s not being rewarded.

There are two doors to the bedroom and Blake opens them with a flourish before stepping inside without ceremony. She won’t confess to the hour that she spent practicing this motion, perfecting the pressure she exerts so that the doors swing wide enough apart that no single move can close them, but holding back enough that they don’t slam into the walls on either side. It’s small but effective. A use she’s finally found from all those years spent silently observing Remnant’s rich and powerful as they sought out subtle and obscure ways to outdo each other.

She waits until she’s at the edge of the bed before she tells Yang to shut the doors. It’s borderline cruel how deliberate of an inconvenience it is, and Blake makes sure to offer Yang a smile that betrays how thoroughly she understands that fact. It’s met with the briefest flash of anger – not at the act itself, but at the realisation of how far Blake’s willing to go in this game. They’ve had years of familiar boundaries and Blake’s grown wary of the expectations that accompany them. Yang has too, though she’s far too stubborn and gentle to admit that out loud.

“Is this why you brought me here?” Yang asks as she closes the first door and moves on to the other. “To try and make me your servant?” They’re questions that hide the ones she’s trying to ask. The ones that seek to understand the role Blake’s expecting her to play. They’re writing the rules as they go – the old ones already tossed and abandoned – but there are still rules, and it’s only fair if they both understand what’s being set.

“Try?” Blake lets her hands slide back over the comforter, arches her back just enough to accentuate the curve of her breasts. There’s a dozen little taunts and teases waiting on the tip of tongue, but she holds them back, says them with the rise of a single eyebrow and the faintest curl of her lips instead.

Yang hums as she pushes the second door shut. There’s deliberation in her positioning, fingers splayed against the wood, her feet far enough from the doorway that her arm has to stretch to complete the command. Taut muscle is on full display and Blake has no aversions about accepting Yang’s invitation to look. She is something to be admired, after all. Power and beauty in a well-kept form that Blake has taken the utmost pleasure in studying over the years. She already knows exactly how that bicep feels under hands. Beneath her head.

Against her throat.

Her tongue glides across her bottom lip. It’s a slip, a weakness, and there’s a flash in Yang’s eyes as she steps forward to capitalise on it. But Blake’s ready for her. A long, slender leg stretches into the space between them and the sole of Blake’s boot plants itself firmly against Yang’s chest. “Heel.”

There’s a twitch at the corner of Yang’s mouth because Blake’s just dropped a fucking pun and despite the tense eroticism of the situation, that’s the type of thing that Yang’s nature can’t just let slide. Blake knows it. It’s why she chose the word, after all. A slip for a slip. A weakness for a weakness. If Yang’s going to try and tease, then Blake’s going to prod at her humour. It’s deliciously unfair and wondrously delightful and Blake has to admit that she loves the way Yang looks when she’s so easily torn three ways by the uttering of a single word.

Yang makes a choice and settles. Her lips curl in preparation for a snarl that she’s not quite ready to make and there’s a flash of moonlit teeth that Blake swears – just for a moment – wear the shape of something that is more beast than human. “I’m not your pet, huntress.”

It’s a term that marks a new boundary and Blake races to test the limits of it. “You know what I am.”

Yang nods, slow and deliberate, lilac darkening beneath the shadows of lidded eyes.

“And yet you followed me willingly.”

“I like the challenge,” Yang offers with a shrug.

“You like the hunt.”

“I like the hunt,” Yang echoes. “And so do you.”

“And so do I.” It’s a moment for Blake to dictate their direction but Yang’s caught her curiosity. She doesn’t relinquish her control – doesn’t even come close to it – but she eases her grasp just enough to see where Yang wants to take her.

Yang’s hand finds Blake’s ankle, and Blake briefly steels herself against the possibility that Yang’s going to push her foot away, going to try and grab hold of the moment. But Yang doesn’t do that. She acquiesces instead. Reaches her free hand towards Blake’s thigh and traps the zipper of Blake’s boot between her thumb and forefinger. She pulls, and the act is so deliberate in its slowness that it skips straight past frustrating and somehow manages to settle on erotic. Blake isn’t sure she can understand the cause. Maybe it’s the way Yang’s eyes never leave Blake’s as she does it. Or the way that the sound of metal teeth pulling apart is the only noise she can hear in the heavy quiet that settles between them.

Maybe it’s the fact that she’s unzipping Blake’s boot but it’s Blake herself who feels like she’s being pried open. Like Yang’s pulling on the loose thread of some unseen seem and Blake’s stitching is falling apart in its wake.

“It’s exciting, isn’t it?” Yang offers as she slides Blake’s boot off her foot. “Not knowing whether you’re the hunter or the prey.”

There’s gravel in Yang’s voice. The hint of something other that slips beneath her words. It’s threats and it’s promises, and Blake’s a fool for the way her body delights in the possibility of every one of them. Because Yang knows exactly what she means when she lets such things tumble from her lips. Knows how to drive Blake to the points of pleasure and ruin and back into herself. How to hold her at the precipice of each until she’s ready to push on or concede. Most nights it would be enough to make Blake change course; to relinquish her hold and her control until Yang’s ready to take over, because she knows how good it’s going to feel. She knows she’ll come out the other side of it full and sated and selfishly assured that the decision she made was the right one.

But tonight is going to be different. Yang isn’t the only one who’s been learning her partner’s limits; Blake’s been spending weeks memorising what she needs to push Yang past her breaking point. Cataloguing Yang’s tells, categorising the means behind her quiet moans and her loud ones. It’s an inevitability they’ve been building towards slowly. A definitive set in place from the moment Blake first floated the possibility and Yang agreed that they could try. She doesn’t know that tonight’s the night that Blake’s chosen for their moment, but she’ll figure it out soon. Yang’s deceptively clever like that.

“I know which one I am,” Blake responds.

Her boot hits the floor with an unceremonious thud. “Oh?”

It’s a challenge that comes at her two-fold. The first from the audacity of the action, the second from the question. However Blake answers is going to determine how Yang proceeds, which weaknesses she seeks to capitalise on. Is Blake so confident in her assurances that she’ll let disobedience slide, or is she so set on being followed that she’ll entertain verbal challenges to her claims? It’s clever, though Blake won’t openly admit it. It’s also something that Yang’s stolen from her, which impresses her more than it ought to.

Unfortunately for Yang, that just means that Blake knows the perfect way to respond to it.

She removes her foot from Yang’s hand and replaces it with the other.

Yang chuckles as she repeats her earlier motion, lilac still unwaveringly locked to amber. “Baby,” she says, and that’s the real threat. Blake knows her too well to believe that word and that tone mean anything else. “We’ll just have to see about that.”

~

It’s a little too perfect how Yang lets herself be led into Blake’s trap. She’s stunning when she’s arrogant and Blake’s too experienced with placating creatures of pride to get anything but exactly what she wants from her partner. It’s how they’ve reached this position, Yang naked beneath her whilst the only thing Blake’s lost are her shorts – and only those because they were too tight for her to straddle in.

Yang still thinks she knows where this is going. Still believes that even though they’ve cast aside the old rulebook, Blake’s still falling back on old laws, still following old templates. She thinks it’s going to play out like it does when they’re at home, that the fact that Blake’s shackled Yang’s wrists to the headboard is just a prelude to the step where Blake sits on her face and moans herself hoarse on Yang’s name. She’s so sure of it, in fact, that it’s blinding her to all the ways that this is different. She’s making excuses for the fact that Blake still hasn’t kissed her yet and blaming sweat for the fact that her wrists have begun to itch inside their restraints.

It's nothing Yang has voiced out loud, but Blake can read it all in her expressions. In the way Yang’s eyes dip towards Blake’s lips whenever she leans close. How she readjusts herself just a little, face scrunching with discomfort as she does so.

A part of Blake wants to tell her, but she’s having too much fun in the knowing to deny herself that little pleasure. She knows the wait will be worth it. Knows the sight of Yang’s realisation dawning will be tantalising enough in its own right to bring her close towards the edge. She’s already tense with anticipation. Already hot and aching from the build-up to her grand reveal. Yang knows it too, even if she isn’t properly aware of the why. Blake’s made sure of that. It’s why she’s straddling Yang’s abs instead of her hips, so that there’ll be no mistaking the cause of the soaking fabric that separates Yang’s skin from Blake’s sex.

“Are you going to do something about that?” Yang’s tongue darts briefly between her lips and it’s already more a hope than an offering.

Blake slides forward, her palms tracing the familiar path up the centre of Yang’s body. It’s a near perfect line from her navel to her throat; one that cuts between hard abs and soft breasts. She keeps her shoulders back as she curves her spine down. It’s practically feline in its motion and Blake can see the way Yang’s toying with a tease over her blatant representation of something that has always been a joke between them.

The tease doesn’t come. Doesn’t get a chance to. Because the second Yang opens her mouth to make it, Blake responds with a coy, “Are you going to do something about it?”

There’s no mistaking the sharp and sudden buck of Yang’s hips. Her tongue returns but there’s nothing brief about its appearance this time. She runs it along the length of her lips in a single stroke, leaves a glistening trail that stretches from one corner of her mouth to the other. An unsubtle invitation that Blake chooses to ignore.

“If that’s what you want…” There’s a soft grunt as Yang pulls on her restraints. “You should let me out of these.”

Blake brings her lips to Yang’s neck, leaves a trail of kisses down its curve. “Where’s the fun in that?” She retraces her steps with her teeth and Yang arches into her with a groan.

“You’re a devil.”

“You’re a beast.” The retort is too easy. It comes out rapid fire and Yang laughs.

“That was cheap.”

“It was easy. A bit like you’re being right now.” Blake finds Yang’s pulse point and sucks.

“Fuck!” Yang curses. “Fuck!”

It’s enough to make Yang try again. Blake watches the veins rise in Yang’s forearms as she pulls. Watches the beauty of an unstoppable force clashing in vain against an immovable object. It’s not the first time she’s had Yang chained up like this, but it is the first time Yang’s struggled to escape. She’s practically strong enough to do it on her own, only needs a little nudge from her wolf to push her strength beyond that edge. But the old tactic isn’t working, and now Blake can see the gears starting to turn in Yang’s head.

Her realisation is as beautiful as Blake imagined. Yang catches the gasp in her throat but there’s no hiding the way her eyes go wide. How her pupils narrow as crimson begins to bleed into her irises. “What did you do?”

Blake’s practically giddy in her smugness. That she isn’t kicking up her heels in glee is a testament to the deathlike grip she’s still holding over the moment. “I called in a favour. I thought about using one of my sets from home, but you seemed like a special case.”

Yangs pulls again. Sharper. Harder. The chain clicks as its links are drawn tight, but they hold fast. Blake feels the way that Yang readies herself for another go. Her core tenses, stomach dipping slightly as she braces. She bends her legs, pushes her heels as far into the mattress as they’ll go, and grits her teeth with such force that her jaw practically pops against her skin. When she pulls, it’s with all the strength she can muster, and Yang’s body begins to vibrate against the strain; veins rising against her skin, muscles unabashed in their definition.

Blake doesn’t move from her position. Not even when Yang collapses back onto the mattress, cheeks flushed from the exertion and her own, rising frustration. She just lays there smugly, tracing sweat-covered muscles with her fingers. “Is that it?”

“You know damn well it’s not.” Yang doesn’t even try to mask the irritation in her voice. She has her jaw set, eyes focused on the ceiling above her. Crimson flickers in her eyes but fails to take hold completely, and every time it retreats, the furrow in Yang’s brow grows deeper.

Blake just tilts her head and waits.

This time, realisation dawns with a sigh of defeat. “Silver?”

“Just a little. I didn’t want to make it too easy for you.”

I want to make you work for it, is what she means. I want you so far gone there’s no stopping yourself from taking exactly what you want from me.

“Devious.” Yang takes a breath, pretends to settle. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not interested in you anymore.”

They both know she doesn’t mean it, but Blake knows how to recognise the opening that she’s made. If Yang wants to see what other surprises Blake has in store, then Blake’s more than willing to show them to her.

She sits back and grabs the hem of her top with both hands before pulling it over her head. It wasn’t hiding much to begin with, but Blake makes a show of the reveal. And Yang…Yang’s looking at her the way she always does. Like she wants to devour her. Worship her. Like Blake’s body is something to be committed to paint and marble, to music and words. It’s unrestrained, the way Yang loves her. Intense. Intimidating. It used to make Blake want to shy away, to hide beneath the nearest covers and deny, deny, deny. But she’s spent a lot of time working through her own self-deprecation and now she basks in the attention. Takes every bit of love Yang offers and weaves it into a crown she wears with pride.

“You are so fucking beautiful.” The confession’s a little too soft for the moment but Blake lets it slide. It offers her an easy segue back to where they were.

“But you aren’t interested.”

“I never said that.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” Without the fabric to hold it, Blake’s necklace hangs freely in the space between them. Yang doesn’t notice, too focused on trying to find the play in Blake’s eyes that she’s completely missing the revelation dangling between them. Blake decides to educate her.

She bends down and brushes her lips against Yang’s. The silver pendant settles against Yang’s collarbone and she bucks, hissing through her teeth as her head jerks back against the pillow. Blake lifts herself just enough to survey the damage. There’s a crescent of a mark on Yang’s skin – pink and slightly raised. It bares the narrow outline of the pendant hanging from Blake’s necklace. The tiny, cub-sized claw she’s been carrying between her breasts all evening.

Blake rests her hand over the wound. There’s a hint of throbbing heat, something that is noticeably different to the gentle warmth of the silver now resting against the back of her hand. She holds herself there until Yang’s breathing evens out, then moves her lips to Yang’s ear. “Colour?”

There’s a heartbeat of silence followed by a puff of breath. “Green.”

Blake brings her other hand to Yang’s cheek and Yang tilts her head towards Blake at the touch. For a moment, the masks slip. It’s just them, just this moment. Blake’s all for testing boundaries and pushing limits, but this is her wife – her mate. A piece of Blake’s soul is sheltered in Yang’s chest and she’s acutely aware of the fact that what she’s doing is hurting her. It doesn’t matter that the mark’s already fading or that Blake’s left imprints of her teeth that were darker and more impressive in their pain. This is a different kind of suffering. One that doesn’t carry the same connotations of pride or promises of pleasure. It’s a line that Blake had gone in willing to hear Yang say she doesn’t want them to cross.

But Yang finds her gaze and holds it, cradles it with gentle assurance. “Green,” she repeats, and there’s so much trust and love bundled in that word that Blake almost shatters at the sound of it.

That’s always the way that Yang breaks her. Blake’s so familiar with guarding against harsh blows that she doesn’t know how to brace herself against the soft ones. She’ll barely crack beneath heat and pressure but smother her in silk and wool and she’ll fall apart completely.

It's a fact that Yang knows all too well, and one that she has learned to recognise over the years. She knows when falling apart is exactly what Blake needs but she also knows to recognise when her wife wants to keep herself together.

“You didn’t think I was going to cave over a little thing like that, did you?” Yang asks, nodding towards Blake’s necklace. There’s a smile on her lips and it’s warm and wide. Safe and inviting. Come on, it says. You don’t want to be over there by your lonesome. “We both know I can handle a lot more than that.”

Yang shifts her right arm as much as her shackles allow and Blake doesn’t need to look to understand the reason behind the gesture. The length of Yang’s scar is seared into her memory, along with the tragedies of the night that caused it. But Yang isn’t offering it as a reminder of what she almost lost. It is a testament to her strength and perseverance. Something that scoffs in the face of the scrap that hangs from Blake’s throat. What does Blake think she can do with the tip of a claw that a monster couldn’t do with a blade?

“Can you?” Blake asks. She clings to the words like an anchor and heaves herself back towards her role. “Handle it, I mean.”

The restraints don’t offer much, but there is a little space for Yang to work with. She lifts herself up so that Blake’s hand is trapped between their chests. “Sweetheart. What kind of beast do you take me for?”

“A poor one.” Blake shifts her hand onto Yang’s shoulder and the pendant falls against Yang’s skin. She feels Yang’s body tense, hears another hiss of pain, and moves to end it.

It’s Yang’s laugh that stops her. “Awful lot of effort for a poor beast.” She glides her nose along Blake’s jaw, her torso shifting with the motion. It’s not much, but it’s enough to change the place where the pendant rests, and every reposition is marked with the hitch of Yang’s breath. It doesn’t stop her, though. Barely seems to faze her beyond that one, involuntarily tell.  “It makes me wonder what you’d do if you ever came across one worthy of you.”

“A shame you won’t get to find out.”

There’s a smirk on Yang’s lips as she hums against Blake’s skin. “And what do I get?” she asks, voice low and wet and husky. It’s a tone that drives Blake crazy and they both know it.

Blake takes a moment to regain her position. “You get to watch.”

For a heartbeat she fears that her pause has stolen the impact of her words. That she lingered too long in silence for the surety it granted to her tone to matter. But Yang grows tense and unmoving beneath her, and Blake knows that her arrow has met its mark.

She rears back just enough to survey the damage. Takes in Yang’s blown pupils, her parted, red-tinged lips. Another night and Blake would tease her over how easy it is to make her crumble. How quickly she starts to fall apart under Blake’s command. Instead, she splays her fingers across Yang’s collarbone and pushes her down against the mattress. There’s just enough space between them that the tip of Blake’s pendant scratches against Yang’s skin but Yang doesn’t seem to notice it, too enthralled by the sight of Blake hovering over her. Too captured by the promises dripping from her lips.

It's a few steps ahead of where they’re meant to be, but Blake’s spent enough time in her own head to know where she hid her escape routes. It doesn’t take her long to find the one she needs to pull them back to where she wants them.

“But I think I’m going to fuck you first.”

“Fuck, Blake.”

Blake grabs the underside of Yang’s jaw and digs her nails against the curve of the bone. It’s not quite enough to draw blood but it’s enough to make it ache. She wants to be sure she has Yang’s full attention. “You don’t get to say my name.”

Yang doesn’t apologise because that’s not what Blake’s looking for. This is just a confirmation that the game is back on, that Yang no longer needs to keep her face unhidden for Blake’s benefit. She curls back her lips, exposing teeth, and there’s the faintest lift of her chin. “Whatever you say, huntress.”

“Good girl.” She drops her hand as she leans forward to run a tongue along the crescent-shaped marks she’s left in Yang’s skin. Yang tenses beneath her, half-chokes on a sound caught somewhere between a moan and a growl. She loves it when Blake praises her. Loves all those little variants of “good” that Blake likes to sprinkle around adjectives like “beautiful” and “handsome”. Yang’s wolf, however, hates to hear it. Chafes against the compliments like they’re insults. Yang’s typically in a position to win out, but there’s a correlation between her arousal and her resolve, and Blake fully intends to capitalise on it.  

Blake tracks lower with her kisses, chasing the spot where her hand has retreated. Her palm becomes the guiding light for her lips, marking a trail from the hollow of Yang’s neck towards the curve of her breast before they diverge, Blake’s hand ghosting right whilst she turns her head left, grabs flesh between her teeth and sucks. Yang’s gasp is instantaneous. Short. Sharp. There’s a peak in its pitch that Blake has traversed too many times to count, and she pinches Yang’s nipple to stall her, rolls it between her thumb forefinger until Yang’s tripping on her groans.

Blake peppers bruises with her mouth; paints the light tan of Yang’s skin in shades of black and purple. She keeps one ear trained on Yang’s noises, searching for the tell-tale sign that her pendant has lingered too long against Yang’s skin. She shifts each time she does, lifts her chest just enough to grant Yang the briefest reprieve before silver resettles against her. They’re moments where Blake can catch a glimpse of her handiwork. Where she can admire the dark spots on Yang’s breasts and the bright pink arcs across her torso. Each one is a testament to lust and passion. A mosaic built of trust and love. Blake’s the only one who gets to carve her marks into the temple of Yang’s body and there’s a meaning in that truth that never fails excite her.

“I thought you were going to fuck me.”

Blake pauses to admire the flush in Yang’s cheeks. How the glow highlights the dusting of freckles on top of them. I love you, she thinks, and there’s no performance in the phrasing, no hidden meaning behind the words. I love you and I want you and I’m taking everything you can offer me.

“So impatient,” Blake coos, fingers brushing over Yang’s burns, pressing on the spots that have almost faded. “And here I thought you might actually have some manners.”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty of manners. Come up here and I’ll show you.”

Blake plays up the illusion that she’s considering it, if only for the hopeful flash of excitement that crosses Yang’s face when Blake starts to shift. It’s a rare truce that exists between Yang and her wolf; the human’s preference to please and the wolf’s desire to ravage satisfied by the act of getting Blake off. But Blake hasn’t brought her here to play diplomat.

She moves her body down the bed until her head rests between Yang’s thighs. She’s drenched with want, already leaving a stain against the sheets, and Blake can’t help but smile as she slides her arms beneath Yang’s legs and lifts them over her shoulders. It’s not like Yang doesn’t tell her that she finds her beautiful, that she doesn’t find quiet moments to whisper about want, but it’s gratifying to see the effect she has displayed before her.

“Do you know what I hate about werewolves?” Blake asks, pressing her nails into the skin of Yang’s thighs. “It’s that you’re all so fucking arrogant.”

She knows what she’s doing. Knows that Yang won’t resist the temptation to retort, to prove Blake’s point or parry it with a joke. There’s a hint of a syllable on Yang’s lips and Blake licks, the flat of her tongue swiping between damp folds. Yang loses the words she was about to speak. Feels them dissipate in the presence of something ancient and unrestrained. Blake languishes in the sound, revels in the taste of something sweet upon her tongue.

Yang grinds down against Blake’s mouth, and Blake allows it. She’s not about to deny Yang the presence of added friction when it’s helping to bring Yang closer to her goal. She can feel the tension building in the way Yang’s hips begin to roll more fervently, in calloused heels that start to press into the middle of Blake’s back.

Blake wraps her lips around Yang’s clit and sucks, and Yang’s moan is so loud and unrestrained, the walls practically shake with the force of it.

“Are you close?”

“Fuck, Bla –“ Yang bites her tongue long enough to cut off the misstep and the whine that slips between her teeth tells Blake everything she needs to hear.

Blake rises onto her knees, sits back on her ankles. Yang’s staring up at her incredulous and desperate; shimmering lilac in her eyes and glistening red across her lips, and Blake has to fight back the urge to kiss her. She smiles instead. Slips into something that carries the shades of deceit as she wipes Yang from her lips. Sucks her from her fingers.

“I said I was going to fuck you,” Blake says in response to the question burning in Yang’s eyes. The one squirming between her hips. “I didn’t say I was going to let you finish.”

Yang closes her eyes and tips back her head, teeth gritted, jaw tight. “That’s cruel.”

Blake hums agreement around her fingers. She knows it’s only half of the wickedness that she plans to inflict.

She dries her fingers against the comforter and extracts herself from Yang’s thigh, silently grateful that Yang can’t see the way Blake winces as she does so. It’s a slight miscalculation on her part how desperate she is for her own relief. How feverishly her cunt and her clit chase the idea of stimulation.

She waits for Yang to watch her, then she stands, shimmying out of black lace, discarding it without a thought onto the floor. Her nerves try to creep their way under her skin, attempt to settle in her bones, but Blake’s emboldened by the caress of moonlight and the power that stirs beneath Yang’s hungry stare.

There’s a couch sitting at an odd angle nearby. It’s a gaudy, Atlessian extravagance with a name too ridiculous for her to bother pronouncing; patterned black fabric and carvings of silver flowers that border the curving edge of the backrest. It’s the type of thing that Blake wouldn’t be caught dead owning but it’s perfect as a performance piece. She settles back across its length, her left foot resting against the floor, her right leg cradled in the curve of the backrest. The armless end sits between herself and Yang, and Blake can see her tensing at the unrestricted sight it offers her.

Blake tucks one hand behind her head, crests the other over the curve of her breast and across the planes of her stomach. Another day and she’d make a better show of it, but she’s already aroused enough as it is. It isn’t building up that Blake needs, it’s relief.

She spreads her labia with her fingers and curls the middle one towards her clit, circling it with the tip. The display itself is nothing new for them, but it’s the execution that’s different. It always comes before the main event, Blake spread across their bed, their sofa – their fucking dining room table – edging herself against the timeline of Yang’s return. And every time she does there’s a moment – a brief, terrifying, enticing moment – where Yang almost loses herself to her wolf. Where the wave of want and desire crash together with a force that is almost strong enough to topple her. And every time Yang holds steady, keeps control of herself and her senses.

She fucks Blake senseless in response and it’s always perfect. Always rough enough to appease Blake’s nagging want. But Blake finds herself yearning in the aftermath. Finds herself wanting just a little more whenever Yang threatens – promises – that next time Blake might not get so lucky.

Well, Blake’s tired of waiting for her luck to run out.

Unfortunately for Blake, Yang’s stubborn. And stubborn as she is, she’s holding out on giving in. Blake’s quickly growing bored with the limitations of her own hand. She needs something deeper, rawer. Needs to replace the ache of her throbbing want with the pain of being stretched and filled. They both know that she can take it – that this whole display is just a means to the end that Yang can only give her in that form. She’s just fighting against inevitability at this point and Blake doesn’t have the patience to wait her out.

Blake tilts her head back and draws forth the breathy moan that’s been sitting low in her throat. It’s a little forced, definitely exaggerated, but it’s the filthiest sound she’s made all night, and it comes without Yang’s name riding in it.

That’s what finally pushes Yang over the edge.

Blake doesn’t need to see it to picture how it all plays out. She gets everything she needs from the sound of snapping metal and cracking wood. It’s swift and sudden. The tension in the air shifts to accommodate the greater presence, curling heat and heavy breaths falling into the space between them.

She lets her chin fall just enough to find Yang’s eyes, a smirk unfurling as she does so. There’s a beast bent low over the bed, one paw braced against the floor between them, the other hanging loose over the edge. She is resplendent. Beautiful. Waves of golden fur covering an ocean of muscle. It’s shockingly feral, stunningly primal, and Blake has to fight the urge to trail her gaze across it. To silently worship every inch of the creature before her as she has done so many times before.

She feigns indifference instead. Keeps her focus on glowing crimson and pretends she’s unimpressed by the display. Like Yang’s unworthy of her attention.

Yang’s eyes narrow in response, lips parting to reveal of row of pointed teeth that glisten in the moonlight.

There you are, Blake thinks.

Blake doesn’t stop. Yang’s everything she’s wanting but there’s still a chain in place, a restraint still tethered. It’s there in the faintest ring of purple around Yang’s irises. In the distance she still keeps between their bodies.

Blake dips a finger into her cunt, gathering wetness before returning to her clit. She’s more purposeful than the last time, more direct. There’s no need to play up the way her hips involuntarily grind down against the seat or that sudden, audible hitch in her breath. She’s been winding herself tightly all evening and it isn’t going to take much to make her snap. She’d prefer it if it happened at Yang’s discretion, but Blake’s not above the idea of indulging herself if it means she gets what she wants.

It's not like she was planning on stopping at one orgasm anyway.

Yang releases a growl that sounds a lot like “stop” and Blake knows it’s only a matter of moments before Yang gives in completely. But there’s still a part she has to play before she pushes her to that point, and if Blake’s being honest, she’s enjoying the fact that she’s still holding on to her control. It’s something to explore later, when she has a better grasp of where Yang’s limits sit when she’s lost control of her filter.

She slides her free hand up the inside of her thigh, smearing slickness as she draws her fingers towards her cunt. There’s no subtlety in the motion. No doubt in her intent. When she pushes two fingers into herself, when she bucks her hips against her own ministrations, there’s no question that her main intention is to taunt.

It’s enough to keep Yang where she is. Claws scratch against the wooden floor but she lingers. Poised. Waiting. Her wolfen pride won’t allow her to admit the possibility that Blake won’t stop when she feels herself nearing that edge. That her mate might willingly choose to satisfy her own needs before she starts begging for Yang to do it for her. She calls Blake’s bluff with the surety of one who has watched it fail time and time again.

And Yang loses spectacularly.

Blake isn’t quiet when she comes. It’s more involuntary action than conscious choice, but there’s a small part that’s still aware, and it doesn’t hesitate to ensure that Yang’s aware of every flame that shoots through Blake’s body. Every crashing star. Every ignited spark. Blake’s hips lift as her back arches and all Yang sees are the spaces she is meant to be in. The touches she’s already lost.

She watches as Blake lowers herself from her peak, unaware of the way that her chin dips closer to the floor, how her body tenses like it’s poised to pounce. There’s the telling crack of splintering wood coming from floor beneath her, but she can’t hear it over the throbbing rush of blood within her ears. The pounding of her heart against her chest.

Yang growls and there’s nothing human left within the sound. It is primal. Savage. Hungry. A telling sign that she’s about to lose the final shred of her control.

Blake watches it all with heaving breaths. Focuses on the defeat playing out before her. Let’s it tether her back to the moment. She slides out her fingers, cum dripping onto the plush fabric. There’ll be no salvaging it after this. She’ll have to burn it. Have to make up a lie so that Weiss doesn’t spend the rest of their lives holding the truth of its demise over their friendship. It’s a small price to pay for what’s coming.

Yang isn’t looking at her eyes. Her attention has narrowed in on Blake’s hand and she’s watching it with predatory intensity. There’s a flare of her nostrils. A running of a tongue across sharpened teeth, and Blake knows what her next step has to be. She draws her fingers towards her mouth, lips parted, open, ready -

The motion’s too quick for Blake to register it, but a heartbeat passes, and Blake’s throat finds itself trapped between Yang’s teeth, her hand pinned at the wrist against the curve of the armrest. She stills on instinct, shivering at the touch of hot breath against her skin, of the tips of fangs pressed into the curves of her neck. Blake’s spent all night begging for a reckoning, and it’s finally come to collect her.

It should terrify her to be this close to violence. To be taunted with the fragility of her existence, the closeness of her death. But Blake’s come to learn the power that trust holds. How it recontextualises the things that should make her too uncomfortable to breathe. She’s staring oblivion in the face but there’s Yang’s hand on her shoulder, and Blake can curl her toes around mortality’s edge and embrace the way it feels to hover in-between. How it excites her. How it thrills her.

Because at the end of the day, this is still Yang. Loyal, unrelenting Yang. The woman who threw tapestries across Blake’s walls until the spaces she’d hidden in stopped feeling like prisons. Who saw Blake flinch at violence and covered the harshest parts of herself on Blake’s behalf. She doesn’t stop being those things because she’s changed. There’s still gentility in the aggression, restraint behind the force. It’s not just the teeth at Blake’s neck she’s holding back, it’s the claw gripping the back rest without breaking it. It’s the knee between her legs that lingers just out of her reach. It’s the weight of the greatest hunter that Blake has ever known braced in such a way that none of it falls against her.

It's space, even now, so that Blake can run if she wants to.

And just like every other night that she’s spent with Yang, Blake’s finding that she doesn’t.

She slides her hand into Yang’s fur and holds. Concedes the last of her control. She’s silent in her submission but it doesn’t go unnoticed, and Yang pulls back to run her tongue across Blake’s mating mark. It’s an act of kindness more than one of possession but there’s still a sense of ownership in the gesture. A reminder of a claim being made.

Blake catches Yang’s eyes and finds nothing but crimson. Desire rushes to fill the space where fear used to be, spreading to fill the shapes and scars that history has marked her with. Her core is throbbing, cunt pulsing with the want of things that only Yang can offer her. There’s friction just out of reach, a powerful thigh resting just shy of her entrance, and she slips down just enough to chase it. Yang let’s her move but doesn’t release her. Only watches her. Tracks her. She almost has the perfect view of it, looming as she is above the couch, one paw curved around the top of the backrest, one foot braced against the floor. But Blake knows Yang won’t be content to watch for long.

She grinds herself against Yang’s thigh. Chasing friction. Chasing heat. Chasing some possibility of distraction from the fact that it isn’t giving her what she wants, isn’t reaching the places that she needs. She won’t come again without penetration – never has – and it’s probably because of that fact alone that Yang lets her try. It’s a revenge she doesn’t have to work to enact. Blake pushed Yang to her breaking point, now Yang will let Blake race herself to hers. Yang wants her to beg and Blake has no aversions about doing so.

“Yang.” A breathy plea escapes Blake’s lips. She shifts her hips, changes the angle of her grind and bares down hard, emphasising her need. “Yang, please.”

Her answer comes in the form of a claw pressed against the hollow of her throat. Blake lifts her chin to accept it – invites the possibility of blood and pain that it offers – but Yang scratches lightly down Blake’s skin, hooks around the flimsy chain of her neckless, and snaps it without effort. The pendant falls against Blake’s shoulder and Yang flicks it off, snarling at the spot on the floor where it lands.

“Yang.” Blake grinds again and there’s a newfound hint of desperation at the loss of Yang’s attention.

It’s enough to draw Yang back to her, but it still doesn’t get her what she wants. Instead, Yang presses her paw against the plane of Blake’s stomach and holds her steady as Yang draws back her leg. Blake whines at the loss of contact, tightens her hold on Yang’s fur and pulls. She isn’t strong enough to move a wolf but maybe it’ll convince Yang to concede just a little. To give Blake just a bit of what she wants.

Yang’s jaw snaps just shy of the tip of Blake’s nose. She feels the rush of air swipe against it and shivers.

“Please.”

She receives no reprieve, just a shallow grunt of disapproval in response. Yang rises over her and the silence of the motion fractures beneath the creak of the couch beneath them. Blake wonders how much longer it will bear the weight of them. What will happen if – when – it falls. But Yang is unbothered by such thoughts. She stretches for Blake’s hand still trapped beneath her own and runs a rough tongue across her fingers. She takes no pride in the action, no pleasure in Blake’s taste. Disdain echoes in the back of her throat. This isn’t an indulgence, it’s an acknowledgement. A reminder that she hasn’t forgotten what Blake did to drive her to this. A promise of everything that Yang’s about to reclaim.

Yang licks until there’s no trace of Blake left on her fingers. Only then does she release her. There’s a threat of cracking wood as Yang’s weight shifts briefly to her left, but then she’s climbing back, chin hairs tickling Blake’s body as Yang descends it.

She settles on the floor and glances up at Blake over the paw that still pins her to the couch. Blake barely has a moment to comprehend what’s happening, lips starting to part in anticipation, when Yang dips her chin and runs her tongue up Blake’s centre, ripping a moan from her core. Blake’s body longs to buck at the sensation but Yang holds her tight. Holds her steady. There’s a quick, teasing flick against Blake’s clit, and then Yang’s tongue is inside her, lapping cum and scraping walls, lashing against all the parts that they could never reach with just their fingers.

Blake’s already erupting at the sensation. Cracking at the edges, threatening to burst apart completely. She knows that Yang can feel when her walls begin to restrict. When her body starts to warn of the impending burst. She knows that when Yang’s tongue slows and its position shifts to the spots where Blake doesn’t quite want it, it’s a message and a lesson and a punishment rolled together; but Blake’s too far gone to heed the things that Yang is trying to tell her. She is so close to release, but Yang is denying her, and the cruelty of that decision only drives Blake closer, whilst the one responsible for delivering it continues to hold her back.

Blake’s writhing beneath Yang’s grasp, desperate to recreate with her hips the motions that she needs from Yang’s tongue. But every time she manages even the faintest wiggle of movement, Yang’s shifting her arm and trapping her harder, and Blake almost wants to cry at the unfairness of it all. She’s begging, pleading, but the words are lost to the sounds that Yang is coaxing out of her. Half-screams and shattered moans that shake the very walls of that bedroom. And maybe Blake was wrong when she picked this place for Yang to fuck her. Maybe the distance isn’t enough to keep her from being heard. That’s the explanation she finds for the reason Yang seems intent of keeping her at the precipice she’s dragged Blake to.

“Yang! Fuck, Yang, please!”

The first orgasm was a mistake. It was a mistake because the feeling is too recent, too raw, in Blake’s mind for her to convince herself that she can go on without it. That she can survive the edging that Yang has decided to put her through. The tension sits low in her stomach, and it’s wound so tight that it hurts, but somehow Yang keeps finding a way to keep twisting and twisting and twisting. And Blake knows there’s no coming out the side of this alive.

It's almost that will prove to Blake’s undoing. Almost is waves of pleasure that rise and fall but never seem to crash against her surface. Almost is seeing salvation beyond the coming hill then finding there’s a still a canyon between them. It’s hope offered and snatched away in the dying moments. And despite all that knowing, it’s Blake reaching for it again and again and again because she knows how it feels when it is different.

But then the tip of Yang’s tongue hits just right and the ground disappears from beneath her, and Blake’s falling with such a force that it’s ripping her apart and piecing her together long before she ever finds the bottom.

She’s only distantly aware of her body. Of the upper half arched so deeply there’s nothing but her head still in contact with the couch. Of the lower half numb and buzzing with ecstasy, still trapped beneath Yang’s arm. And Yang…Yang isn’t relenting. She pushes forward, buries her tongue deeper. Presses a cold nose against Blake’s clit and sends her body alight with the contrast. The second orgasm hits harder than the first and the third comes to settle on the periphery, teasing hints of pain beneath the pleasure. Her hips beg to buck. Ache with the desperate need to ride the heights that Yang keeps throwing her from. But it’s the one concession Yang refuses to give, and frustration has Blake clawing at the metalwork, scratching at the upholstery, as she twists inside her pleasure.

It seems to be exactly what Yang wants, judging from the satisfied huff that rolls against the sensitive skin of Blake’s sex.

Yang relents, but not in the way Blake wants her to. She pulls back, cum dripping from her lips, glistening in the fur around her muzzle. She settles her chin against Blake’s stomach, humming with content. Blake’s hips finally find the space to jolt but it comes too late to offer any satisfaction. The last of her orgasm is fading, the – fifth? Sixth? Seventh? – wave already beginning to settle against Blake’s shores. She’s trembling and heaving, gasping for breaths like her lungs have forgotten what it's like to hold oxygen in them. Feelings slowly start returning to her core and there’s the softest burn of overstimulation but mostly it’s the sensation of emptiness that Blake notices. The stinging want of the something more that Yang is still able to offer her.

She cannot find the words to express it. She has them, circling, floating about her head as if they’ve been knocked lose in the devastation, but she can’t seem to wrap her fingers round them. Can’t seem to grasp the things that hover right in front of her face. But Yang finds them in the amber of her eyes, thick, dark eyebrows rising before she grumbles something that sounds like “needy” and “really” and “interesting” all at once.

Yang lifts herself from the couch and Blake arches her back to welcome the familiar cradling of Yang’s arm. It’s what Yang does every time their excursions start outside the bedroom, regardless of whether or not Blake’s too far gone to walk herself to their bed. She probably is this time. The trembling in her legs has yet to settle and she isn’t sure she trusts herself to attempt even the scant steps towards the mattress. Besides, after that little display, Yang could do with showing Blake a little bit of kindness.

Yang, however, seems to have other ideas.

Instead of the bed, Yang carries her towards the doors. She’s holding Blake close against her chest, one arm hooked beneath Blake’s knees whilst the other curls around Blake’s back. It’s a solid hold, so Blake can’t feel the reverberations of Yang’s footfalls against the hardwood floor. What she does feel, however, is the sudden jolt when Yang rears back and kicks, the doors exploding into splitters beneath the force of it. There’s an amused huff as Yang steps through the makeshift archway of broken wood and Blake recognises the punishment that sits beneath the pride of the gesture. She was the one who used those doors to shame Yang earlier. Now she’ll have the shame of explaining to Weiss why they’re gone.

Yang stalks through rooms, tilting her head like she’s searching for something, juggling growls like she isn’t finding it. It’s new territory for them so Blake doesn’t know what to expect and somehow the anticipation of anything has her wanting.

Yang finds what she’s looking for in the kitchen, and Blake makes the realisation shortly before Yang stops in front of the marble-topped island in the centre. It’s sturdy and tall; dark wood and pale stone lined with the type of stool you have to hop on to to reach it. Yang sweeps them aside with her foot then bends Blake over the edge of the bar, one arm acting as a buffer between Blake’s hips and the marble’s edge, the other pushing her down by her nape. The bar’s too high for her to find any purchase with her feet so she reaches forward, grabs hold of the opposite edge. It’s an instinct from all the times Yang’s bent her over the various surfaces around their home – tables and dressers, sinks and sides. But Yang’s never tried to do it in this form.

Something winds itself around Blake’s core and pulls tight. Flashes her with a heat that burns through her chest and stomach, seeps out between her legs. Yang leans forward and Blake’s breath catches as the brush of something hot and hard against the inside of her thigh. Yang’s breath crawls across Blake’s back and her nose buries itself in locks of raven hair. Breathes deep. Pauses.

In the silence that follows, Blake can hear the way their heartbeats are mingling; how Yang’s skips to find a rhythm alongside the racing of Blake’s own. The tension that followed them out of the bedroom settles over them in soft anticipation and now Blake recognises the reason for the pause. The question sitting in the silence.

“Green,” she breathes.

Yang’s hips shift behind her, and she feels the tip of a cock press against her entrance. For a moment her body shudders, cunt clenching in anticipation of what’s to come. It’s going to hurt. It’s going to burn and stretch and fill, and Blake’s already fluttering at the thought of the exquisite agony that comes from having Yang inside of her.

Yang holds despite the permission. She’s wary, Blake knows, of the fact that Blake might be too overstimulated to take it. But Blake’s long past the point of caring whether she hit that point two orgasms ago or if she’s still circling the possibility. She cants her hips back, convulsing into the marble as the head of Yang’s penis slips inside. The moan in her throat withers beneath the one Yang releases by her ear, then blows past it when Yang thrusts forward, filling her completely. It’s everything she remembers and nothing like before, and without the familiar comfort of solid ground beneath her feet, Blake’s focus has nowhere to turn but to all the places where Yang’s body merges with her own.

Yang’s quiet as she draws out, and Blake knows that she’s listening for any sign of discomfort. Any hint that the pain that’s she bringing might be the wrong kind. But Blake has no complaints. She invites Yang back in with a moan, let’s the wolf shatter it against the marble with a thrust hard enough to push Blake forward. Yang’s paw repositions behind Blake’s neck, buffers the top of her shoulder. The next time she thrusts, Blake doesn’t move, and now there’s a precedent, and a plan, and Yang sets a pace so intense it leaves Blake feverish.

There are screams cracking inside the darkness and Blake doesn’t recognise them as her own. She can’t match the breath required to make them with the lack of it in her chest, can’t seem to find the points from which they crawl around her teeth. There’s shadows in the room with them, and Blake can’t tell if that’s the moonlight shifting or her vision fading as her body realises that what Yang is giving her is too good, too much.

Too little.

She opens her mouth to beg but Yang’s a step ahead of her. She rolls her hips and Blake grits her teeth against the burning sensation of Yang’s knot sliding through her entrance. Fire burns as it settles inside, locks them in, and the sound that Blake makes is so far beyond the ones she’s made that night that she swears it must have come from Yang’s mouth first.

Yang’s rhythm shifts, short, sharp thrusts replacing long and rapid ones. Her hips roll – crash – against Blake’s ass, and through the growing numbness Blake somehow finds the strength to meet her with her own. Yang whines, deep and feral, claws scratching grooves into the marble as she hits Blake deeper than she has all night. And the sound of it alone almost tips Blake back over the edge.

It’s Yang who comes first. Blake feels the tension in her spine before the release hits and then it’s both of them falling into the abyss together; cries of pleasure pouring out onto the breakfast bar below.

~

Blake doesn’t remember blacking out, but when she comes to, its to the comfort of a soft mattress and not a solid countertop. Yang’s wrapped around her, soft, warm skin taking the place of golden fur. Blake isn’t sure if she’s awake but then the arm around her waist tightens and a gentle kiss is pressed against her hair.

“There you are,” Yang mutters. There’s a distance in her voice, like she’s a half-step away from sleep herself.

“Here I am,” Blake replies. She shuffles and the burn between her legs causes her to hiss. Yang’s hand repositions to rub soft circles against the top of Blake’s thigh.

“It was too much, wasn’t it?”

Blake shakes her head. “It was perfect. Just…don’t expect me to put out for a few days.”

Yang chuckles and her breath slips through Blake’s hair, caresses the back of her neck. “You mean I’ve finally managed to satisfy that insatiable appetite of yours?”

“Maybe it’s punishment for ruining the couch.”

“You did that on your own. I will take responsibility for the doors, though. And the breakfast bar.”

“What did you do to the breakfast bar?”

“I’ll show you in the morning.”

Blake doesn’t have the energy to laugh but she manages a soft, breathy snort. “You’re an asshole,” she says, and this time Yang’s the one laughing.

“Maybe,” she says. “But you love me anyway.”

“Yeah,” Blake whispers, as sleep settles in to claim her. “I really do.”