#kpslp | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sabraeal · 6 months ago

Text

The Strong Pack Thrives, Part 3

[Read on AO3]

Written for @kpslp, who was the second raffled winner for my 1000 Follower celebration!

The mattress yields beneath the weight of her knee, as welcoming as the groan that tears from Obi’s throat, coaxing her further forward—

Until Shirayuki bumps against his outstretch hand. His palm burns through both skirt and petticoats, fingers fitted around the wide curve of her hip, holding her still. Or more likely: keeping her at bay.

His eyelashes flutter over the sharp jut of his cheekbone, only a sliver of molten gold peering through a cage of black lace. “You can’t help like that, Miss.”

Shirayuki’s tongue sits sluggish in her mouth, clumsy as she murmurs, “What do you mean?”

Alphas may be famed for their acute senses, for their ability to detect the most minute change in mood and attitude, but there is something distinctly different about that knowledge when Obi’s head inclines toward her. When his nostrils flare and it is no longer some dry paragraph she read in a treatise a handful of years ago, but her scent being sampled, rolling around in his sinuses like lords taste wine. “I can’t smell you.”

Impossible. Not when the tops of her thighs are so slick they nearly squeak. “Weren’t you just complaining that you could?”

There’s a flash of teeth when his mouth tilts, matching the coquettish flutter of his eyelashes. “Well, Miss, that was before.”

“B-before?”

His hand flexes, fitting closer, thumb stretching across the crease of her thigh. There’s a vein there, a large one, and she wonders if he can feel the way her pulse thrums, careening from one beat to the next, a runaway stallion driving her heart. “Before you said you’d come to bed.”

There’s barely enough air in her lungs to stutter out an, “O-oh.”

“You’re wearing too much.” His thumb drags over the fabric of her skirt, squeezing thoughtfully at the end of its arc. “It’d be better if we were skin-to-skin.”

Her tongue tries to wet her lips, but his eyes fix on it, darkening as they follow every useless slide, and— and her mouth is too incredibly dry to manage it. “I-I��could take off my j-jacket.”

Obi doesn’t reply; he only settles back, letting his hand fall from her hip to the mattress. It should be less distracting without his clever fingers dancing just at the corner of her vision, being helpful, as he puts it— and underfoot, according to everyone else. But instead her attention catches on the way the lamplight pools on his chest, turning bare flesh to living, breathing bronze, and the buttons fumble right out from beneath her fingers.

There’s not a drop of innocence in him as his eyes lift, searing a languid trail from hip to throat before meeting her own. “Need help, Miss?”

He twists, rolling up to his elbow, and the sheets shift around him, falling from rib to hip on one side and cutting down across his abdomen on the other, baring the tip of a dark trail leading down—

“I-I can handle it,” she gasps, cheeks burning as she twists away. Shirayuki’s never had complaints about her natural inclination; being a beta has always suited her best— but when Obi allows that dark chuckle to rumble out from his chest, she wishes that she might have an alpha’s nose, if only to scent his desire as keenly as he does hers.

She looses the clasp at her throat, stripping the coat from her shoulders and setting it neatly aside. Fussing with its folds buys her a moment to think, to consider the silky gown she’d worn beneath it— it’s plain, a close-cut cream color meant to merely offset the deep red of the wool atop it, and without the amount of petticoats necessary to survive the North’s colder months, would do little to conceal scent or skin. And yet, yet—

Her hands fall to its closures as well— smaller ones than the coat, little hooks and eyes devised to lie flat beneath it— the first at the neck, and next the dip of her collarbone. The third— just above the dip between her breasts— gives her trouble, the metal slipping from her quivering fingers, and the loss of momentum nearly makes her lose her nerve as well. That is, until Obi’s breath catches, the scent of musk and spice so thick she sways on her feet.

The clasps trail to just below her belly, but Shirayuki only manages the next two before she wriggles out, dragging the whole thing right over her head. She’s less fastidious about its folds, managing to get the arms tucked over the skirts before she abandons it to fuss with her first layer of petticoats.

“Stays too,” Obi suggests, onces she’s removed two of the three, eyes fixed to where they’re laced. “You’d be more comfortable.”

Her lips press together. He’s hardly wrong— flexible as they are, they did little more in supine than poke in odd places— but still, she’s aware it’s one more layer of armor being bargained away, a barrier between her skin and his, pried loose by flimsy reason.

And yet, it doesn’t stop her from tugging at the laces. The linen cord resists as she tries to coax it from its knot, working it loose enough so that she might win free. The weight of his eyes on her makes her itchy, impatient— she’d never thought of her undergarments in terms of allure, but there’s none with her short stays. Just a simple starched tube with baleen run through it, meant to go over head head, and ah, if only she’d thought to wear her combinations, then at least there might be some enticing lace and froth, as silly as she’d always found it—

“Slower,” Obi tells her, half a growl.

It takes a moment for her knees to hold her, for the heat pooling between her legs to become bearable. But then she begins again, the slim strap of her stays slipping down her shoulder as she works the laces loose, enough that she can finally lift it over her head—

“The stockings too.”

She hesitates, peering at him through the webwork of her arms and stays. “Stockings?” Even with the carpet, the floor would be freezing, and her arms are already pimpling from the chill. “Why?”

There’s an attempt at innocence now; eyes batting wide and sweet— belied by the hunger in them, pupil nibbling away at iris until all that’s left is the barest corona of gold. “They’ll itch.”

If she’d worn her usual wool, Shirayuki might agree, but she hadn’t dare wear anything but her best to breakfast. There's no reason to tempt Rugilia's lord to dote on her, not when Eisetsu had been so eager to dress her in gold and crepe only days ago. “They’re silk.”

His eyebrows twitch, intrigued. “Then I guess you could leave them on.”

She nearly does— there’s been enough of her armor peeled from her already— but she catches the lazy lilt of his mouth and decides that in some cases, bare skin might be better protection than covered. Obi, for his part, simply hums— not disappointed, but interested.

When she stands, only a linen chemise to cover her, smoothing the fabric down her hips, mischief sparks in those hungry eyes. “You know, Miss, maybe—”

“This is enough,” she informs him, firmer than she feels— steady, unlike the step she takes toward the bed. “Don’t let your eyes be bigger than your stomach.”

“Haah, Miss.” The words rumble through the mattress, shivering up the knee she sets on it. “You don’t know the half of it.”

With no more warning than that, the blankets rise up to swallow her whole.

It’s disorienting at first. Like how it is to fall through the ice— shocking, enough to make a mind forget which way is up and which is down, every direction collapsing into either here or not here. Only instead of teeth-chattering cold to overwhelm her, it is scent, spice and musk and sex all tumbled together until she is left panting, pressed against the hard planes of his body, heat scorching her even through her chemise.

“Finally,” he groans, burying his nose at the crook of her neck and just— just huffing, as if he’s a man lost in the desert and her scent’s the oasis that will slake his thirst. It’s hard to think with him so close, with his hands holding her so tight she’s half convinced she’ll find whole prints when she climbs back out again. It’d hardly be the first time; despite the careful distance Obi usually keeps, she’d found a thumb and a few fingers that time she jumped off Brecker’s tower, and a whole hand when she’d knocked him into the snow their first time in Lilias. But this—

This is different. Thinking of those marks on her— ones to match the nip he’d given her in the carriage, his fingers so deep within her she could barely do more than breathe through the fire in her veins—

Well, a beta doesn’t rut, doesn’t go into heat, but whatever his scent does to her must be close to it. Since when his canines prick the soft stretch of her skin, she only moans, tilting her head to give him more to—

“W-wait,” she gasps, sense shivering through her his teeth bear down. “E-excuse me! That’s n-not— that’s not why—”

She has to swallow the sound that tries to escape her as his jaw unlocks from her throat.

“Haah, sorry, Miss,” he purrs, not the least bit contrite as his tongue soothes the bite. “Just got…excited.”

With her palms trapped against his chest, she can feel it— the wild beat of his heart, galloping against her palms. But as he settles against her, nose buried up under her ear the way he had at the manor, she also feels it lull— not to calmness, but to something less like a race against time. Something less like danger.

Relief rushes through her; holding her this way, scenting her, may not be the cure, but it at least takes the edge off his desire, turning urgent to optional, need simply to want. Hardly comfortable, but she’ll take it over the sweating, feverish pain he’d been in only moments ago.

Her body does not so much relax as release, every muscle easing into his welcome heat. His grip is too tight for her arms to move from his chest, but her legs shift, one of her calves lifting over his, tugging it gently between her own. There’s no danger to being close now, not when his breath flutters so soothingly at her neck, when his hands have ceased their bruising strength, and when he shifts, loosening his panicked grip on her—

Oh.

There’s something hard trapped between their bellies. Something that twitches with her sharp breath, even though Obi hardly seems to notice. Something that she would be happy to ignore, if only—

If only it weren’t so close to where his fingers had pressed into her. Where they had left her, stretched and sated, and now— now she can’t control the heat that flashes through her, can’t clamp down on how it floods between her legs, and— and Obi groans.

His musky scent had already been strong beneath the blankets, but it’s overpowering now, her fingers curling into his chest if only to keep herself steady. A mistake; she could have ignored it before, could have laid there, pretending to be none the wiser, but the moment her nails scrape at his skin— he twitches. Right against her hip. Not once but twice, a shiver shuddering through him, and— and it’s hardly his fault, really, it’s just serendipity, the reality of how their bodies align, but—

But he shifts between the first and the second, no longer flat against her hip but angled, the shaft skirting the edge of where she throbs. It rubs against her, not where she needs, but so close, hardly more than a full breath keeping her from that delicious shiver she’d felt with his fingers.

It's nothing to move against it. An accident really. Just the barest tilt of her hips. Nothing suggestive, but enough to let it shift, resting fully along her belly. A widening of her legs that leaves the base nestled right above where she throbs, needing—

Ah, she hardly knows, but— something. Something she can almost taste the shadows of when her hips jostle into his, a thin finger of lightning scouring up her spine. Her breath saws into his shoulder, thoughts skittering out with it, leaving only one behind: more.

He’s right there, isn’t he? So close that she nearly aches with anticipation for the next accident, the next fumbling brush that would send those wisps of pleasure storming beneath her skin, bringing her closer to the release she no longer lingers over, but craves. It would be easy to stumble into another mistake, for hips to shift or legs to slip, to chase that lightning with no one at fault but sheer coincidence—

So there’s no way for him to tell that it’s not, that this tiny bump of their hips isn’t a clumsiness but calculation, and that the others that follow— not frequent enough to make a rhythm, to seem purposeful— keep the tingle itching beneath her skin, not quite scratching, and yet—

“Ow!” Her nails bite into bronze, trapped so tight she can’t wriggle lose enough to rub at her neck, but there’s no need, not when Obi’s mouth is already soothing when he nipped.

“Sorry, sorry,” he murmurs, little more than brushes against bruised flesh, hands clutching her hips so tight she can barely breathe, let alone move. “It’s— your scent. I can— I can smell you…”

“O-oh.” It seems impossible when her nose is so full of musk and pine and spice she’s practically choking on him. And yet his hand drops, gripping just above the joint of her knee to hitch it over his hip, and she smells it— that faint sweetness of apple and a whiff of fresh herbs. Her. “But—”

That grip drags her further, not just spreading her over the hip but wrapping around it, angling her so close that his shaft no longer rests above where she needs him but against it, the thin linen of her chemise trapped between them. That alone is enough to flush the air from her lungs, to leave her so breathless she can only manage an, “Oh!” before—

Before he lowers his grip past her hips and grinds, pleasuring flooding her so suddenly, so deeply she tastes it. Her tongue flicks over her lips to savor the flavor. There’s nothing trapping her hands now, but she can do little but clutch at him, gasping and squirming as his relentless rutting sets every thought toppling out of her head. All her treatise and theories elide to moans, thready and desperate as they escape with her, struggling to tread the water of her desire.

Her chemise is damp where it presses against her, soaked, and it rucks up with each of his thrusts. Inch by inch it bares her to him, makes her aware that though his trousers cling tight to his legs, his cock has long escaped them. It’s different than in the carriage, when she’d held him against her and let that long slide push her up and over the crest of her pleasure; now he’s the one holding her, thrusting into her at his own pace, no barrier between them, and— and—

It’s not enough. It’s too much. It’s— something, but there’s not enough of her mind left to make it up, only the static shivering under her skin and the heady scent of spice seeping through her. A good thing she doesn’t have to, since Obi makes it for her— with one arm slung over her back and the other under her bottom, he rolls, bringing him to his back and both her knees falling to frame his hips.

Shirayuki blinks, head lifting, hands falling, reaching out to brace against his chest. The tight cocoon of sheets is a tangle around them, a hopeless knot of silk and velvet and down— but one that parts as she sits back, tumbling like water down a fall until it pool at her hips, leaving him bare beneath her hands. Her breath catches; oh, she’s seen Obi on his back before, with chest both covered and not, but never like this— with hunger so naked in his eyes she longs to know what it would be like to be consumed.

“Obi.” Her nails curl, digging the same furrows her brows do. “Why…?”

Did you stop? She had hardly known what she meant to ask, but that’s what spring to her lips, desperate, needy. But she can’t possibly ask— not when she offered her scent solely to soothe him, to calm the instincts that civil society no longer requires from its alphas. She can’t simply change her mind now because—

“Ha-aah!” Her hands scrabble down his belly, trying to find purchase as his hands hook behind her knees, dragging her up, forward, until the hard ridge of his cock nestles between her folds. They catch in the sparse hair tracing down his belly, and oh, it’s all she can do to hang on as his hips cant against hers, dragging the length of him right along her slit, reminding her of how much emptiness can ache. “Obi, I…”

No actual words come to her, not when his tip catches on the ridge of her pubic bone and he moans, so long and loud she can hear herself grown wetter. The sound of him sliding through her slick tangles between her gasps and his groans, a mortifying symphony that only makes her hotter, slicker, and when their eyes meet—

His drop, right to where his cock ruts against her cunt. Or where it would, if her chemise didn’t lay damp and heavy on his stomach, obscuring his view. His mouth twists, impatient, and ah, she nearly apologizes until one hand reaches out, fisting the linen in his grip. With a sharp tug, it lifts, and oh, haah, there he is, the flushed head of his cock peeking out from between her lips. His hips tilt, pulling back, and it disappears, dragging along that throbbing bud before peeping out again. It should be ridiculous, a child’s game of hide and seek, but instead—

Instead, it’s enough to make a new rush of slick to flood between her legs. Her scent blooms strong even to her deadened nose, and Obi arches back against his pillow, growling, fingers clenched tight around her thighs. “Not enough.”

Frustrated, that’s how he sounds. Unsatisfied. Disappointed. Shirayuki’s heart flutters to her throat. “What—?”

Obi’s always been fond of words— too fond, Kiki always told her, too polite to roll her eyes, how like an omega— even if his quick thinking often talked him into more trouble than out of it. But despite his reputation— for a silver tongue, Obi would insist, even as Zen snorted, for being mouthy— it’s action where he’s always excelled. And now is no different; with no more answer than a groan, the hands wrapped around her thighs urge her forward, knees no longer framing his hips, but goading her up to his waist, and—

And it’s too fast. Shirayuki manages to creep only a couple inches across the mattress before her ankles tangle in sheets and her knees catch on her chemise, spilling her flat across his chest. A mortifying position to start, made worse by the way her bottom sticks straight up like a bitch eager for a mount. If he wasn’t beneath her, she might think this was how he wanted her, bared and begging, but—

But it’s not. Not when his palms fit right over the backs of her thighs and tug, dragging her up over his chest, so quick she barely has time to reach out her hands and brace against the headboard. He doesn’t stop, not until she’s got her knees hooked over his shoulders, so close to him that his breath ruffles the deeper auburn curling over her mound. It’s an odd position, one that leaves her off-kilter and exposed even as her chemise drapes over his chin, covering everything from his nose down.

It’s the damp part, of course, soaked in her slick and thick with her scent, and she grimaces. There’s no polite way to pluck it up, no stock apologies for having literally rubbed his nose in her scent, but—

But his eyes meet hers, iris barely more than a thin hold thread wrapped around the abyss of his pupils, and he licks a long, languid stripe down her folds.

“Haa-aaah!” She clutches at the headboard as he goes back for seconds. It’s terrible how she can feel his smirk against her skin, how he splits her lips with the gentlest prod of his tongue, lapping deeper. The tip teases the shape of her slit, tracing up one side before sliding over the other, reminding her that she’s empty, reminding her that she could be filled, and, haah, she want to watch him, to see why his eyes flutter so coyly shut, and—

And then Obi sucks, and oh, this chemise has got to go.

At least, that’s what she’d like to do. But the pleasure sparking beneath her skin makes her fingers clumsy, tangling in the hem only to let it slip from her fingers, the soaked part slapping right over his nose.

“Sorry,” she gasps, taking the fabric he hands her, his snickers sending an unbearably enticing hum through her bones. “I just— oh—”

It gets up over her shoulders this time, but there’s buttons and sleeves and lace; a veritable maze of an undergarment, made no better by every thought in her head abandoning her as Obi sinks two fingers into her, right down to the last knuckle.

“Just a moment!” she pants, heaving herself off him. “I just have to—”

She clambers off the bed, enduring the terrible rumble of his laugh, purring out from so deep in his chest she’s half tempted to go back and catch them with her mouth. The floor is freezing beneath her bare feet, but it’s bracing too, giving her surer footing than his mouth had, and she lifts it over her head. It’s so much easier now to tip over, letting the weight of the skirt puddle the mass of linen beside her heels, finally leaving her bare.

It’s with a silly sort of pride that she turns back to him, like a child having figured out how to take off their own stockings. There’s certainly amusement in Obi’s eyes when she meets him, but there’s heat too, a promise, and when she looks down he— he’s—

He’s touching himself.

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #lemon #1000 followers #my fic #abo au #ans #there were many places to cut this and i eventually just had to go with the one #where i would need another 1K plus to make it work #this was one of those fics that just did not want to be written #mainly because i ended up with MANY EXTRA DAYS of kids running around #which really puts the damper on this whole like. writing smut thing!#hard to do it when every five minutes i feel a tiny warm hand #and then hear “mom...can i get some goldfish?”#thanks buddy really helping mama create a mood here

8 notes · View notes