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Fire Emblem: Fates Fan-fiction || Beruka/Oboro – bondage, dominance, and after care

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Description: Oboro and Beruka share a unique ritual

She hadn’t counted the days. It was simply… convenient, that she’d had a reason to keep checking at her calendar, as the weeks went by.

It was several months after the end of all that business with the invisible kingdom, and relations between Nohr and Hoshido had not just cooled, but already sprouted the beginnings of a fresh, juicy fruit. With diplomatic relations in a tizzy—all of it centered around the lynchpin that was Corrin, it had become somewhat common for dignitaries to travel back and forth between the two kingdoms, often dragging their shared, beloved princess back with them on the return trip.

It was, however, somewhat rare that such noble personages would call upon a humble kimono shop in the village.

Indeed, that’s exactly what caused Oboro such an alarm, when the lilting voice of Nohr’s eldest princess, Camilla, called for her across the shop floor. “You there, dear! Have you seen a sweet, bloodthirsty little slice of silence scurrying around anywhere?”

“Excuse me?” asked Oboro, coming up from behind the corner with a thick ball of coarse brown yarn held between her hands. “A… what?”

“My retainer.” Camilla corrected herself with a whisper of a chuckle. “A dour slip of a girl, only about this high, robin’s-egg hair, doesn’t talk much?”

Apropos of nothing, Oboro’s brow burst into a beaded sweat. She shook her head. “A-apologies, ma’am, I don’t believe I have.”

“Isn’t that strange…”

Though, in a way, they had been comrades in the war, Oboro had never been this close to the princess; close enough to notice how even Camilla’s touch of a slim finger to her lips, poised as if in quiet thought, seemed to wind a coil of transient power loosely around Oboro’s throat. Oboro shifted uneasily, glad her curling toes in their open sandals were hidden by the counter. Before she could catch herself, she spared a fleeting glance to her storeroom. “If you’ve nothing else but that I—”

“Serena, didn’t you say you saw her come in here?”

“I said I didn’t see her come in here,” Camilla’s retainer replied through a baffle of hanging kimonos. Stepping around the obstruction, she slouched against the wall and crossed her arms. “You were the one who insisted we check in this…” A pause, for better judgment. Then, an impatient flick of her pigtails to prove she possessed none. “Run-down little boutique.”

“Serena~” Camilla chided.

In response, Serena crossed her arms, and spoke through pinched lips. “No offense intended.”

“N-none taken,” said Oboro, squeezing the yarn ball between her palms, grateful for the momentary excuse to break with Camilla’s intent gaze.

“And I was sure I smelled…” Camilla spoke with gauzy thoughtlessness, curling a wandering finger through a springy lock of her hair. “Do you do any leatherworking, in this shop?”

“No ma’am; mostly it’s kimono’s, a-as you see…”

For some reason, Oboro’s hands gripped the yarn until her knuckles went white.

If she’d had spent more time with Camilla during the war, she wouldn’t have been so caught off guard known how easily power could have sublimate into malice at a whim. Though Oboro was tall herself, few women could claim a height like Camilla’s, and, in that moment, the princess of Nohr loomed over her like a mother would an unruly child, and there was an ember of a glint building in her red eyes that suggested something…

“Camilla!” called Elise’s voice through the open window. “Are you quite done in there? Corrin’s waiting!”

“Yes dear!” Camilla said. Her mood pivoting with warning, all malice evaporated into the humid summer air as she nearly sing-songed her words. “Just a moment!”

“Camilla,” said Serena, yanking her head towards the shop’s open door. “She’ll catch up when she catches up, like she always does.”

“It pains me to think we’re off to feast on pheasants while our dear Beruka subsides on…day-old bread or some such, but I suppose you’re right.” Camilla spared one more glance at Oboro over her shoulder as Serena nearly dragged her from the shop. “Please, if you see her, ensure my little lost lamb is delivered safely back into my loving hands, won’t you?”

Confronted by the paradoxical unmeance lacing through Camilla’s final smile, Oboro could only spare a dry swallow and a feeble nod.

And she barred the door to the shop, shut the curtains, and hasted back to her storeroom as soon as the princess and her retainer were out of eyeshot.

“Whew!” She braced herself against the storeroom door. The bodily shove she used to shut the heavy door was nearly as exaggerated as her sigh of relief, and a bit of dust shook from the rafters. “I thought she’d never leave.”

The thick, tall bolts of cloth piled against every wall of the small, windowless storeroom dampened the creak of leather, as Beruka’s drooping head lifted, and her posture straightened—as much as it could, anyway, given her position. Her nose twitched, tickled by the falling dust, and her eyes watered a bit

Oboro closed the distance to Beruka in a pair of measured strides. Then… she indulged herself.

A seamstress examining her handiwork, Oboro took quiet pleasure in the simple knots of colorful silk that lashed Beruka to her seat. Splashes of bright red trussed her shins to the chair legs, and her wrists, together as one, were tied to the slats of the backrest by a spider web of lavender—a rather subdued shade of it, of course.

Oboro relished in the spark of tension that fluttered and flexed through Beruka’s shoulders as she stepped out of eyesight. Wordlessly, she placed the ball of yarn in Beruka’s upturned hands and Beruka, with slightly ducked head, obediently squeezed a hold into the rough wool.

She’d practiced these knots for weeks, by candlelight, on her display mannequins, in this locked storeroom; it was the only place she could be sure no one would see. Of course she was proud of herself. However, it wasn’t any of these, but the intricate knot gag that silenced Beruka, which stirred that hum of absentminded pride past Oboro’s wickedly tented lips.

Cinched between Beruka’s lips, grazing just under her earlobes, and tied at her nape, the many-threaded piece of multiple, gauzy silk kerchiefs, colored red, azure, and lavender, culminated in a resplendent, circular ring that braced her teeth and lips open, and stifled speech, yet provided no obstruction for any wheezes or moans that might come…

It was, in so many words, a masterpiece.

Oboro didn’t realize she was staring until an instinctual reaction stirred in Beruka, and she offered a single understated thrash—a quiet test of her bonds.

“Subdue yourself,” said Oboro.

A tremor crawled up Beruka’s spine, lazy as an earthworm. Her bound hands flexed their fingers impotently, vainly seeking an illusory itch they could not reach.

Otherwise, she was still.

Drawing her kimono up to her knees, Oboro then mounted Beruka, straddling her legs, embracing Beruka’s leather-clad thighs with her bare flesh. Taller than the small Nohrian assassin by a fair margin, she had to tilt Beruka’s head upwards to meet her eye to eye. She felt Beruka’s muscles go taut. She heard the clutch and whisper of fingertips against the yarn ball. She even saw the stiffen of Beruka’s jaw, a will to clench teeth she could not redirect or diffuse.

But, at the touch of Oboro’s palms against her cheeks, Beruka stiffened her neck, and applied what meager resistance she could, given the situation.

At this, Oboro leaned forward. For the scantest instant, her weight compressed atop her captive, and the heavy presence of her breasts against Beruka’s face muffled Beruka’s moan of complaint—if not the stoically suffering chair’s.

Confirming that Beruka still held the yarn ball in her hands, Oboro leaned back. This time, she only offered the pressure of a single fingertip against Beruka’s chin.

“Look at me,” she said.

Beruka squirmed absently at the hips. Words dissolve will like acid; at the suggestive push of Oboro’s fingertip, Beruka’s steel-colored eyes lifted. With dutiful timidity, she met the gaze of her captor.

…for all of a second or two…

A tenebrous smile claimed Oboro’s lips.

“Well then, shall we begin?”

With a nascent whine, Beruka pulled down the corners of her mouth, and her breath exited her with a petulant huff.

Labored as it was, it was the least encumbered breath that Beruka would make for the lion’s share of the afternoon.

The first was the most tense.

Oboro enjoyed putting her fingers into a flat line and swishing her hand lazily before her. She drank in the fearful glisten of Beruka’s eyes, following the motion of her hand, watching it cutting the thick summer air like a slow, hot knife. She felt Beruka’s muscles torque, shiver, and pull between her thighs. The steadying thrum of her heart brought with it the imminent sensation of goose bumps and sweat across her skin.

A thunderclap of flesh on flesh broke the room, as Oboro’s first strike hit home upon Beruka’s waiting cheek.

There’s a pause, that comes after that first attack; something of a ritual. Oboro tilting Beruka’s chin upwards, and her head from side to side. Examining her. Watching as the last vestiges of resistance drain from her eyes as quickly as the redness blooms on her cheek. Her pale skin turns pink as cherry petals on her pale skin. It’s a simple color, almost gentle, considering the deed that summoned it.

It wouldn’t stay that way for long.

But, her spine arched and ready, her palm ringing with the impact, her hand poised in the air like a goddess summoning a thunderbolt, there’s something Oboro needs to hear first.

A sniveling whine of frantic need whistled through Beruka’s nose.

At that, Oboro was unleashed.

They lost themselves to the frenzy of it. Sometimes Beruka would shirk from the flurry of blows, sometimes she would meet them boldly. Sometimes it seemed that every strike shook loose new wants, new feelings, new hurts. But even the absurd shiver of her eyelashes against the budding tears could not mollify the steely intensity of her eyes, glaring up at Oboro with unhesitating endurance and furor.

No, they both knew, there was so much more work to be done.

As time went on, every wall of Beruka’s remarkable resistances shattered. Her eyes winced, and her moans came with painful regularity. Oboro’s thighs clenched around Beruka’s legs hard enough that she could’ve leaned full backwards without a fear of falling. Beruka’s cheeks glowed hot as coals, and her falling tears seemed to sizzle across them as if they truly were. Oboro’s hands were just as red, or brighter, even, and each time they released a complaint of an ache on impact with Beruka’s ready flesh, Oboro only resolved herself to strike harder on the return. A rabid, bestial energy took her—the remnants of a center lavender-haired princess that visited her shop, perhaps. Uncapped, she could no longer think to stow this. She would feed the beast below her, exactly as required.

First, she leaned forward. The chair and its occupant creaked with her, and she confirmed that Beruka still held the yarn ball.

Second, she groped a fistful of Beruka’s short hair.

Third, she let a hissing torrent of breath, releasing air until her stomach met her spine.

Then, she truly went to work.

With every hit, Beruka’s chest grew tighter and tighter in her jerkin. Her notrils flared and suckered for breath. Tears spilled from her like rain, like stream trails down mountain rock.

This was just.

Oboro’s bare skin around Beruka’s leggings was moist with sweat and tension. Even through the haze of battle—she could feel how baldy her cinching hold around the leather chafed her thighs.

This is what she needed.

Her hair had come lose. Dampened by sweat, it whipped the air with and she had neither the sense nor the care to bind it back up.

This was correct.

A ringing filled Beruka’s ears. Her lips groped at nothing but air, and her teeth ground at the gag, and her tongue would sometimes poke from her mouth, because just blinking her eyes was enough to overcome her senses. With every breath, she’s begun to grunt and whine like something difficult yet powerless. A common animal. A unit of livestock. A pig. A sow.

This is what she deserved.

A shame burned like wildfire deep in the pit of her stomach, as the smack of Oboro’s fingers sometimes abused her vulnerable, open mouth, and, overcome by the effort of simply breathing, her head eddied back and forth by Oboro’s rage like a hurricane-swept ship, her gasping overcame her, and she began to drool…

But who?

Oboro roared to the rafters. All that mattered was this moment. These impacts. All that mattered was this Nohrian… this Nohrian… this Nohrian…

“Scum!” Oboro shouted, with each bruising impact. “Scum!” And the crack of her open hand across Beruka’s waiting cheeks, again, and again, and again, and again. “Scum!” It would never stop. “All of you!” She would never stop. “Every!” Slap! “Last!” Whack! “One!” Crack!

Then, she heard the dribble of the yarn ball as it escaped Beruka’s clutches and bounded in newfound freedom across the dirt floor of the storeroom.

Immediately, her hands were in her lap. And the shared sound of their harsh breathing filled her ears. She felt a shiver down her spine, but it was like a tearing, too, that dragged her back to the surface.

Oboro’s hands did not idle long; a seamstress’s never truly do. With expert motions, she untied the gag from Beruka’s neck, and encouraged the wet, suckering gasp of air that spilled forth from her lover in a painful, clenching embrace. She took that sobbing, sniffling head against her breasts and set a hand so firm between her shoulder blades it might as well have been welded there. When the minor hits of panic ebbed from Beruka’s breathing, Oboro was there to press a sliver or two of chocolate between her lips; taste was the sensation that best brought her back, they’d found.

When the shaking slowed, and their first wave of senses returned to, Oboro dismounted her love. Though her hands were shaking, she cautiously undid the ties around legs and wrists, and took Beruka back to the unspooled bolt of cloth at the back corner of the room. She’d prepared it days ago. It was too good of a cloth to leave lying out, but she’d been too excited for things to be set up anything other than perfect.

She was a fastidious sort, after all.

There, she held Beruka to her, and massaged the feeling back into her unbound wrists and calves, and gently painted her crimson cheeks with ointment for the pain and swelling. Quietly, Oboro devoted herself to these duties, until such time as Beruka’s hands meekly reached for her.

There, they trembled together, for a little while, with Oboro’s long hair doing the generous work of concealing both their faces until all their tears were shed.

When there were no more sniffles left in either of them, and their eyes grew bored of chasing the dust motes through the beams of light that snuck in through the rafters, Oboro turned to Beruka, and rested her cheek upon her reddened hand—so intent was she at looking into Beruka’s eyes, Oboro hardly noticed the swollen ache of her throbbing palm against her face.

“She’s a monster, that mistress of yours.”

“She’s…” Beruka paused and swallowed; she always returned slowly, to the use of her voice. The laughter that filtered out of her was uncertain not just due to the hoarseness in her throat. “She’s something, all right.”

They had a laugh. And a dab of sake, once that was done.

After that, they could talk about many things, and they shared a few hours enjoying a small meal, each other, and themselves. A peace like no other fell upon them, and both were grateful that they enjoyed the other’s company so much that there was no a space in the timeline of their affections to spend ruminating on and ruing how fleeting these shared moments could be.

Before she left, a shyer Oboro ducked her head, and reached for Beruka. And Beruka took both of Oboro’s hands in her smaller ones, looking away, and blushing as crimson as the eyes of her mistress. Oboro was used to these moments, when reality came back to bear, and Beruka resumed up her stoic…

…it wasn’t a guise, was it? It was something else of her, but no less true for it.

She never begrudged Beruka her silence in these moments. Quite the contrary. How lucky am I, Oboro would often think, that I know this woman in two ways, when the rest of the world—indeed, even as far as Beruka’s mistress herself—might only ever know her in one?

And so, Oboro spoke those final words as she always did, through a smile overwhelmed by love and melancholy in equal parts.

“Same day next month?”

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