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“Just promise me, don’t look behind you, okay?”
It all happened so fast. Obaya could barely register Bishop’s words over the roar of the now-freed monsters, the shouting of the other patrons of the carnival.
There was a roaring scream from behind her. The dinosaur’s attack seemed to hesitate a second too long, a clear byproduct of magical manipulation, giving her just enough time to deflect its claws to her shoulder instead of her jugular. Somewhere over her shoulder, the owlbear roared, and she heard a pained noise as Bishop’s warm body collided with her back. Her clothes became heavier as her warm, red blood mixed with a darker shade. She caught a flash of Bellamy’s wide eyes, a murmured word, and the wet gasp of Bishop stumbling back to consciousness.
Obaya didn’t think. The dinosaur turned to flee, choosing to lunge for its former captors rather than move closer to whatever lay behind her, and as she turned to survey the battlefield, a hand immediately coming up to offer support to the person behind her, she caught a glimpse of what Bishop had tried for so many months to keep from her.
She’d seen his eye before, had tried for hours to save it when she had first pulled him from the muck of that alley. The skin was pock-marked and sinewy, as though the eye rotted as skin grew over top of it. Given the anatomy of a Nothic, a species Obaya will confess to devoting some time to research after learning of Bishop’s condition, it would make sense that whatever curse had befallen him considered that eye to be unimportant. Still, it was a sight to behold, the angry purple flesh pulling with every shout from Bishop’s lips.
The mouth too, while gorey, was about what she expected. Bishop had always been careful to hide the bottom half of his face, and she was not one to push when it came to privacy, but she had assumed the curse would have affected his jaw. His skin was stretched, sinewy, a blackened color which highlights the unnatural, jagged rows of teeth peeking through what remains of his cheek. His jaw was unhinged, a deep bassy growl emanating from his throat, as he quickly glances in Obaya’s direction, one blood-splattered hand coming to rest for just a moment on her shoulder, before he begins to climb onto the top of the cage which formerly housed the owlbear.
His head turned towards the owlbear which felled him, his rotting jaw and cursed eye disappearing from view, and finally, Obaya’s gut churned.
His cheek was torn.
The wound didn’t match the gash along his chest and shoulder, the one which soaked her vestments with a blood too dark to be fully human. Instead, the familiar scar tracing his cheek, the one Obaya has traced with her eyes the few times Bishop’s scarf slipped and exposed more of his skin than intended, was torn open, only a few strands of flesh connecting his top and bottom jaw.
She used to wonder what might have caused such a scar. It was stretched and uneven, too contoured to the angles of Bishop’s face to be caused by a blade. She now had her answer, as she watched the remaining skin pull further, bits of blood-soaked flesh shifting with every movement of his body, to accommodate the unnatural wideness of his mouth.
He did this to himself. Of this she was sure.
Her stomach rose in her throat.
She swallowed, hard, as her attention was pulled back to the chaos of the battlefield around her. Catsup’s glinting armor disappeared over the side of the ship, her red tail lashing as she dashed over a nearby rooftop and slammed into a figure on the street below. Obaya’s head turned towards Bellamy as they let out a strangled cry, arm locked in the jaws of another beast, and she allowed herself to sink into an almost meditative state. Her fingers locked around the rough metal of her mace, her other hand staining the Coinmaden’s medallion around her neck.
It almost looks rusted.
The bathwater is a dull red, the side-effect, she supposes, of not properly washing the blood and dirt from her body before climbing in. Her vestments, blood-stained and torn from the battle, are neatly folded and placed on the side of the large soaking tub. Even in her rush to take advantage of the bath Bishop had offered her back at the Tipsy Dragon, she had been careful not to further damage the layers of silk and satin, the intricate golden embroidery, the precious gems and metals woven into the fabric.
She left her medallion around her neck, though. The bangles on her wrists and ankles, the necklaces decorating her throat, the intricate studded piercings over her body, float delicately in the warm water. The bath washes the rest of her jewelry of its rust-like bloodstains, and the gold beneath remains as untarnished as the day it was given to her by a fellow priestess of Liberty’s Maiden as a sign of her newfound rank within the church.
The medallion, however, she holds above the surface of the water. She runs a finger over the profile of Waukeen’s face, considering the way the deep red of the dried blood mixes with the polished gold of the medallion’s surface. A blemish, the lingering trace of violence.
With a sigh, Obaya drops the holy symbol into the water, tipping her own head back until her face is submerged in the bath. Her hair floats around her nose and cheeks, brushing her skin like the tender touch of a dear friend. Her lips quirk slightly at the sensation. Perhaps her Lady–
There’s a knock at the door, and Obaya starts.
She surfaces with a startled gasp, cringing at the loud splash as water pours over the side of the tub. Her dark hair clings to the skin of her face, and she makes a motion to push it from her eyes, wincing as one of the golden rings on her finger catches on a thick strand. She fights it for a moment, only just managing to pull her hand free before another, more hesitant, knock comes from the door. One of the doors. Obaya’s eyes flick between the two exits to the small bathroom, silently cursing her memory for failing to recall which led to Bellamy’s bedroom and which to Bishop’s.
“Yes?” she says. Perhaps the Coinmaiden is watching over her, as her voice does not betray her surprise.
“You alright?” Bishop’s thick accent, the heavy lilt to their words, is clear even through the door. Obaya allows herself a moment of relief before shuffling to sit properly, reclining against the side of the tub.
“I’m alright,” she replies, warmth in her tone, “Is something the matter?”
“No, I just– I was going to clean your clothes, if you’re decent.”
“I’m not, but I don’t mind.”
The door to her right cracks open in lieu of a response, not quite wide enough for someone to peek through. A silent ask for permission.
Obaya feels a smile tug at the corner of her lips even as she rolls her eyes, “Really, Bishop, it’s fine. I laid my robes just over here.”
The door opens completely. Bishop must not have had the chance to wash yet, she realizes, and suddenly feels uncomfortable at having taken his bath from him for so long. He has removed the outermost layers of his clothes, but the light shirt and linen pants he wears are still stained with his too-dark blood. Through the tear along his chest, the result of the owlbear’s seamstressing, she can see bandages wind along his torso where he was struck by its claws.
His face is bandaged as well, the awful gash along his cheek neatly hidden away beneath gauze and fabric. Obaya’s throat tightens.
He offers her a slight smile, eyes politely fixed to the pile of silk and satin on the floor next to the bath. He crosses the room in a few quick steps, the dirty claws of his feet clicking slightly on the tile floor, before bending down to gather her vestments in his arms.
Obaya shifts in the water, causing Bishop’s good ear to perk slightly. She crosses her arms on the lip of the tub, balancing her chin on top, to look down as he gathers the bloody clothes. She’s close to him now, her face a foot or so above his bowed head, close enough that she can smell the sweat from the battle and a hint of something else. Citrus, perhaps? A hint of pine? A cologne, perhaps, that she hadn’t recognized in the bustle of the faire and the fight that followed.
“None of us ‘ave prestidigitation,” he pauses, “Unless you do?”
His eye flicks upwards to meet hers, vibrant green meeting deep brown. Obaya blinks, momentarily caught off guard, before shaking her head. Bishop looks away quickly, tan skin only slightly betraying the flush along his cheeks and shoulders, and Obaya bites on her bottom lip in an attempt not to laugh.
“It’ll be good ol’ fashioned washing then. No promises I can get everything out–”
Obaya’s eyes are drawn back to the bandage, to the wound she knows is hidden beneath. His flesh was still raw and dangling as they hurried back to the bar from the carnival. Who patched him up? Likely Bellamy, with their small musical hands and soothing words, but no bard’s song can compare to the warm relief of the Coinmaiden’s aid. Obaya’s fingers, unbidden, move from beneath her chin.
“Blood’s a bit of a nasty cunt, but I’ll try my bes–”
Obaya’s fingers touch the edge of the bandage, and Bishop’s words cut off sharply. His eye meets hers again, this time wide with– panic? Confusion?
“I–” he starts. His Adam's apple bobs. Obaya bites her tongue, lest it peek out to wet her bottom lip. “I should have–”
“Can I see?”
Bishop blinks, an unreadable expression crossing his face for a moment as he searches Obaya’s own. She lets her fingers brush over the edge of the bandage. Her fingertips catch momentarily on the gauze pad below the fabric protecting the wound.
“Why?” Bishop’s accent is thicker, his voice strangled.
“I can help,” Obaya lets a smile tug at the corner of her mouth, flattening her palm on the curve of his cheek. She doesn’t miss the way his eye flutters slightly at the movement, the way he stops himself from leaning into the touch.
Bishop bites down on his lip, and Obaya winces as the unnatural sharpness of his fangs sinks into the soft flesh. “I’m an adult, Obaya. I can handle a scratch–”
“It’s not a scratch,” she says, voice softer. “And I’m offering. Would you like me to help?”
Bishop’s gaze wavers, drifting to the wall behind her. He swallows thickly as he chews on his lip, and Obaya’s thumb shifts, tracing over his tender bottom lip and causing Bishop to start. “It’s ugly,” he spits out, quickly, like the words burn the inside of his mouth.
Obaya freezes. Bishop shifts, uncomfortable, before he gathers the last of her vestments in his sinewy arms and moves to stand.
Obaya sits up in one sharp movement, a hand darting out to grab his bicep, “It’s not.”
“Don’t lie to me,” he bites out.
“I’m not, you asshole,” she says, tugging lightly on his arm. “And it’s not. And even then, it doesn’t matter, because I want to help.” She tries to meet Bishop’s eye, but the bandaged side of his face is turned away from her, unintentionally putting his cursed flesh and unnatural maw on display. “Let me help, Bishop.”
She sees the moment the fight leaves her friend. Bishop’s shoulders sag, his face screwing up for a moment before relaxing with a sharp, dramatic sigh. His legs follow the tug of her hand on his arm, lowering himself to the cool tile until he kneels by the lip of the tub. His eye meets hers before closing in assent, and he angles his face so that her fingers can peel the bandage from his skin.
The wound is better than it was on the battlefield, though the bar was low. Bellamy must have stitched Bishop’s cheek back together, connecting his top and bottom jaws again, and it appears to have been well-cleaned. Obaya traces the edge of the stitches with her thumb, and Bishop flinches slightly.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
Obaya’s eyes don’t leave her task. She shifts in the water to get a better angle, her free hand coming to rest on the medallion laying against her breast. It heats slightly beneath her touch, and she feels the energy of the Lady of Gold creep through her body like a warm wind on a cloudy day, flowing effortlessly from one arm to the next and to the wounded cheek in front of her. “Tell me what?” she asks, though she thinks she knows the answer.
“That I– I mean, I did say that I– and you knew—” Bishop winces slightly, eye still closed, as the stitches begin to blend with his flesh.
“Knew what?”
“That I– Looked like this,” he finishes.
The magic finishes too, the golden line of Obaya’s magic fading from where it followed the movement of her fingers along Bishop’s cheek. She doesn’t dignify his stupid comment with a response, dropping her hand and sinking back into the bathwater. Bishop’s eye opens again at the sound, and one clawed hand lifts to trace the fresh pink scar.
“Thank you,” he says, quietly.
“Of course,” Obaya says, careful to keep her head and neck above the waterline. She’s thankful for the reddish hue to the water now for preserving some of her modesty.
It’s quiet for a moment. Obaya watches the ripples her breath causes on the surface of the water. Bishop makes no move to leave, though he shifts awkwardly on his knees.
He wins, and she sighs, rolling her eyes as she settles into the tub, “I knew, and I didn’t care. I don’t care, even now.”
Bishop’s head jerks, eye wide.
Obaya snorts, “Did you think I didn’t? I tended to your injuries, Bishop. I saw your eye at least, and I assumed what other injuries or– or changes you may be hiding. I don’t care. I never did.”
Bishop swallows.
“You’re frustratingly stubborn, you know?” A smile tugs at the corner of her lips, “And while it may be endearing on occasion, now is not one of those times. I don’t care that you’re cursed, and I don’t care that you’re– that you’re who you are.”
He ducks his head slightly, his dark hair falling slightly in front of his face.
Obaya sits up in the water, leaning closer to the man kneeling by the edge of the tub. She reaches out, wet palms cradling his cheeks– one soft and freshly scarred, the other sharp and hollow, dotted with pockmarks and teeth– and gently guides his face up. Brown eyes meet green.
Her voice is soft, “Do you believe me?”
She watches his Adam’s apple bob again, eye searching hers. Bishop’s expression softens, before he leans forward to press his forehead against hers, his hair clinging slightly to her wet locks. “I believe you,” he says at last, hoarser than intended.
“Good,” Obaya says. She injects an air of finality in her tone, and she watches as the half-elven side of his mouth quirks in relief. She settles back into the water, tilting her head back against the lip of the tub, before remembering her earlier concerns, “I’ll be out soon, if you don’t mind waiting a moment longer. I can help wash clothes while you bathe.”
Bishop starts, though the fondness in his gaze lingers, “No, no, don’t rush. Bell’s downstairs with Catsup, I think, so I’m the only one waiting at the moment.” He moves to gather her robes again, pushing to his feet and stepping back to the door leading to his bedroom. Obaya closes her eyes, letting the water lap against her chin with a content noise, listening to the creak of click of Bishop’s claws on tile and the creak of the door opening and closing.
Or, she should hear it closing. The noise never comes, and she opens her eyes again, jewelry trailing after her body as she peeks over the lip of the tub. Bishop stands at the threshold of the room, fabric still in his arms, but his eye is turned back to look at her. As their eyes meet, something unfamiliar crosses her friend’s face. It isn’t hunger, not exactly, but a wry amusement, a warm desire, mixed with something more feral. Something in Obaya’s stomach stirs at the sight.
The Nothic part of his face is still turned from her, probably instinctively, but she can see the smile on his face as he speaks, “Need some help?”
Obaya recognizes the words, dipping the bottom part of her face below the lip of the tub to disguise her own smile. “I’m a grown woman,” she says, an air of amusement in her voice, “You don’t need to help me bathe, Bishop.”
Bishop’s eye lights up, excited that she’s chosen to play his game. She watches as he places her clothes delicately on the bathroom counter, moving to lean against the bathroom door, “I’m offering. Would you like help?”
Obaya pretends to think it over, abandoning the pretense of hiding her smile as she folds her arms on the side of the tub. Finally, she shrugs, “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. You would have to look at me, though. Can you handle that? You could barely meet my eyes earlier–”
Bishop starts, that familiar tint flooding his non-corrupted cheek. “Hey!” he says, voice heavy with righteous indignation, “I was trying t’ be respectful! And it doesn’t matter anyways! Nudity isn’t inherently–”
“Isn’t inherently what, Bishop?”
“You know!”
“Know what?”
Bishop splutters, forgetting in his dramatics to angle his monstrous side away from her watchful eyes. There’s a beauty to the corruption, to the way his jaw shifts and the patterns in his flesh. Obaya’s mind briefly returns to the battlefield, to way Bishop’s jaw opened unnaturally wide and his lashing, too-long tongue–
Her thoughts are interrupted by Bishop stepping across the room, pulling his soft undershirt over his head and laying it by the side of the tub. Obaya shifts forwards, instinctively pulling her knees to her chest, as he settles onto the lip of the bath behind her, balanced above the water. His hands brush against the back of her neck as he guides her back against the tub. She lays her head in his lap, and Bishop seems unbothered by how her wetness seeps into his pants.
His hands are gentle, surprisingly so for how jagged his claws seem. Obaya supposes it’s a wizard’s touch, though Bishop wouldn’t remember that training. She closes her eyes with a content hum as his fingers work through her hair, imagining a younger man dutifully training his hands to be calm and still when working with magical components. Did he think he’d ever be using that training here, now, to carefully comb the knots from another’s hair?
Obaya isn’t ashamed to admit she was half-way asleep when the jolt came. She jumps away from the pain, looking back over her shoulder as Bishop pulls his hand away from the back of her neck with a panicked expression. One of her hands comes away from her neck with familiar red traces, though nothing to worry about. Nothing more than a knick.
“I am– I am so sorry, Obaya, holy shi–”
“No, no, it’s fine, really,” she tries for a laugh, grabbing at Bishop’s thighs to hold him in place for her to settle back against, “It’s fine, just a scratch. It’s bound to happen sometimes, I’m sure–”
“I should really–”
“It’s fine, Bishop, please. Just settle back down–” She presses her head back against his lap with force, willing him to stay still, “I don’t–”
“Obaya,” Bishop’s voice comes out as a whine, and Obaya looks up to meet his eye. His pupil is dilated, more than usual, as he stares down at the crimson blood on the tip of one of his claws. That same something flutters in Obaya’s stomach at the sight, and she can feel her cheeks grow hot as she recognizes that same half-hungry expression on his face.
“Bishop?”
There’s a thump on the stairs in the hallway, and both Obaya and Bishop’s eyes dart to the bathroom doors, Obaya sitting up to see better. Two sets of footsteps, a light pattering and a heavier step, make their way up to the third floor of the Tipsy Dragon. Catsup’s unmistakable squeal says something unintelligible, before the heavier footsteps turn away from the small bathroom and towards where Obaya assumes is her bedroom. The lighter footsteps, Bellamy’s, bounce closer until Obaya hears the familiar squeak of a door opening and the shift of a mattress as they presumably collapse onto their bed.
Obaya holds her breath.
There’s no sound from Bellamy’s room, and Obaya can only hope that they’ve decided to head to bed without bathing first. This doesn’t feel in line with what she knows of Bellamy’s character, but she sends a silent prayer to the Coinmaiden that perhaps their exhaustion has gotten the best of them on this particular occasion.
Her thoughts are interrupted by a wet warmth on the back of her neck, brushing over the knick from Bishop’s claws. She starts, moving to look behind her, but Bishop’s hands press against her shoulder to hold her in place. A rumble vibrates through her body, low and keening, from the point of contact.
The warmth of a Fireball against her back. Bishop tearing across the deck of the ship, alight by the lingering flames. Her wide eyes. An unhinged jaw and too-long tongue.
Obaya’s stomach flips, and she presses a hand to her lips to muffle the moan that slips from her mouth. Bishop’s tongue pauses for a moment before continuing to move, the lazy warmth exploring the small wound before shifting to the side of her neck, the top of her shoulder. In the corner of her eye, she can see Bishop’s body lean forward over hers, his dark, wavy hair clinging to hers as his jaw widens further– straining the new scar on his cheek– and his pink tongue laps the remaining traces of dried blood and sweat from her skin.
Something familiar but stomach-droppingly unnatural presses against the back of her mind, and instinctively Obaya drops the mental barriers she’s spent many years building. Bishop’s warm, probing, curious mind collides with hers, and Obaya squeezes her thighs together, causing the water to slosh in the tub. Bishop’s tongue stills, and Obaya tries to swallow down the whine in her throat.
Her mind betrays her, and she can feel Bishop’s amusement and excitement ripple through her body. His mind dances against hers like fingertips, carefully poking and prodding and selecting her thoughts to make his own. It's wonderfully invasive, the collapsing of two consciousnesses. Two wants becoming one.
Please, her thoughts beg, visions of Bishop’s unhinged jaw and thick tongue flashing through her mind. His sharp teeth press experimentally against the soft flesh where her neck meets her shoulder, and Obaya’s stomach flips at the soft growl that pushes against her back.
She feels his thoughts in turn, glimpses of herself in the bath, the gold of her piercings and jewelry glinting in the candlelight. The red blood on her dark neck, and the animalistic, monstrous hunger in Bishop’s chest. The warm affection, and the hot desire.
“Please,” she finds herself whispering, careful to keep her voice low to not be heard by Bellamy next door. “Please, Bishop–”
“Just tell me t’ stop,” he whispers against her shoulder, ragged lips brushing the mark from this teeth moments earlier. She feels him shift behind her and leans forward instinctively, allowing him to shift from the side of the tub and quickly untie his linen pants. Thoughts bubble through her mind like a stream, and his in return, trading her hungry gaze tracing the spine of Bishop’s back as he undresses for visions of her sitting on the lip of the tub, legs spread, him settled between–
She’s quick to acquiesce, not minding the sloshing of water as she shifts to the edge of the tub. Bishop turns back a moment later, pants laid next to his shirt, and Obaya can see the curse in all its glory. The jagged spikes of skin and bone, the warped patterns along his chest and arms, the gorgeous claws. Heat spikes through Obaya’s stomach, and visions of her on the lip of the tub, the hungry desire written on Bishop’s face, meet in her chest.
Bishop half-jumps, half-stumbles into the tub, causing more washing to slosh over the side. Obaya presses a hand to her mouth to stifle a snort, and his warm amusement and bewilderment curls around her thoughts like a blanket. He settles on his knees quickly, clawed fingers hesitantly coming to rest on her soft thighs, before he pauses, eye flicking up to meet Obaya’s with an uncharacteristic nervousness.
Impulsive confidence fueled by a monstrous hunger for blood can only carry a man so far, Obaya supposes. Besides, this is the part she excels at. She’s been praised for her quick tongue– in more ways than one— and while she may not be able to spin her thoughts and desires quite as powerfully as she can words, she knows how to give an order.
She gathers her emotions, the curling in her stomach and anticipation in her chest, and crashes against Bishop’s mind with so much force he almost looks dizzy. She leans back against the wall behind the tub, spreading her legs, as images of that thick, warm tongue working against her floods into the consciousness blending with hers. She feels a quirk of amusement from Bishop as her thoughts almost derail towards the wideness of his unhinged jaw, and she sends a squirm of hot embarrassment back when he makes a point of opening his mouth to an obscene degree.
Bishop’s claws dig into her thighs as he leans forward, tongue snaking out to lap experimentally against the wet heat between her legs. Obaya swallows a groan. She tangles a hand in Bishop’s hair, holding him close to her pussy, and is delighted to feel a hot spike of arousal from the connection with his mind.
Do you like that? she thinks, tightening her grip. Her rings tangle with his curls, and she feels Bishop’s hold on her thighs tighten just enough to leave bruises on her dark skin. She widens her legs further, feeling Bishop’s thoughts turn from the churning in his own gut to the patch of black curls between her legs, the small golden piercings decorating her clitoris and opening, the hole pathetically clenching around nothing. It’s strange, oddly voyeuristic and intoxicating, to see herself through the eyes of another, to feel Bishop’s thoughts linger on on the warmth of her skin and curve of her breasts, the embellishments on her nipples and naval, on the scent of sweat and blood and flowery perfume on her skin.
Then his lips connect with her clitoris and the small piercing decorating the hood, and Obaya doesn’t have time to think about what thoughts are hers and which belong to the person between her legs.
Bishop sucks, hard, and Obaya throws her head back against the wall behind her, free hand trying to stabilize herself on the lip of the tub. His tongue rolls the piercing, causing her hips to jerk toward, trying desperately to grind against his mouth, and Obaya can’t tell if the hot flash of arousal is his or hers. His tongue works against her, teasing her clitoris and then her opening, and it takes everything Obaya has to not force his face deeper into the curls between her legs.
Finally, his tongue begins to press against her entrance, and Obaya cannot stifle the groan that works through her throat. She feels one in return between her legs, causing her gut to clench, as the thick, warm appendage begins to work its way inside her. Bishop’s nose is buried in her curls as he glances up at her, the warm mind within and against hers checking how she’s feeling, before Obaya’s hips jerk and Bishop’s tongue is forced further inside.
The water splashes as Bishop begins to explore her guts with his mouth, that unnaturally long tongue poking against her insides. She feels herself stretch to accommodate him, feels him press further and further inside, before her stomach and toes curl and she feels his tongue begin to shift against her sweet spot. The vibrations of his moan rumble through her clitoris, and her fingers tighten harder on his hair.
Good job, good, good boy, good–
Her mind is overwhelmed with flashes of fantasies, of her straddling Bishop’s face and bejeweled in fine golden chains. Of her roughly grinding against his mouth, ring-laden fingers wrapped tightly in her hair. Of–
It’s too good, and as her insides begin to clench around his tongue, she roughly pulls on Bishop’s hair. His face emerges from between her thighs, expression and emotions flickering to confusion and concern, and Obaya bites on her lip, hard, at the wetness coating his mouth and chin. She presses a hand against his shoulder instead, projecting warmth and want and need into his mind, as she pushes him to the end of the tub. Bishop instinctively puts his arms on the sides of the bath, following the gentle guiding of her thoughts, as she reenters the water. Obaya ignores the splashing of water on the tile as she straddles Bishop’s hips, grinding her hips down against–
There’s a knock on the door. Obaya doesn’t have time to process the unfamiliar sensation beneath her pussy as the connection between her and Bishop snaps, leaving her mind frayed. Bishop’s claws sink into her hips, holding her in place even as he sits up to look at the door, eye wide.
“Yes?” he calls. There’s a slight waver to his voice, but Obaya will give him a pass this time. Considering the circumstances.
“Oh, it’s just you,” comes the muffled reply, Bellamy’s familiar tenor. “I wouldn’t have knocked–” There’s a click of the handle, and Obaya very nearly prays for the Lady of Gold to smite her from the heavens before there’s a shuffle and a loud groan from next door. “Bishop, what the fuck. Why is the door locked?”
“I–” Bishop shuffles a bit beneath Obaya, and she can feel his pounding heart beneath her fingers. She begins to trace the sinewy patterns in his blackened flesh, and he sends her a sharp, panicked look, “Bells, I’m in the bath.”
There’s another groan, and Obaya watches as the light beneath the door shifts, as though Bellamy has slumped down and onto the floor, “Bishop, I’m so fucking dirty. Get out, you’re hogging all the bloody water–”
“I’ll be out in a little bit!” Bishop shouts, familiar annoyance creeping into his voice.
“You say that every time–”
“Bellamy–”
“Ugh, fine. Fine! Whatever, just get out soon–”
“I will! I–” Bishop’s voice cuts off with a soft whine as Obaya’s fingertips trace over his nipple, and Obaya prays that Bellamy’s elven hearing isn’t good enough to pick up on it. That familiar presence shifts at the back of her mind again, and Obaya welcomes the rush of hot arousal and fond exasperation as Bishop glares up at her.
Obaya smiles, Where were we?
Bishop’s breath stutters, leaning back against the side of the tub once again. Obaya grinds her hips once more against his lap, curiosity coloring her arousal as her mind probes Bishop’s. Their minds collapse momentarily, and Obaya is flooded with visions of a slit between Bishop’s legs, a ridged, almost reptilian cock emerging from it. Her fingers dance along his chest, squeezing his nipples between her fingers just to feel the warm rush through both of their bodies. Bishop’s clawed hands grip tighter onto her hips, and a keening rumble emanates from his chest, causing the water around them to vibrate slightly.
Obaya leans forward to press a kiss to Bishop’s scarred, ragged lips before biting down, relishing the spike of heat that floods her mind. Her lips trail to his neck, biting and nipping along the soft flesh of his threat. One of Bishop’s hands trails up her stomach, claws catching on the tips and curves of her skin, before stopping on her breast. His fingertips catch on the golden jewelry around her neck, the medallion laying on her chest, the delicate golden piercing on her nipple, and he turns it experimentally. Obaya’s gut clenches as she moans against Bishop’s skin, relishing the sensation of his claws on her skin and scraping along her sensitive nipple.
One of her hands drops beneath the surface of the bathwater, tracing down Bishop’s chest and stomach to the patch of curls on his naval. The rumble returns as she strokes them idly for a moment before dipping her fingerlips below, tracing the edge of the slit she finds.
It’s different, distinctly unlike any partner Obaya has laid with before. It’s harder than hers, less pliant, without a clitoris. Dipping her fingers past the entrance, Bishop’s eye snaps to hers as his hips instinctively buck, a moan slipping out of his throat.
There we go.
Obaya’s mind collides with the one touching hers, awash with the emptiness inside of her, the pitiful clenching of her hole, of visions of a stiff, ridged cock for her to ride. Bishop’s eye glazes over as she dips her fingers inside of him again, her fingertips brushing the hard tip of a cock hidden inside his gut, and she brings her other hand from Bishop’s chest to his mouth, forcing her fingers past his rows of sharp teeth to attempt to muffle his breathy moans.
Won’t you show me your pretty cock, Bishop?
She spreads her fingers inside of him, caressing the tip of his dick. Bishop widens his legs instinctively, grinding himself against her hand, and for a moment Obaya’s mind is filled with flashes of Bishop impaled on a cock, of her fingers stretching him open, of her riding him while he’s all filled up. She smiles, basking in the warmth of shared arousal, and presses a finger down onto his tongue.
Bishop’s cock emerges in an instant, Obaya’s fingers forced out of his opening as it slides out and into the warm water of the bath. Obaya’s mind is awash with excitement as she grinds her hips forward experimentally. Bishop’s cock is thick, though not long, and distinctly alien. The flesh is dark and warped, the length crooked, and the head swollen. Three rows of ridges flare on its sides, and Obaya’s stomach twists in anticipation as Bishop’s hips jerk beneath her, and she feels a desperate plea wrap along the edges of her mind.
Obaya raises herself above Bishop, placing her hands on the side of the tub on either side of his face. One of his hands settles between her legs, spreading her open and guiding her pussy down onto his waiting cock. The head twitches against her entrance as she moves her hips lower, Bishop’s mind thrumming with need, until it finally buries itself inside of her. The ridges rub against her walls hard, and Obaya sees stars for a moment as she adjusts to the feeling of being stretched open.
Bishop settles beneath her, her mind guiding him to remain still while she fucks herself on him, even as a groan builds in his throat. Obaya begins to move her hips, delighting in the way the ridges flex and twitch inside of her with every shift. The cock seems to swell as she moves, forcing her to widen her legs further as she bounces, not caring at the sound the water makes as it sloshes over the side of the bath.
The boundaries of their minds shift, blending, melding until Obaya can hardly care which thoughts are hers and which belong to the man beneath her. She feels a curling in her stomach, the pounding against her insides, the ridges curling against her walls, the wet heat enveloping her cock. She feels claws digging into her soft hips, the bouncing of her breasts, the water splashing against her lips, the weight of a woman on top of her. She feels the claws shift to her back, of leaning forward to capture lips in a kiss, of hips stilling and moving and her cock pumping in and out of that tight, wet heat. Bishop holds her against his chest as he begins to fuck up into her, and she holds Bishop as she pounds him with her cock with an obscene moan.
She feels her stomach tighten, her toes curling in the warm water, and she bites down on the soft shoulder in front of her as she clenches around the cock buried inside of her. Its head twitches against her walls, the ridges fluttering, as Bishop’s warm pants and moans brush against her own shoulder. She feels her hips stuttering, the soreness between her legs, her stretched pussy, the heat of the ridges catching on her entrance, the warm heat, the tightness, her hips pressing close as she cums.
It doesn’t stop. She feels her cock pulse, her gut tighten, feels the jangling of her jewelry against Bishop’s chest and the softness of her breasts on his skin. She feels Bishop slam his hips against hers as he finishes, as she fills him up, as her cock twitches inside his warm heat.
For a moment, there is stillness. The gentle lapping of the bathwater around two trembling bodies as Obaya pants against Bishop’s neck and he hers.
Then, Bishop’s cock slips from inside her, retreating back into its hiding place. Obaya feels the soreness between her legs and down her trembling thighs, the warm pressure of Bishop’s arms wrapped around her. The warm sensation of his cum flooding from her, clouding the already-dirty bathwater.
Obaya presses her lips to Bi–
“Bishop, I swear to the GODS! Get the fuck OUT--”