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It was good, he thought.
Better than good, even. Here, tangled between thick sheets of bedding, pinned beneath his rival, his brain finally shut off.
After days of constant “I wonder if Lomedy’s safe” and “Lost cause” echoing off each other, his mind went quiet. Here he didn’t have to worry about whether he was going to get jumped, if his or someone else’s life he cared about— and the list was lonely in how small it was— was in danger. No mafia, no LAW, no Cindercrest; it was all silent.
The wet of a mouth clasped over his collarbone, and a gasp escaped him too quick for him to stifle it. It was fine, everything was fine. It felt nice, he was allowed to feel nice here. Allowed to feel relaxed and at peace and safe. He hadn’t for the longest time.
Sharp canines dug into the thin layer of skin over bone, and Flame couldn’t help but keen into the sting, arching off the mattress to feel it sharper, better.
One of his hands grasped at his lover’s neck, the same one he’d practically turned into a chew toy not a few hours ago. Phantom bites still lingered there, when his grip tensed or a strand of hair brushed against where his teeth snagged onto rough skin. He found himself holding on tighter, forcing Wemmbu closer, feeling more and thinking less.
He whined when teeth broke skin, blood bubbling over the punctures at his collar. He closed his eyes in the pain of it all.
It felt horrible, it felt so good. The pain was good, the hurt was great. Even something as small as whatever bite Wemmbu’d carefully left behind when he pulled away was enough to keep him here, present and in the moment, where he couldn’t think or worry or wonder.
Nothing was a question here. If Flame asked, Wemmbu would deliver. He always had when it counted like this, when it was just the two of them and not some flashy fight for a title Wemmbu had given up on months ago.
He must’ve made a noise when Wemmbu pulled away, because before he was far enough to look at Flame in whatever state he was now, his teeth had returned, this time closer to his neck, somewhere near it and the juncture of his shoulder, sharp and precise and so good.
His spine arched again, chest against Wemmbu’s own in his delirium for the hurt, for the promise of quiet that only this could bring. Fights almost got close, if it wasn’t for the need to think about the next blow, the next potion, for the way his hooves would have to move in order to avoid a less-than deadly swing of a mace or the call for the forces of the sky. Right now, he couldn’t think about a dodge or a hit he had to land, could barely think at all in the haze of stinging left by pristine, pointed teeth.
It had just happened, really. Not half an hour ago, Flame had been obsessively reorganizing shulkers, potions shuffled around before he’d look at them only to rearrange them a moment later. Then Wemmbu came back, the strap of a mesh tote bag with a band neither of them had even heard the name of printed on it hugged his forearm as he walked through the door, shutting it quietly behind him before setting the tote on the kitchen counter.
Flame met his eyes through his blindfold then, his previously furrowed eyebrows softened, and the lashing of his furred tail against hardwood relaxed into something more of a sway. The look was returned by Wemmbu, eyes crinkled like he’d been waiting for this since he left earlier that morning, waiting to come home, waiting for Flame.
A bruise was sucked beneath his jaw, and his hips bucked upwards, chasing something primal without thought. He groaned, tilting his head to give Wemmbu better access.
It wasn’t enough. It was just right.
It was everything but too much, and Flame found himself tearing up at how careful Wemmbu was being. His hand snaked further upwards, fist curling around Wemmbu’s curved horn, seeking purchase in the bend where it straightened upwards and back.
It was Wemmbu’s turn to let out a noise, too high to be a groan at the force of his grip, and his teeth sunk into the other side of Flame’s already bruising neck, rocking steadily against him.
Flame went lax with the force of it, this bite harsher than the others, something too much and perfect in the misery it brought him.
If Flame asked Wemmbu to stop, he would. Wemmbu would unlatch his jaw from Flame’s throat, bury his forehead near his shoulder and wait; either for the go-ahead or for whatever else Flame demanded of him. The thought let his tears spill over, dampening the blindfold in small circles that spread.
He should tell Wemmbu to stop; Wemmbu would want him to.
He didn’t. Not when— for the first time since he’d joined Cindercrest, since he joined Parrot, since Lomedy left, since he and Wemmbu fought in that upside-down forest and his lover had collapsed on him, too tired to keep going— his thoughts had stopped. He needed this. He needed this so bad. The quiet, the safety. The allowance to let everything be someone else’s problem. He hadn’t had that in forever.
Wemmbu retreated from him again, slower this time, despite all the patience he’d went with the first time, and looked at Flame, watched as his lips trembled, and his nose scrunch up in a sniffle. His expression was nothing if not soft, velvet almost in the gentleness of his eyes meeting where Flame’s were beneath the black fabric, darkened with salty tears that hadn’t yet trailed down his cheeks.
“Ok?” He asked, in a quiet voice much too soft for Flame, gripping the demon’s hips like they were brittle and waiting, so, so patiently for Flame to answer, for his “stop” or “go.”
Flame’s hand that once gripped Wemmbu’s horn to hold him close left, instead fisted around his shoulder. “P-please— need-“ a hiccup left him, and the painful shards of reality sliced through his restraint as a sob left him.
Wemmbu was all worry and concern then, eyebrows wrinkling as he tried to come up with the right words.
“Need you, please— I can’t—“ his breath caught again, shortening his sentence in a way that let Wemmbu relax a fraction, guiding Flame’s legs around his waist and locking them both together.
“Okay… okay, I got you, I got you.” Wemmbu stayed sat on his own calfs, kissing Flame’s chest, arms secured on either side of him.
It was too nice— too little, Flame needed— he needed this to be rough, to hurt. He could hear as his brain tried to force itself on again, and sobbed when the vision of yellow was coated in too much red to be relaxing, felt his grip on Wemmbu’s forearm tighten as he tried to stay here, stay with him. His lips trembled as he tried, shutting his eyes so tight it hurt and colours started dancing around in his vision.
Wemmbu halted again, and Flame nearly broke then, guilt washing over him at using his lover like this, something so sacred and warm as a distraction. “W-Wemm—!”
His mouth fell open and his head tilted back. The rest of his plea caught like a bubble in his throat as he arched towards the pleasure that was too much already.
It stung in the way his body wasn’t ready for, despite the pre that spilled over and onto himself. He winced at the feeling as heat coiled in his belly and boiled his blood. It hurt so kindly, the brief image of yellow and red shocked away from him in an instant, pulled to the background as he fought himself to stay, to take it even as his cock stung, even as Wemmbu’s hand— as calloused as it was warm— fisted him gently, wrist twisting on the way down and heightening his body’s urge to clamber sway from it, to protect itself.
Hurts. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts it hurts it hurts ithurtsithurtsithurts—
He didn’t know when the room’s quiet got so loud. When the space engulfing them had become quiet enough for him to hear his own wracked breathing, when his nails dug into Wemmbu’s wrist.
He blinked away tears as his spine straightened and his body relaxed on the mattress, the stinging had retreated, and he felt like crying regardless of the tears already flowing in fat streams down his face.
Wemmbu had stopped, he realized, letting out a cough after a particularly rough sob.
He felt like throwing up, guilt curling in his stomach like gorged worms. He wanted— needed Wemmbu to keep going, he couldn’t take this, he couldn’t do this, he needed something— anything to stop thinking, to turn his brain to buttery mush. He’d had it he thought for a moment. It was quiet. Wemmbu’d done that for him, pushed his thoughts too far back for him to reach them.
And then he stopped. He was so close— so close to everything being fine, so close to a break, and Wemmbu had stopped.
Why?
He hadn’t asked Wemmbu to stop, hadn’t tapped his arm or anything, why had he stopped?
The question heaved another sob up his throat, and his claws tightened where they rested on the side of Wemmbu’s wrist.
“Why— why’d you—“ a hiccup interrupted him, obnoxious and sudden. He panicked then, desperate to know why he’d stopped, why he let Flame drift back into his mind. “I didn’t— I— please, Wemmbu.” Another hiccup left him as he breathed, tears flowing faster now in his hysteria. He was right there. He felt as his brain had quit thinking and started working on autopilot, felt as it left him alone to just feel; not to analyze or dissect, just to be here, present.
Wemmbu’s position changed then, unhooking Flame from where his legs fought to stay wrapped around Wemmbu’s hips.
He gasped then, thoughts rushing to the forefront of his mind all at once.
Lomedy, his mace, Jaden, Wemmbu, Egg, then Wemmbu again. It was like his mind couldn’t sort through what to start, and he let out a heart throbbing noise, one that someone of Flame’s status should never make. Ugly hiccups and sobs forced their way past Flame’s throat and out his mouth, slick with saliva he couldn’t swallow as he breathed.
Warmth and weight covered him, and his hands struggled to grasp onto Wemmbu, to keep him there against him, as if he was the only anchor keeping Flame— however weakly— there.
Flame’s head buried in Wemmbu’s shoulder where he laid above him, arms curling around his torso like they belonged there. Like he hadn’t even thought about it and just knew where Flame needed him.
Except he didn’t. Wemmbu hadn’t a damn clue where Flame had wanted him, because if he did he’d still be— Flame wouldn’t— another harsh sound left his rawing throat.
“I’m sorry, baby, I know, I’m sorry.” Wemmbu apologized, and Flame knew he meant it. “I’m sorry, oh, Flame,” he continued, and it only served to cause Flame to shake his head into Wemmbu’s shoulder, claws digging into the sides of him in his attempt to get closer.
“You stopped,” Flame began, letting another sound leave him before starting up again. “Why would you stop, I was so—“
Wemmbu leaned his own head down, curling his tail around Flame’s own. “You said it hurt.”
Everything stilled and Flame coughed into Wemmbu’s shoulder, shaking his head frantically as he continued to cry.
“But I—“ he sniffled, tears slowing in exhaustion. “It was quiet, for the first time in— in months, Wemmbu. I needed— I almost— I didn’t mean to—“
Another cry left him when Wemmbu pulled away despite his protests. His eyebrows had creased again, knitted tight in concern that painted his whole face.
Wemmbu’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again, and Flame wished he’d died somewhere during the war when Wemmbu spoke.
“Didn’t mean to what,” it wasn’t a question, not yet. It was more like they both knew what Flame meant and neither were ready enough to hear him say it. “What didn’t you mean, Flame?” The question formed then, Wemmbu’s voice almost sounded as panicked as Flame looked.
“It was fine. I was fine, Wemmbu.” But even as he said it, his face turned away, hands loosening where they rested on Wemmbu’s hips.
His jaw clenched in frustration. He really, really, didn’t want to fight right now.
The silence nearly killed him, a more in-focused image of yellow and red, brown mixed in there now across the golden field of wheat that bullied itself to the front of Flame’s mind.
Wemmbu’s arms retreated from where they held Flame, though he didn’t register it now, too caught up in the rapidly focusing image of yellow— Lomedy, he realized— and red. He froze, breath catching in his throat at the sight of his best friend downed in a golden field, sword pierced through a broken chest plate.
He didn’t know when his blindfold had been removed, or when Wemmbu had changed their positions on the bed, both of their legs mingled together and Wemmbu’s arm rested across the side of Flame's chest as he curled into him.
Kisses were pressed anything but sparingly against his head, across his ears, horns, hair, wherever Wemmbu was able to reach. Their tails were still entwined, nearly woven into one with the amount of times Wemmbu had curled his against Flame’s own.
“That wasn’t fine, Flame.” He heard Wemmbu’s breathing stutter from behind him. “Don’t you dare tell me that was fine.”
A long pause held heavy between them as Wemmbu buried his face into the back of Flame’s neck. “Flame, you were just saying that it hurt. Over and over again.” He felt Wemmbu tense his face behind him, “you sighed when I stopped, actually sighed like you—“ Wemmbu didn’t say anything after that, just kept his head buried close to Flame.
The worms of guilt wriggled in his gut, tensing repeatedly, never relaxing, kept building pressure tighter and tighter. “I’m sorry…”
The words were quiet, fragile enough that Flame almost let himself hope that Wemmbu hadn’t heard them. Sorries were admissions of guilt. Were confirmation that you’d done something wrong.
Flame had just confirmed everything Wemmbu hoped wasn’t true.
Wemmbu tightened his hold on Flame, and he could feel now, that Wemmbu was shaking. Could feel the silent, wet tears that soaked into the back of his neck. “Don’t do that. Please, don’t ever do that.” The word “again” went unsaid, as if they could pretend it hadn’t already.
Flame swallowed, tail tightening around Wemmbu’s.
“Okay.” He said, “okay.”