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phefics · 1 year ago

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come take a dive

ship: finnick odair x reader summary: reader rides finnick's face. prompted by anon!! includes: afab!reader, gn!reader, slight insecure!reader (she's nervous to sit on his face bc she's worried to hurt him but her weight/body type isn't mentioned), face sitting, f!receiving oral, vague mentions of finnick’s canon sexual trauma asked to be tagged: @lufvg word count: 0.9k

"I can hold my breath for a pretty long time," Finnick said, smirking. "So you don't have to worry about me, baby.”

You laughed at his words, but there was a nervous shake to the sound. It had been his idea, for you to try sitting on his face, and he was insistent that you could actually sit.

As in, put all your weight down on his face and focus on nothing but your own pleasure, which was an incredibly generous and appealing offer, but…a little scary, too. Surely even Finnick’s well-trained swimmer’s lungs couldn’t withstand being smothered by your thighs.

He had already survived so much, it would be incredibly pathetic of him to die like that. When you told him as much, he grinned and said, “At least I’d die doing what I loved.”

You had rolled your eyes, but it had managed to ease your nerves. And so, you finally agreed to give it a shot, much to his delight.

Finnick’s past sexual encounters had not been about love or intimacy. When you met him, sex was something that he did because he had to, because it kept him safe, and well, he learned some valuable Capitol secrets along the way.

But now he was free of that life, and sex had become something entirely new and exciting for him. He especially enjoyed making you cum, as if your pleasure was something sacred to him.

Perhaps it was. To know that he had made you feel good, not because he was required to, but because he wanted to. Because he loved you, and he loved to make you feel good.

You hovered over him on the bed, bare from the waist down, only wearing one of his t-shirts. You straddled his shoulders, looking down at his face with a nervous grin.

“You sure about this?” you asked.

“Absolutely. Are you?” he replied, large hands rubbing soothing circles on your thighs, sneaking grabs at your ass.

“I think so. Do you promise you’ll tap out if you need?”

You had previously agreed that if Finnick ever felt triggered during sex, he would tap your nearest body part three times, quickly. The same applied to this situation, whether it was something that upset him or merely the fact that it could be difficult to breathe properly with his face being smothered by your pussy.

“I promise,” he assured you. “Now, c’mon. I wanna taste you.”

It was hard to resist when he spoke like that, and so you took a deep breath before adjusting your position so that your already wet pussy was right above Finnick’s pink, perfect mouth.

Slowly, you lowered your hips, sinking onto his face and gasping as his tongue immediately went to work, lapping at your clit desperately.

You moaned softly, grabbing the headboard to keep yourself steady. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, but you understood the appeal.

Finnick whined against you, the action tangible against your cunt, a little vibration that made you pull up in surprise, just a tiny bit, but he wasn’t having that. His hands grabbed your hips and pushed you back down onto his face, his tongue fucking into your hole.

It felt incredible, and you whimpered at the mixture of sensations: His strong grip, holding you in place, fingertips digging into your flesh. His tongue, moving inside of you. And, most interestingly, his nose, which was nudging against your clit, keeping the nerves stimulated while his mouth was otherwise occupied.

You weren’t even sure he was doing it on purpose. Perhaps it was just a lovely coincidence, but the friction made your hips move of their own accord, rutting on his face desperately.

All the moving, combined with your wetness, it caused Finnick’s face to practically slide along your slit, somehow leading to the tip of his nose touching your hole, making you jump in surprise. It didn’t feel bad, but it was definitely a strange feeling. Not bad, though.

You felt Finnick chuckle beneath you, mumbling something that sounded like ‘sorry’ as he fumbled to reposition you.

“Don’t be,” you breathed.

He returned his mouth to your clit then, finally deciding it was time to make you cum, and it didn’t take him long to bring you there. Your legs shook as your orgasm built, and Finnick held you tightly in place until you were crying out.

You carefully got off of him before laying beside him on your back, your body still shaky and pumped with adrenaline. Your legs ached from holding that position and your thighs were soaked.

Finnick rolled onto his side, smirking at you. His face was damp, shiny with your wetness. “See?” he said.

You rolled your eyes, giggling. “Okay, yes. It was worth it.”

“Are you gonna thank me?”

“For convincing me or for making me cum?”

“Both.”

You smirked, eyeing Finnick’s hard cock in his pants. “I know a way to show you just how grateful I am.”

He grinned.

#finnick odair x reader #finnick odair smut #finnick x y/n #finnick odair #finnick odair imagine #the hunger games #my fics #my posts

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keeping-writing-frosty · 4 days ago

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I don't have links. No one read my work when I did, but I will share something under the cut for anyone interested. It's the first draft of the first chapter of one of my WIPs

As the sun rose high above head, having reached its apex in the azure sky which stretched on and on; it truly was big sky country out here. A hot wind blew across the prairie grass, rustled the dried-out shrubs and mesquite trees that were thirsty for a sip of water that was not to come on that day. Leaning against the wall of Bent Creek General Supplies, in a seasoned linen shirt, stained by the sun, sweat, and rain, along with denim pants faded to its natural color from so long under the unforgiven sun. A wide-brimmed rawhide hat shielded her face and mismatched eyes with a faint shadow and covered the chin-length red hair that was always pulled back behind her ears.

Smoldering cigarette between full lips highlighted her fair complexion and the multitude of freckles that seemed as if they were painted on with a delicately-tipped brush. She took a long drag, lungs filled with musty, rich smoke, expertly exhaled as she awaited something and nothing. Across her back, slung upon her with a leather strap, was a Winchester ’73 lever-action rifle with the blue-steel plate, not the fancy gold-plated ones more for show than usage. This one got plenty of use—when needed, that is. Around her waist, her father’s gun belt, inherited with no male siblings to speak of, along with the well-worn Colt Walker in its holster and the .457 rounds kept snug in the bullet loops. She looked quite a sight to those used to the more prim and proper ladies.

She was an enormous woman, broad-shouldered and strong; for a while she even disguised herself as a young man, with the lean, hard-boned face of a desert wanderer—it was easy to do once she bound her chest with some tight clothes. She possessed not an ounce of softness about her, at least on the exterior. There couldn’t be. Her toughness shone through in every movement, was such ingrained into her, it penetrated deep into her soul, yet it came without cruelty, still quick, hard, and dangerous. Any source of gentleness, dug deep into the mines of her very being—well-guarded and bottomless, beyond any reach and measure.

An ill-wind blew in, the type that only those familiar with such, despite this the life of the town of Bent Creek continued. Men went about their daily tasks, horses went up and down the dusty street, some hitched to wagons laden with goods of all sorts. While women, in their frontier dresses and fancy skirts, for those with a bit more wealth and affluence. Bent Creek had come a long way since last Alexandra had come through the area, and for that she smiled.

Alexandra loved the taste of tobacco as she rolled the cigarette between her lips as she pulled out her wallet to grab the neatly-folded handbill. She read it once again:

Cyrus Jackson, wanted for murder, theft, kidnapping, attempted murder, sodomy, buggery, and rape. He has been a plague on the God-fearing people of Bent Creek and Wilson County. A bounty of $500 dead or alive, on proof. Distinctive scar on chin from time in the Mexican-American war.

-Sheriff Bill Carlson.

The man did not look like much, about as normal as can get. Still, Alex had studied this poster for so long. There was no way she could miss him, if he happened upon the town. And according to her sources, he should be coming into town disguised and looking to buy supplies. Something that she shop-keep said he did once every two weeks, this time Alex would greet him. Just had to wait for the signal and hope the old man didn’t set her up. This incident would bolster Alexandra’s reputation as a gun-woman and a bounty hunter, and though she never quite wanted such fame—infamy—it had become known as Five Dead In Two Minutes.

Cyrus came in on a brown and liver-spotted pony, empty saddlebags straddled the beast. Despite the multi-colored, patch-worked poncho that covered his shoulders, and the overly-large cap pulled down to hide his face. With each step, his spurs jingled-jangled, and the thin cigar between his lips, almost hidden by the beard to obfuscate his face. Yet Alex saw right through it, as father always said, “you must look past the obvious, lassie.” Past the graying auburn-colored beard, was that distinctive scar on his chin.

“Cyrus Jackson,” Alex stated, tone low as her hand already rested on the handle of her revolver. “We can do this nice and easy, and you won’t die today” — her gun cleared leather before he could even say a word — “Or we can do this the more exciting way. I got you dead to rights. Raise your hands. Now!”

“Girly, you got no idea who you’re fucking with.” Cyrus’s gloved hand reached for the gun that rested against his hip.

Out of the corner of her eye, behind the pony, were three men—obviously associates, each with a gun. Trusting her instincts, Alex shot Cyrus dead in the center of his chest. Then shifted positions to use him as a shield while his fellows filled the man with bullets, showering the young woman in blood and scattered the few that remained in the vicinity. She plugged the closest man, the .457 round tore through his shoulder and ended his day. While the other two went down in quick, and bloody, succession, their quite vital liquid drained into the dry sand beneath them.

Glass breaks from behind her, where a man with a bushy mustache and a black cattle-skin hat. His own revolver pressed up against the temple of the old shop-keep, who seemed to quake and quiver. Alexandra, not deterred by the human shield, and with the luck of God herself, placed a bullet right in the man’s exposed left arm. Then the moment the shop-keep is let go, Alex ends the man’s life with a spatter of brain on the wall behind him.

“What the fuck is going on here, Alex?” The gruff sheriff sauntered up, two deputies at his side and a smile spread across his gruff, gray-bearded face.

She wiped the blood off her face. “That’s Cyrus Jackson out on the porch, and the other four are his nursemaids,” Alexandra stated rather matter-of-fact. “That’ll be five hundred dollars, sheriff.”

He chuckled a belly-laugh before he indicated for his two deputies to round up the dead. “That I do—Alexandra was it?”

“Alex, please, but yes.”

“Come with me. Let’s get the blood washed off you as I send a telegram to Judge Murray. Then get you paid quite handsomely. Great work,” his tone seemed genuine, there was a warmth about him, and it almost reminded her of father.

Before she could leave, the old shop-keep professed his thanks over and over. Giving her several packs of premium cigarettes, a tin of fine coffee, and some dried trail-meat for whenever Alex left town. As she left the general store, with more thanks that followed from him. The citizens of Bent Creek, now that the initial shock had worn off and word travelled faster than light itself, shouted encouragement and appreciation at Alexandra.

The Sheriff’s Office was at the end of the dirt road, close to the newly-built train station. Which allowed the man to watch those coming on and off, just in case. It was larger than the other buildings around it, and an equally-as-large sign on top that was spelled out, in big, bold yellow paint, that this was, in fact, the Sheriff’s Office. A young man in a buckskin vest pinned with a gold-plated star on his chest, stood with what seemed to be a permanent scowl upon his freshly-shaved features.

“A woman did in Cyrus?” The man scoffed. “He must have gotten slow or some shit. Ain’t no way you could have taken him otherwise.”

“Shut the fuck up, Clyde,” the Sheriff spat at him. “Go up and help the others. I don’t wasn’t to hear another word about it from you. Otherwise, you can find yourself a new job, hmm?”

“Yes, sir.” He strutted off, words mumbled under his breath—words toward Alexandra, but she was used to it. Unkind words by insecure people.

She waved off the Sheriff’s apologies, thanked him when he promised to pay her as soon as he got word back from the judge. Which will more-than-likely be midday, until then he offered her twenty dollars to go get cleaned up and a room, perhaps something to eat. Which Alexandra accepted with a tip of the cap, and didn’t follow him into the building.

Instead, Alex struck a match on the side of the building and lit herself another cigarette. A headiness filled her mind, filled her body and soul, and perhaps, she liked to think, that it came not just from a job well-done, but for the gratitude from God above for helping rid this beautiful world of his creation of its more ugly elements.

Sauntering across the road, cutting in front of a couple of wagons, filled with trade goods undoubtedly headed towards the train station, her destination was up the road aways. The Crossroads Inn & Saloon, not as nice as The Taps over by the train station—that was more for tourists and those with far-too-much money than sense. No, she preferred her establishments to be a little less refined, a little less likely to ask, or in some cases demand, what she was doing there.

Despite it still being morning, there were plenty of men and women lingering about the bar: traders with the stench of the road on them, ranchers and farm-hands covered in dirt and who-knows-what-else, and the occasional ne’er-do-well that wished for a peaceful drink and to not cause any issues; stood on the porch under the awning, drinks in hands with cigarettes, pipes, or cigars betwixt their lips. Though their eyes cast upon Alexandra as she walked up, no one said a word to her. She had ridden them of a pox upon the land, after all.

The building itself stood two stories high, with a balcony that was wrapped around three sides, and descended into stairs on each end. Black, red, and white were painted upon it, the red and white mere accents to the black itself. Through a set of swinging doors, she was met with the bitter yet comfortable stench of stale, cheap beer, warm whiskey and spirits, and that hint of perfume from the ladies-of-the-night that took up residence here regardless of the time of day. Dressed to the nines, and acting like they hadn’t had the dicks of every man in the town between their thighs—Alex couldn’t blame them. The life of a woman without a man was not an easy one, and the life of a woman in general was beyond tough as is. They too peered at her with curious and analytical eyes.

“What can I get you, madam?” Asked the bartender with his bowler cap and dull blue eyes that welcomed her in.

“A whiskey and a beer, sir.” Alexandra leaned against the bar as the weight of everything finally landed on her shoulders, and exhaustion colored her thoughts and features.

“That’ll be a dollar, madam.”

Alex placed two on the beer-stained countertop, in which the man gave his thanks before placing the drinks in front of her. The whiskey went down smoothly like liquid fire, keeping the insides warm enough. While the beer elongated that sense of heady joy and relaxed the muscles, even the ones she didn’t know were tense.

An older woman, but not too much older than Alex, stepped through the swinging doors. Dressed as prim and proper as can be in her wide skirt made from the finest of emerald silk, matching the blouse and tight jacket pulled across her thin torso. A small fancy hat, a veil that slightly covered her face in the style of those from New Orleans. Her beady green eyes laid upon Alexandra quickly, and a smile crossed her angular, sun-kissed face.

“Bar keep,” the fancy woman said with a melodic tinge to her voice and a smile that never quits. “A glass of your finest red wine.”

With practiced ease, he poured a glass of the deepest red wine that Alexandra had ever seen from a bottle that read Porto upon it, not that she knew where that was. “Two dollars, madam,” the bar keep said.

“On me this time,” Alex interjected and tossed three silver dollars towards the bartender.

“Thank you so much, ma’am.” The woman took the glass between two perfectly-manicured fingers and took a languid sip from its contents. “Oh, this is fantastic. Great vintage, bar keep,” she said before her attention turned back to the much larger woman. “I’m Rose Provoost, by the by. Thank you again.”

“Alexandra O’Connor, and anything for a pretty face,” she replied with that sly charm she possessed and a toothy grin.

“I’m sure you say that to every girl that strolls up to the bar.” Rose eyed Alexandra for a moment, as if sizing her up. “You’re the one everyone is talking about, right? You brought down Cyrus, right? That big dust up by the general store.”

With a long moment between them, Alexandra finished her beer and let the cool beverage take hold for a moment. “Aye, that was me. I’m a bounty hunter by trade and necessity.”

“Necessity?” Rose questioned; her curiosity-filled gaze never left Alex with wine glass perched still between her fingers.

“Someone needs to keep people safe from the bad men out there. Sometimes lawmen can’t, or most cases won’t, be able to do so. Especially those who don’t stay in one place for too long. Got to track ‘em down and all, you know?”

“Not usually a woman’s work, right?”

Alexandra shrugged. “I was never normal to begin with.”

Rose’s smile grew and nodded. She finished her wine and brought out a tiny purse, within a long, thin cigarette that Alex lit for her before she lit her own. “Normal is boring anyways. Don’t you think so, Miss Alex?”

“Most definitely. How long are you in town for, Miss Rose?”

“Hmm, not sure, but what I do know is this. You’ll be a hero here for a little bit. Enjoy it for the while it lasts. I must depart. Thanks again for the drink.” The look on Rose’s face was unreadable, she kept it light but hid her true feelings well. Took off back through the swinging half-doors and out into the heat of the late morning.

Alexandra collected her earnings from the Sheriff, who threw in a little extra for saving the old shop-keep. But as the older man leaned back in his plush, leather-bound chair, a chewed, unlit cigar between his lips. His dull gray eyes seemed to stare deep into her soul for a moment. From behind his large desk, covered in an unfathomable amount of paperwork of which the sheer idea and concept hurt Alexandra’s brain.

“Would you like to make two hundred more?” He asked after an elongated moment. “Not today but in a few days I am forming a posse to go find the James Fuller Gang up in the Oklahoma territory. I can use another good gun by my side.”

She said not a word as she lit her cigarette. Taking in the building around her, rather spartan in its design with four cells built into the structure itself. Though the sheriff’s desk was the only one, two deputies sat around a table playing a rousing game of dominoes, their words filled with both mirth and friendly insults and jabs.

“Make it two-fifty, and you got a deal,” Alexandra did not mince words, and nothing about her tone left it up to debate.

“Deal. I’ll talk to Samuel up at the Crossroads. Get you a room and a bath for cheap. I appreciate your help, as does Bent Creek. Do you know of the James Fuller gang?”

Who didn’t know of them? Stagecoach and train robberies were the easy part of it all. When they burned that town of mostly colored and native folks, left bodies strung up and heads on pikes, the western frontier promised a new life, and the type of savagery that people like to blame on the natives. Yet in all of Alexandra’s life, the only savages she had met thus far in her 24 years had skin the same color as her own—sickening as it were.

The baths at the Crossroads were well-stocked, and when she stripped out of her dirty clothes. There came a slight draft that caused little pinprick bumps to raise up on the tops of her arms. Slowly she dipped herself into the hot water, all the way down until it came up to just below her breasts, and as she sat there, every muscle relaxed and loosened, Alex couldn’t remember the last time she had a proper bath that didn’t involve a river or clean-looking pond.

A soft knock-knock-knock came from the door just before it opened, forcing Alex to cover herself almost instinctively. It was a woman in a patchworked linen dress that covered her rather ample figure, of which Alexandra did her best to not stare and make her feel uncomfortable.

“Good afternoon, madam. I’m Sarah, and is there anything you need? Usually I offer to help ‘clean’ male patrons, but, well, you don’t seem the sort. Do you want some scented oil? I can take your clothes for laundering,” the smile across her face seemed actually genuine as she spoke.

“Do you have anything I could cover myself with to get to my room?” Alex asked as she let her shame slowly disappear and uncovered herself. Yet she sunk lower into the water, to hide herself just a little bit more.

“Actually, I do. I’ll be right back.” She pulled out a small phial from between her ample bosom and poured several drops of the floral-scented oil into the water. Agitating it with her hand to raise up some bubbles, she gave Alex a wink and walked off. Closing the door behind her.

It wasn’t Alexandra’s favorite scent, but it was leagues better than the stench that had gathered around her. Using the horse-hair brush to scrub herself clean. That by the time the woman showed up, a shirt and a pair of slacks tucked under her arm. She placed it down on a small side table, took Alex’s dirty clothes, and took off without another word said.

Despite the noise that came from the main hall of the Crossroad’s tavern, the second her head hit the pillow on her almost-too-small bed. The first real bed she had laid upon in weeks, Alexandra drifted off to sleep.

This is the promo post.

PROMOTE YOURSELF.

DO EET.

SHOW ME THOSE LINKS.

Hope you had fun and I’ll see you again next month!

I will be posting all the questions in a single post shortly, as well as queueing up every answer I see to keep it going through the month, and interacting where I can.

Thank you for joining us!

#writeblr #writeblr live

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sylverstorms · 4 years ago

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Cassandra x Maiden ----Anonymity Ch. 6

Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5

It becomes a sort of evening ritual between the two of you, waking Cassandra up at sunset.

You're always cautious with your movements and how much light you allow in from the hallway as you enter her lavish bedroom, but the cold fear that used to grip at your chest is no longer there.

Measured steps take you to the edge of her bed.

Cassandra usually sleeps on her side, yet today she's on her front, firm back and creamy thigh tantalizingly on display against satin crimson sheets. Her pretty face is turned halfway into her pillow, a river of rich brown waves falling behind her ear and over one shoulder.

The sight makes you stop and stare for a moment. A strange feeling —accomplishment?— swells within your chest at the thought you know just how smooth and sensitive that skin is.

Then you shake your head at yourself. Pull it together. It's one thing to accept you're in a mutually beneficial arrangement with a killer —you remain intact, she scratches an itch, both of you share the pleasure as a means of escape or passing the time— but it is entirely another to be proud of it.

She's nothing of yours. Not your lover, certainly not your girl. That would imply you stand on equal ground which you most certainly do not. You're exactly what she calls you;

A plaything.

The question is, inside your head, what do you call her?

"My lady." you say, keeping your voice low. She doesn't stir but somehow you know she's awake.

"Either wake me up nicely or don't wake me at all." the words come semi-muffled against her pillow. "If I wanted to hear 'my lady' I'd have another maid come."

Well. She does seem to enjoy when you take some creative liberties. So you lean forward and press your lips just over her knee, then move a tad higher on her thigh, then kiss the veins visible on her hand.

Cassandra's mouth slowly pulls into a pleased smile as she turns onto her side. Her fingers then curl on the neckline of your shirt and tug you forward, into a quick little kiss that ends with a nibble on your tongue.

You always get anxious when she does that —it's probably why she does it in the first place— that you'll end up with a piece missing, but so far you haven't even been cut. And if you're honest with yourself, which you're not, but if you were... the thrill is a turn on.

Cassandra licks her lips and scoots back, patting the spot she just vacated on the queen-sized mattress. You look at her, confused. Surely she isn't suggesting...

"Come, now. I don't bite." A devilish smirk curls her mouth while she tells probably the biggest lie of the year. "Keep me company until dinner."

You climb onto her bed like it's a freaking minefield. As carefully as you lower yourself onto the crimson sheets, however, the bruises across your sides still protest. You subtly suck in air through your teeth.

Cassandra's fingers slide over to you, to the exposed part of your waist from where your shirt has risen up. There's a visible patch of purple there that she traces —the coolness of her skin is so soothing— until she presses into it. The brief flare of pain makes you gasp. She giggles.

"You make such nice expressions to pain." she says, as though tempted to draw more from you.

"I've been told my pleasured ones are better." you reply quickly.

Cassandra chuckles. "Is that so?" Her yellowish eyes are gleaming with amusement as she pushes you onto your back and straddles you.

The sight is enough to steal your breath away. The sinful black of her underwear peeks through the royal red of the sheets tangled around her waist, all a wonderful antithesis with her incredibly pale skin.

You want to touch. But then you may lose your hands, so you lock your muscles down and wait for her move.

Cassandra slowly trails a slender finger up your neck, all the way to the underside of your bottom lip. "...yeah, they're good too." she breathes, although you've almost forgotten what you were talking about.

"Can't hold a candle to yours." you whisper back. At this point, you're not really capable of rational thought.

You loathe the effect she has on you. How everything she's done can just be bypassed in your head whenever she gets like this with you.

Cassandra's mouth twists into a near coy little smile. "I'll take your word for it." she says. "There hasn't been anyone else to see them, so."

Wait. Your mind stutters to a halt. Wait. What?

According to rumor, the Dimitrescus have been around for over one hundred years. From what you've seen in the castle, probably longer. And you... you're her first?

"Cat got your tongue?" she giggles again, taking your chin between two long fingers. "I think I may like surprise on you best."

You want to ask if nobody's ever interested her before, but you're afraid to overstep. Cassandra seems to know, though and has no problems answering your unasked question;

"The first few dozen years after the mutations were... very bad. The hunger and thirst were enough to drive one mad. Didn't leave much room for anything else." she explains. "And humans in general are only attractive to me chained up and bled out."

Something inside you recoils at how casually she says it. Like she's simply commenting on the weather.

"But you... you have a little spark that I like." She smirks down at you.

"What about before?" you ask.

"Hm?"

"You said after the mutations. What about before?"

Cassandra's smile gets swallowed up by the abyss so quickly you wonder if you imagined it there. Tension builds at her temples and her eyes take on an icy quality that feels like it extinguishes all warmth in the room.

"There is no before."

You've never heard her voice like that. You hope you never will again, either.

The conversation drifts to lighter subjects, then. She asks you about the world beyond the village and you share what you remember from your childhood, until it is time to escort her to dinner.

But even as she eats and talks with her family, even when she leaves with her mother and sisters and you're left alone, to clean after bloody plates with the other maids, you can't shake off that look in her eyes when you dared ask about her life pre-mutations.

The more you linger on it... there's only one word that comes to mind as an accurate description.

Haunted.

Deep in your slumber, you hear the telltale buzzing of flies.

Something winged flutters against your cheek, but you merely stir. It prods at your jaw and you grunt. Leave me alone, you want to protest, brain muddled with sleep still.

Until.

A nip that cuts a thin line on your jaw has you springing upright in bed. "Agh!" Your hand flies to the wound, eyes wide.

A familiar form materializes out of an insect swarm, right in front of you. Cassandra grabs at your hand before you can start flailing and panicking any harder than you already are. Your lungs empty of hair in the milliseconds it takes you to realize she's not here to kill you.

Probably.

"Calm down." she says it like you're overreacting.

You try to take a deep, relaxing breath, but she leans forward in the meantime, running the tip of her tongue over the fresh cut on you. So much for oxygen. She even hums against your neck. Despite the sting, your stomach flutters.

Cassandra pulls back, licking her lip. "There. All better now?"

No. Your heart is trying to jump out of your chest. Has she never heard of knocking? For the love of everything Holy out there, it's the middle of the night.

"W-what are you doing here?" you ask.

A dramatic huff escapes her. "I'm bored."

Ah, yes, that makes a lot of sense. You spare a moment to wonder what your life has come to, then accept lack of proper rest and sit back against your pillows. Cassandra takes it as an invitation to push off her hood and plant herself next to you.

"Do you... want to go for a walk outside?" you suggest, uncertain.

Her eyes light up like a Christmas tree for a moment. Then she seems to remember something that dims the glow. "Ugh. Can't. It's way too cold tonight."

That... shouldn't be and issue for her, should it? It makes you wonder.

"Well, if I stay here I'm going to fall asleep." you sheepishly admit.

Cassandra's gaze darkens as she runs her fingertips down the taut skin of your bare middle, leaning over you like a lioness cornering her prey.

"I don't mind biting you awake if you do."

You want to say that you mind, yet her lips are on top if yours, smooth, tasting of strawberry lipbalm and that's the end of that conversation.

"But I am willing to cut you a deal." A manicured nail presses a bit at the middle of your chest. "Put that smart tongue of yours to good use and I'll let you get your sleep."

So spoiled and so demanding, you think. But then, looking at her face this close up... So beautiful.

You forget all about sleep for the next half hour or so as you focus solely on Cassandra, your bedroom filling with her quiet sighs and moans.

True to her word, she does ease back when she's satisfied and you're so tired your eyes start drooping before you've even lowered your head to your pillow.

She doesn't move to leave though... and you find that you don't mind.

When you drift off to sleep this time, your last thought is that the gentle chill of her body beside yours is almost...

Comforting.

#cassandra dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu x oc #resident evil village #fanfiction #bela dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #am I obsessed with her?#yes I am :)#but imagine if her sadism has its roots on emotional trauma #and we'll never know because capcom scammed us on their importance to the story

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