threat, Air Gear (Kaito/Yayoi)
Title: threat Author/Artist: shiegra Rating: R/NC17 Prompt: Air Gear - Kaito/Yayoi - discomfort during sex/semi-con - what's mine is mine, and what's my brother's is also mine
The whip is wrapped around her throat.
The cool kiss of the leather is dizzying; it isn’t tight enough to make breathing difficult, but the suggestion is just enough to make her gasps even sharper and rapid than before. His arm is braced against her back holding the handle, building her body into an arch against his forearm, the other against one thigh, pulling her open. Her body feels—
--(so you’re little brother’s girl, he said when he saw her, the gun by his thigh, mouth open in a crocodile’s slow hunting grin, fancy that and she hadn’t even had the voice to say no)—
She went for his throat with her nails when he first slammed her down. Now her hands are fisted in the coat and the long fall of his hair, knotted in the pale cascade, yanking helplessly as she sucks in air and makes sounds—raw, strangled whimpers—as he moves inside her, hips forcing against hers, tight and hot and slick and spiced with the red whisper of a little pain, mingling into the overload.
She remembers Emily talking about ‘first times’, giggling with a certain threatening flavor of delight to her voice when she mentioned Kazu-sama, playful conversation and jokes. Usually they were tucked away warm in their beds. The air is chilly on her skin and she thinks her skirt is ripped and her shirt is shoved up and god—
He bites her throat, teeth sharp hot points of pain, and she clenches--tightens--and he hisses a laugh against her skin and she kind of thinks he's scarier than anything else, scarier than Sora or the wind especially here and now with his hands on her skin. But she still comes in a hot incredulous sparking rush, a sharp combustion in the pit of her stomach laced with adrenaline.
If he said anything about his brother now--still pinning her to the wall, fingers biting into her leg--she'd do something drastic and possibly suicidal. Her fingers were still wound in his long hair.
But he didn't; instead, the soft throaty snarl of "fuck" sounded almost sated.