more or less

Back with another ficlet. Another mod gift, this one for @galaxylily over at @ssminibang❤️

title: more or less

fandom: Sailor Moon

characters/ships: Venus x Kunzite

rating:PG-13?

Sometimes after he’s touched her there lingers a taste in his mouth like hot metal. How he imagines the taste of the earth’s ancient core, or of stones that sometimes fall from the sky.

more or less

…

The sun lays a heavy palm on their heads, pressing their eyes closed, but even so the cloudless sky throbs painful blue behind his eyelids. Beside him she lies dozing, or daydreaming. The air smells strongly of salt and cypress; green sea glimmers around them. He hears murmurs of others on the barge, the creak and groan of sun-frayed rope.

“Is this the water you were born on?”

Daydreaming, then. Kunzite doesn’t open his eyes.

“Yes. On a barge like this.” Her bare arm grazing along his, the fine cut of muscle, sweat-damp. “The priests said it was an auspicious birth. This sea is holy.”

“Of course they did.” She sounds amused. “They probably weren’t thinking of your mother. Surrounded by men mouthing incantations, laboring on a rickety old boat.”

He can feel her breathing down along his side where they are pressed together shoulder to knee, the light quick blooming and closing of her ribcage. He imagines her expression, serene with only a single marring thread of tension sewing together her fair high brows as she thinks about this, this thing to which Kunzite himself truthfully has never given a single thought.

“My father expected it.” A breeze moves over his face as he speaks, pulling the words up and away from him, thinning them apart. “Here that is a woman’s duty.”

A hum, flutter of tension from her bicep through her calf like a current, and then nothing more. The linen of her gown scratches his side. She wears the loose drape and few jewels of this place, and probably the men on the barge think she is a mistress, highborn and languid, kept for pleasure. She could be that, her skin is smooth, limbs long, feet dainty; she looks like a lady his mother might have chosen, a vessel to carry his seed to sea. She yawns when tired, perspires in heat, eats and drinks and swims the waves. Hard to sense it unless you get close: the lambent rushing of power off of her, as though her blood is pressed from stars.

Sometimes after he’s touched her there lingers a taste in his mouth like hot metal. How he imagines the taste of the earth’s ancient core, or of stones that sometimes fall from the sky.

When darkness traverses his eyes he knows she has lifted her arms to the sun, is perhaps shading her face, or examining her hands. On her thumb always there is a soft beaten metal ring she had pulled off his finger, sometime and somewhere after they first met, in the gardens of starry jasmine or in a camp tent or in her bed, Kunzite can’t recall. It was his father’s ring until he died and then his mother’s, and then his after that for a long, long time. He doesn’t know why she took it. Why he’s never asked for it back. The backs of his eyelids slowly pulse a deep, fleshly red. One side of his body cools, bereft of her strange heat.

“I don’t think I could be a woman.”

When Venus speaks the wind seems to stop. His imagination, of course, and yet, her words - resound.

“I don’t expect you to be less than you are,” Kunzite replies, honestly.

He senses her gaze swinging onto him then, the cut glint of her golden eyes. He keeps his own eyes closed, body loose and prone; he feels her curious, predatory attention as the tip of a claw. She doesn’t speak. Overhead the gulls scream. After some moments, her small, cool hand closes over his, and he feels the dig of his own ring into his knuckle. It’s not gentle.

“Or more,” she murmurs.

Kunzite doesn’t know what he hears in her voice, then: if it’s the sound of warning, or only regret.

options

another day, another gift! this one’s for the marvelous @leondaltons, one of the hardworking mods at @ssminibang and truly one of the loveliest people in this little corner of fandom. enjoy!

title:options
fandom: Sailor Moon
characters/ships: Minako/Venus x reincarnated!Kunzite, with a side of reincarnated!Nephrite 
rating: R for some slightly limey content

Khaleid knows better than to try and keep her to himself when she’s in this state; it would be like trying to put a mountain lion to bed, or swallow the sun.

options

At night they go to a bar Nacio recommends. Dark, cramped, and dirty, just like all the places Nacio likes, “run by Argentines,” he says dismissively, “so the asado’s not bad.” He comes along, too, “to get them a seat” but Khaleid suspects it’s for dinner on their dime. He orders expansively: ribeyes, chorizo, morcilla, salad to share. Two bottles of Salta red. The three squeeze into a table for two on the sidewalk, where it smells smoky from the grill out back. Nacio and Mina’s knees bump under the table; Khaleid turns his outward, facing the curb. He lights a cigarette, watches the crowds on the street thicken curdlike, chattering and laughing. He feels out of place and terribly old. It’s past midnight. Music - music everywhere.

“I like this wine,” says Mina, a bottle and some later, a little drunk or pretending to be. Not easy for Khaleid to tell, even among friends. Her eyes are bright, hectic. “A lot. What is it?”

Nacio grins. “This, madame, is a noble Bordeaux varietal made in the Argentinean style.” Across the street, a busker sends a pointedly hopeful twang of his guitar in their direction. “Tobacco, vanilla bean, ripe black cherries.” Their friend looks thoughtful. “A little horse shit.”

When Mina laughs her head tips all the way back and it sounds like two glasses striking each other on the edge of excessive force, ringing and anticipatory. It’s how she laughs when she wants you to know what a good time she’s having, and very likely she is, snatching bites of beef and vinegared tomatoes out of their pink juices, washing them down with mouthfuls of wine. Khaleid knows better than to try and keep her to himself when she’s in this state; it would be like trying to put a mountain lion to bed, or swallow the sun. She has innumerable moods, some even tending to tranquility. Later he’ll have her, in the turmeric light staining the dark hotel window. She’ll come down slow, arms wound about his neck, her gaze warming. She’ll touch the hair escaping his tail, his temple, her thumb on his cheekbone; sighing, soft.

Or perhaps she’ll kick open the door and yank him inside, press him to the wall and slide her hand down his trousers. She’ll be insistent, combative, the slim knife of her heel grazing a warning along his calf and her teeth at his ear; always knowing the exact mileage between where he is and the dark precipice to which she can drive him. Her hands are small but not soft. They’ll close around his collar and pull, backing them up to the nearest flat surface, and anyone looking in from the outside would think he was the one walking her to it. She is ardent but precise: desire has its cadence, its thrums and pauses, and like any player, even when in its throes, she can’t help but play. The knowledge that she goes further with him than with anyone is more than enough. Khaleid knows better than to ask her to be who she can’t be.

After they’ve done she’ll stretch herself out along his side and fall deeply asleep, instantaneous. Like a light being flicked off, throaty little snores emptied between his shoulder and neck. Or she’ll stare up at the dark ceiling a moment, eyes flaring wide, then fling herself resolutely into the shower, the room billowing with the steam off her skin. Neither of these options leaves him colder than the other. When he’ll press his nose into her discarded clothes they’ll smell like the must of her body and her floral, indolic perfume. Breathing in he thinks he smells it even now, through the waft of charred meat and warm asphalt, and he can draw a direct line between the selves occupying this table, in this moment, and the selves they’ll occupy tonight, later tonight, this morning. He thinks of her as the changeable one but perhaps that’s not entirely true. Within himself there are so many ways to want her.

“Khaleid?”

Nacio’s voice brings him back. Khaleid blinks, just once.

“What do you think?” Mina rests her elbows on the rickety table. Her thin gold chain slips out from the bodice of her black dress, flickering palely. “We’ve only asked you twice already.”

The cigarette between his fingers is half ash; the rest of it has fallen on his trousers. On his plate the meat has gone cold and purple and the wine in his glass is hardly much different. When he looks at Nacio he finds his old friend’s gaze traveling over him. Glittering, dark.

“Well, shit,” he murmurs. “Guess I’ve overstayed.” He stands, hands in pockets. “Enjoy what’s left of dinner.” He nods at Khaleid. “And the rest of the night. Hope I left enough for you both.”

“There’s still plenty of food,” Mina says. “And Mako’s probably asleep with the girls already.”

“Not what I meant,” says Nacio cryptically. “Anyway, it’s late. Time I got back to my pornographically beautiful wife and perfect, angelic offspring. Boring family man, you know.” He pats his pocket, where Khaleid can see the bulge of his wallet. “Buenas noches, friends.”

“Did you say this would be our treat,” Mina begins, moments after he’s left earshot. She frowns as she watches him round the crowded corner. “And what happened to dancing?”

Her hand small in his, not soft. She shifts her cool gaze to him, electric eyes questioning.

“Never mind.” Khaleid leans forward, stubs his cigarette in the bowl. “We have other options.”

contingency

Resurfacing with fic! A short-ish smut thing I did for a challenge hosted by the lovely folks who run @ssminibang. Prompter was the lovely @venuscrescent: Hino Rei/Sailor Mars x Jadeite, “Mindfuck.” Here goes nothing. Sexytimes follow under the cut.

title:contingency
fandom: Sailor Moon
characters/ships: Rei/Mars x Jadeite
rating: R for explicit sexual content

“Did you really come into my bedroom in the middle of the night because you trust me?” Jadeite bends his head to catch her eyes. His own are cool, appraising. “Or because you want me to fuck you until you can’t think straight and it doesn’t matter anymore?”

contingency

…

“Who,” says Zoisite, “would be the greatest lover in the Dark Kingdom?”

At first, nobody says anything; Castor and Pollux simultaneously drain their wineglasses, exchanging significant looks. Then Nephrite says, in a slightly sullen tone: “Why is this a theoretical question? And why,” he adds, growing more miffed, “isn’t the answer obvious?”

Night has fallen on Earth, and Sailor Mercury is dead. After Beryl left the High Table, dragging Kunzite with her, the celebrations have gone from boisterous to feral. There are youma everywhere the eye can reach: youma drinking, youma singing, youma fighting, youma asleep, youma coupling, youma at (scandalously) the High Table, youma coupling under the High Table. Carnelian has kicked this last at least eight times now. She’s fairly sure her heel has blinded one of the threesome, but so far nothing seems to dent their enthusiasm. She kicks again, hears a soft grunt, and looks up to meet Jadeite’s startled blue eyes.

“You’re right,” says Zoisite. “It’s Kunzite.”

“What,” explodes Nephrite, at the same time as Yasha begins to titter.

“He’sso powerful,” sighs Zoisite. “Don’t you remember that time he erected the dome over Moon and Mercury, and they couldn’t breathe for, like, minutes? Imagine if that were you.”

There is a long, uncertain pause.

“What the fuck,” says the West-king pitifully. “What’s wrong with you all? Do you know what an advantage it is, having half a dozen shadows around to do your bidding in bed? Ask anyone.”

“It’s true,” says Widow loyally. “They have so many hands.”

Thetis, who has been sitting silent on Jadeite’s thigh until now, pipes up. “It is my lord.”

Zoisite’s eyes narrow. “No, it isn’t.”

“Sour grapes,” murmurs one of the DD Girls. Carnelian still can’t remember all their names.

“What does Carnelian think,” titters Yasha.

“Carnelian used to be a priestess,” snaps Zoisite. “Obviously she’s a prude.”

That, thinks Carnelian, is not strictly true. But she shakes her head, affects boredom. “I don’t have an opinion,” she says, tossing back her long dark hair. “Why are we talking about this?”

“See? Prude.”

“I’m curious, Zoisite,” says Jadeite. She notices his wineglass is largely untouched. “Why don’t you think it’s you?”

“How dare you speak to me after what you - ” the king of the North begins in a stage-hiss, and then colors. “Wait, you think it’s me?”

“It’s not you,” says Thetis derisively. “I already said, it is my lord.”

Carnelian swallows a gulp of wine that burns all the way down. “What is your rationale, Thetis?”

The pretty youma doesn’t look at her. “My lord is a master of illusion.”

“Yes, but Kunzite,” Zoisite starts.

“No, wait,” says Nephrite. “Now I’m curious. Tell us what you mean.”

Thetis straightens, unselfconscious. “I mean, when making love, he is able to construct anything one may imagine, and make it seem as reality. Any sight, any smell, any taste, any…touch.”

“Well, shit,” says Nephrite, impressed despite himself. “That does sound pretty hot.”

“I don’t want to make love to you, Nephrite,” says Jadeite, grinning.

“Cheers to that,” Nephrite replies fervently, reaching over to clink his wineglass with the Far Eastern king’s.

“The DD Girls can do all that,” titters Yasha. “What’s so special about illusion?”

Thetis smiles. “My lord trained the DD Girls.”

Carnelian leans white arms on the table. “Isn’t that cheating?”

A hush falls all around. Even the threesome under the table goes silent.

She goes on. “How can you call yourself a great lover if the pleasure you give is only an illusion?” As she says the last, she glances at Jadeite. “Is that any better than a magician performing a trick?”

His expression is amused as usual, and entirely unreadable. He says nothing, while Nephrite hoots.

“To properly construct an illusion, one must have had the experience,” Thetis begins coldly.

Another one of the DD Girls calls mockingly, “You claim to speak for one of the Shitennou, youma?”

“Kunzite’s protocol, not mine,” the Far Eastern king drawls back, clearly enjoying himself. “I can’t fit a stick that large up my ass.” An appreciative snicker goes up from all the youma.

“We thought you didn’t have an opinion,” Castor and Pollux intone in unison at Carnelian.

She shrugs. “Nothing personal. Only theory.”

“Well, if you’re ever interested in practical application,” bellows Nephrite, leering genially at her, and she smiles.

“Handle Jupiter the way you did Mercury and I might take you up on that, hero.”

“I’m a king of heaven, not a fucking demigod,” he protests, and everyone laughs.

The king of the North has been quiet some time, gaze flitting between Carnelian and Jadeite. Now he speaks up. “Carnelian, you were friendly with Moon and Mercury as a civilian, weren’t you? Today must feel strange for you,” his voice drips like treacle, “given your history.”

Carnelian blinks, confused, but before she can respond, Jadeite does.

“We were all chosen by the Queen to carry out the great work of the Dark Kingdom.” He speaks against Thetis’s temple, but Carnelian is startled to find his gaze focused on her. His tone is bland. “Certainly none of us would question the judgement of the woman we owe our fealty.”

“Oh,” says Zoisite hastily. “No. Never. Our great Queen is wise in every choice she makes. Also,” his voice rising slightly to carry, “no doubt she must be a lover beyond compare. The greatest. In fact, let’s just stop talking about this?”

“I want to talk about this,” titters Yasha, and Carnelian sees Zoisite materialize a crystal shard and stab her in the ribs. She topples without ceremony, blood oozing from her side.

Carnelian stands up and almost immediately feels a little dizzy. Too much wine, she thinks, swaying. She sets a hand on the table for support. “I’m going to retire for the night.”

Jadeite is still watching her. “Feeling all right?”

She ignores him, makes her way out of the great room and down one of the halls. As she turns into a narrower passageway she hears the Far Eastern king make his excuses as well.

…

She’s lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. She’s tried sleeping on her stomach, her side, her back, thinking of nothing, thinking of him, masturbating. The last only left her more restless.

Cursing softly, Carnelian swings her legs out of bed, ties on her red silk banyan. She can’t find her slippers, so she doesn’t bother. Her bare feet take her out the door. Down the dark halls and passageways that twist and turn like the wind in this place. In her palm she holds a flame to guide her, but if she’s honest with herself, this is a way with which she’s quite familiar.

When she knocks on the heavy wooden door no one answers. Someone inside laughs.

She knocks again, harder this time. “Jadeite.”

Behind the door she hears silence, and then footsteps. It’s still another minute or two before the door opens and she’s greeted by the sight of Jadeite, wearing loose pants and no shirt.

Carnelian brushes past him. “I can’t sleep.”

“Hello, Carnelian,” he says drily, shutting the door.

His quarters are as she remembers them: large, minimal, luxurious. After he brought her in, Beryl gave him a promotion of sorts, and now he more or less jockeys for rank with Kunzite, though the latter still has the lead. Accommodations show Beryl’s favor, even though he doesn’t care much for material objects. Only concrete floors, an enormous bed. A handsome leather chair with ottoman, deep wood tub, and an angular block of marble that serves as a bar. Looking around, it occurs to Carnelian that she’s been on her back, or had him on his, in or on every single one of these. Except the bar. That’s new.

Thetis claps her hands in front of Carnelian’s face, and she blinks. “Thetis?”

“My lady,” Thetis says. Her dark eyes brim liquid with hate. “I apologize that we didn’t hear your knocking the door. We were - somewhat busy. How might my lord or I help you?”

“I - ” she starts.

“Thetis,” his voice comes from behind her, and they both turn to find him leaning a shoulder to the wall, arms folded across his front. “Carnelian and I have matters to discuss. Would you mind?”

“My lord,” the youma begins. Carnelian notices, belatedly, that she’s naked.

His eyes are fixed on Carnelian as he says, with inexpressible gentleness: “Get out, Thetis.”

After a moment, Thetis bows. Neither of them speak as she gathers her clothes and leaves.

“Now,” says Jadeite once the door shuts. He goes to the bar, materializes a small charcoal-dark bowl for tea and glass tumbler of water on the otherwise bare surface. The former he hands to her. The latter he leaves where it is. “What’s this about not sleeping?”

“I told you,” Carnelian answers peevishly, taking it. When she sniffs its contents a thickly green smell steams up from the bowl. Gyokuro leaves, quite good ones. “I just can’t.”

The Far Eastern king sighs heavily. She tries not to notice what this does for the lean musculature of his chest. “I should’ve been more specific. How would you like me to help you go to sleep?” When she doesn’t reply he adds, “Not that I don’t have ideas, but - ”

“Well, I don’t think drinking tea is going to help.”

A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “It might with your impending hangover, Hino.”

She takes a sip. “I like this gyokuro.”

“I remember.”

Too close. She looks away, at the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling window. It’s all snow outside, vast drifts of it, still and moonlit. It must be another illusion, of course; there’s no “view” to speak of in the dimension they occupy. But it slots in close enough with reality - they are, after all, situated around the Earth’s northern pole - that she could pass over it, unquestioning.

“Don’t,” she says quietly. “We’re not doing that anymore, Asa.”

“Yes. Because you left and never came back.” His tone is even. “Begs the question: why are you here?”

She sees he has his arms folded again. His hair is absurdly disheveled, wild, curls springing out everywhere. It makes him look like the boy king she’d first met. Somehow it’s been, what - she counts the time in human terms - five years? Six? since she’d woken up with a vague memory of a bus and little else. He had been the first person she saw when she opened her eyes in the Dark Kingdom. Her hand had been sweaty in his. The first to take her to Beryl, the first to show her the power she held, the first…

She hasn’t thought about all that in a long time.

Carnelian opens her mouth and it tumbles right out.

“Did you really do that? Use illusion when we - ”

“Ah,” he says, almost to himself.

“I know what you can do. Obviously. But until Thetis said - I never thought - ”

He waits patiently, not helping. He rarely does. After her first mission, he had told her that often the best thing was to let others be fools, and it had been good advice. But even then there had been a softness in the way he dealt with her, despite her naivete, that was like the flawed, included side of a gem; and she knows that softness remains, even as the Dark Kingdom has cut away every other gentle, foolish thing she knew in him, made sharp every aspect.

Carnelian gathers her straying thoughts. “Look, I just want to know if, when we were - ”

“Together,” he supplies.

“Together - if you - ”

“No. I didn’t.” He frowns. “Hino. How is it possible, after everything, you’re still such a prude?”

Carnelian ignores this, as well as the note in his voice that seems to suggest he considers her remaining inhibitions a personal failure on his part. “You didn’t. But - why not?”

A muscle twitches in his jaw. “Because I didn’t need to. It was good without it.”

She tries to keep her face from showing how remarkably gratifying that is to hear. “But wouldn’t it make it even better for you? I thought illusion was your greatest pleasure.”

It’s a drug, he’d said once. They were in the bath. Better than wine, than the stuff the Queen gives us. Better than fucking. Nothing feels better than knowing your power and using it.

“It would’ve been too much.” His voice pulls her back to the room, expands into the high open space, its echoes. The same room, but different. “When you and I were…”

“Together?”

Jadeite shoots her a flat look. “Together.” He goes quiet abruptly, glancing down, as if lost in the past. Then he says, “I don’t think I could’ve stayed in control, if I’d done that with you. I don’t think…” he trails off, considering. There’s a furrow in his brow, which clears when he looks up.

“It was good,” he says simply. “I didn’t want more. I was already - happy.”

She glances away, embarrassed - for him or for herself, she’s not sure.

“Look at you,” she hears him say quietly. “How you’ve changed.”

She senses him coming closer, keeps her eyes trained where they are. There’s a spot on the otherwise flawless concrete, slightly darker than the rest. She focuses on it, and he follows.

“From that time you burned a hole through my sheets. Remember?” When she looks up he’s smiling, though his eyes don’t wrinkle as they should. “And then you stole Kunzite’s shitty ones to make it up to me.”

Now, objectively, is not the best time to note that she’s toured Kunzite’s bed recently, and he’s significantly upgraded his linens. That’s a rivalry too white-hot to probe, even for her.

Carnelian sets down her empty bowl with a soft clink. “How would I ever know?”

“Know what?”

“If you did use illusion. Keep up, Asa.”

The Far Eastern king blows out a breath. “You’re the most powerful seer in the Dark Kingdom. The strongest of the Queen’s warriors, too, except maybe for Kunzite. Stronger than me.”

“Don’t be evasive.”

“I already told you. I never used it like that with you.”

She scoffs. “And I’m supposed to trust you when you say that?”

“Let me ask. Did you really come into my bedroom in the middle of the night because you trust me?” Jadeite bends his head to catch her eyes. His own are cool, appraising. “Or because you want me to fuck you until you can’t think straight and it doesn’t matter anymore?”

For what feels like a hundred long seconds Carnelian stares at him, thinking.

Then she steps between his feet, takes his face into hot palms, and seals her mouth over his.

…

He doesn’t miss a beat. His own hands rise, skimming her waist through the slippery silk. His fingers find the opening, splay warm across her ribcage, spreading the garment apart. Her heart is thudding so loudly in her ears, she’s sure it reverberates in his fingertips.

“Show - me,” she says, words rounded, cut off by his mouth. “I want to see - if I can tell - what’s real.”

He doesn’t respond, only continues to kiss her, to take her out of her clothes, movements fluent, and she tries to remember if it was like this the first time she came to him, when they were both so young, or if his sureness is the product of all the times that came after.

She loosens the drawstring of his pants at the same time as her robe falls noiselessly around her body, leaving her in black panties. Jadeite walks her back to the foot of the bed, kicking off the pants as he goes, and he’s completely nude under. “Were you with Thetis just now?”

“You saw for yourself.”

“Answer me.”

Jadeite stops, breaks off a kiss to look down at her. His expression is amused. “There’s no need to be jealous of Thetis.”

Carnelian gazes up at him. Then she twists her foot around his calf and yanks, using the momentum to reverse their positions, throwing him down onto his back in the bed. He lands with a grunt, followed by another, as she straddles his hips.

She leans down until their noses touch. Improbably, the blueness of his eyes still astonishes her. “I’m not jealous of Thetis.”

She’s about to say more but then his hand slides between her thighs, and whatever words she had die in her throat.

He’s studying her, gaze dark and intent. His knuckles graze the damp silk of her panties, back and forth. But instead of slipping in he hooks the fabric and pulls her forward. “Come up here.”

Swallowing, she crawls up his torso, resettles. When he twists the silk aside completely, tongue slipping out to taste her, she can’t help herself, falling forward. She catches herself with elbows on the mattress, calves tensing for balance, and feels him chuckle, a soft puff of air against her sex, followed by the tip of his tongue.

She closes her eyes, shuddering at the feel of it, circling her clit. “Oh, my God.”

He licks up into her with the flat of it, fast but light the way she likes, keeping the pressure consistent even as her legs splay and she begins to move, involuntary, rocking over his chin. His blunt fingernails dig into the curve of her ass to keep her steady. 

For prolonged seconds - minutes - she has no idea - can’t feel anything but for the thoroughness of his mouth, exploring her sex. Kissing the way he did her mouth, suckling on her clit as if it’s her tongue he’s tasting, small and soft as fruit. She’s distantly aware of how noisy he’s being, making the most obscene sounds, wet smacks, low hums and grunts of satisfaction as he works her over. The coolness of the room hits everywhere he’s lapped at her and she feels so wide-open it’s unbearable.

“S- stop,” she manages, finding a sliver of her presence of mind. “Stop, I can’t - I want you inside.”

She pushes off her elbows, struggles back backward on all fours, so he can sit upright. He’s already leaning over her, tugging her panties down her legs, easing her onto the mattress. She senses more than sees his hand, working himself in long deliberate strokes. The lights are bright without harshness and every feature of his face is visible, planes flushed dark and drawn taut as a drum, lips and chin smeared shiny with saliva and her slick; she sees it all in a half-second before he’s kissing her again, other hand cupping her skull, dragging her up to him. His tongue tastes strongly of her sex, so much that she almost recoils. But before she can think, there’s suddenly the heavy, hot weight of his cock dragging against her thigh, and he’s positioning himself. The head pushing in, stretching her, slow.

She comes just like that - from the sensation of being filled, finally; the pad of his thumb rubbing her swollen clit. Her own moan startles her - a loud, breathy thing, almost comically elongated. His grip on her biceps turns into a vice as she clenches helplessly around his cock, over and over.

When she finally finishes, gasping, he drops his forehead to hers. She notices, somehow, in the drift of bliss, that he’s not moving in her. “Fuck,” he murmurs. “That was embarrassing.”

It takes a few tries to speak. “What was?”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows once, twice. “You almost made me come.”

“Oh.” A shaky half-laugh escapes her. “Good.”

She waits until her muscles cease to quiver, and then, though her legs feel like deadweight, she somehow wills herself to wind them about his hips, groping at his ass, rolling up to get him deep, get him moving. He groans against her cheek.

“Don’t - I won’t last - ”

“I don’t care, Asa,” she whispers. Her fingers find his temples and smooth back the matting curls so she can catch the blue of his eyes again. His pupils are dilated wide like an animal’s, dark as glass at their centers. “I want to see you lose it.”

He hisses, face contorting, but then his hips buck and almost without volition he begins to thrust; not even pulling out all the way, instead fucking deep, as close to her body as possible. The base of his cock is wide enough she can still feel the stretch at the opening of her sex. For a few thrusts it burns, and then suddenly she’s so shockingly, copiously wet, she hears his breath go sharp.

“My…” His hand on her head, fingers curling in her hair. “My name.”

For half a second she thinks he wants her to say it, some game of dominance, submission - then she understands - remembers. “Asa.” She reaches up blindly for him, whatever she can touch. “It was Asa Junin.”

He inhales at the lee of her neck, breathing high and hard, like he’s been held underwater. “Rei.”

“Rei,” she squeezes her eyes briefly shut. He’s driving into her body so unrelentingly it’s difficult to configure speech, sentences breaking off, words fragmenting. “Hino - Rei. I was - was a - priestess.”

He withdraws completely, reaching down to pull up her knee, then grips her hipbone to keep her in place before sliding all the way back in. “And I wanted you,” he pants against her cheek, “the moment I saw you.”

“It’s - real,” she breathes. The words punctuated, each thud of his hips. “This - is real. I can tell.”

Her arms anchor around his neck as he presses his open mouth to her shoulder. Their bodies working together, now slicked by sweat. It’s almost too much - her thigh wedged between them, bending her in half, like hammered metal - nipples tight under the friction of his chest - the dull slap of his thrusts - an odd, tingling pressure, the place he’s hitting deep in her, again and again. When his hand slides around, one finger slipping past her clit, past where they fuck, tracing the cleft further up, it’s another sensation added to all the rest and she tenses under him, unsure.

“Okay?” his voice is low in her ear.

She’s trembling all over. “I - yes.”

The feeling of fullness, it’s - different. Sharper, more, entire. She wants to get away from it, wants to take more, both at once. A jolt of pleasure races down her spine as he pulls back; their eyes connect just as she realizes, vaguely stunned, that she’s going to come again.

Her eyes widen. “Junin - ”

“Almost,” he gasps, breakneck rhythm gone staccato. “I - ”

Her hoarse cry cuts off whatever he’s about to say as she flies apart. It’s much faster, harder than the first time, brinking on violence, shocking bright hot tears to her eyes.

Every part of her falls slack, her sex throbbing and raw. As she comes down she feels his pace stutter. A high, juddering sound escapes him as he thrusts a last time and pulls out, jerking off frantically. She props herself up on her elbows to watch as he spurts all over her, eyes landing where semen drips viscous, nacred, into the dark nest of curls between her thighs.

…

She’s laughing, even now as they lie in the dark; tiny, fitful, idiotic huffs against the still-perspiring side of his chest. Her stomach is quivering like she’s done a thousand sit-ups, and her thighs are sticky and sore. She feels - wonderful.

“I should clean you up,” she hears him mutter exhaustedly above her, but he makes no effort to move. She laughs again.

“Leave it there,” Carnelian tells him. “I told you I wanted to see you lose it.”

“Think I have to take back what I said about you being a prude.” He yawns prodigiously. “You’re a dirty girl, Hino.”

“Tell Zoisite that the next time he comes through.”

“Kind of making my bedroom sound like a merry-go-round, here.”

She smiles a little, without warmth, but he can’t see it, anyway.

“Both,” she says.

“Both?”

“You asked if I trusted you, or if I wanted you to fuck me.” She stares at the ceiling, allowing the whorls of concrete to resolve themselves into patterns of significance. “Both.”

She can feel his ribs rise and fall, still fast, under her cheek.

“Junin.”

“Hm?”

“Do you ever think…” she bites the tip of her tongue, worrying it between her teeth. “That maybe, this - this all is the big illusion. That the people we were before were the real ones. Who we should’ve been.”

Jadeite doesn’t speak.

“And - and what we are now…”

Quietly, he says, “We should go to sleep.”

Her eyelids flutter, moth-winged. “Right,” she replies, soft.

In a few minutes his breathing slows, evens out. She shifts a little; in slumber, he adjusts, unconsciously making room. When she touches his chest his heart beats in her fingertips.

Carnelian closes her eyes. Before she can form another conscious thought, she’s gone.

Any fan artist out there looking for a prompt for some Senshi/shittensou art, here’s something I’ve thought of lately. The “Wearing the boyfriend’s shirt to bed” trope with all the different Senshi wearing shirts appropriate to their owners. Here’s what I’m thinking: 

Usagi: Mamoru’s pink shirt with the rolled up sleeves 

Minako: A button up white shirt like Kunzite’s human form just came form office (bonus points if she’s playing with his tie in some way)

Rei: Jadeite’s favorite hoodie

Ami: An overwatch shirt (or some video game shirt)

Makoto: A sport’s jersey (the samurai blue soccor team would be perfect)