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shostakobitchh · 1 month ago

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Chapter 7: take it back

They stare at one another for what feels like eons. Ariel’s quite sure that decades pass in a single moment, in between her next inhale, in the space of her heartbeat.

Ariel's vision tunnels, the edges going black as a roaring fills her ears. The letter crumples in her fist.

She bolts.

She doesn’t get far. She manages to get around Dad, who’s eyes widen a fraction as she hurtles toward and past him, whipping around the corner and sliding as her socks lose traction. Then she’s making a break for the back door in the kitchen, but Dad is faster. He catches her around the middle, his arm like an iron band pinning her against his side.

"Let me go!" Ariel shrieks, writhing and kicking in his grasp. "You liar! You bloody��liar!"

Dad's grip only tightens as Ariel thrashes, her fists pummeling his chest with all the strength her small frame can muster. He grunts in pain, but he doesn't let go. If anything, his grip turns nearly bruising as he maneuvers them both away from the back door and into the living room. Ariel kicks and claws the entire way, hurling accusations through her sobs.

"You never sent them! All this time, you've been lying to me! You said you sent them, you promised! You’re a liar!”

Dad doesn't respond, just wrestles Ariel onto the couch, pinning her thrashing limbs. She manages to land a few more blows, but Dad's strength overpowers her. He captures her wrists in one large hand, pressing them against her heaving chest.

“Enough,” he snarls. “You will be still or I will make you.”

Ariel gasps for air between sobs, her face wet with tears and snot. “Let me go — let me go!”

She can't believe he's done this —- that he's lied to her for months, letting her pour her heart out into those letters, thinking they were reaching Remus and her friends when really they were moldering away in some hidden safe. They must be so worried —

“Where are you taking her?” Remus had shouted after them. “Snape — SNAPE —”

"Why?" she demands, her voice hoarse. "Why would you — why?”

Ariel lets out another sound that scrapes her throat raw. She renews her struggles, twisting and bucking against her father's iron grip. Dad still says nothing, his face an impassive mask even as Ariel rails against him. His dark eyes are shuttered, giving nothing away, and it only fuels her anger.

Her accusations bounce off him like pebbles against a stone wall. He remains as unyielding as ever, weathering the storm without giving an inch.

With each passing second, Ariel's fury turns to something colder, something harder.

She stops fighting him after what feels like hours, falling limp in his merciless grip and lets her tears fall freely. Her cheeks burn from crying, her throat achy and hoarse.

"Why?" Ariel asks again, quieter this time. When he still doesn't answer, she swallows down a sob and turns away from him.

There's a sharp pain in her wrists as Dad finally lets go of her. She cradles them in her lap, staring blankly down at the tender skin while Dad watches on. She can feel Dad's gaze still on her, a tangible pressure she does not have the strength to meet. His hands flex restlessly at his sides, one long finger tapping against his leg in rhythm with the ticking clock.

Ariel finds herself staring at that hand, tracing the lines of heavy calluses and old scars that mark their surface with her eyes. That hand, which had once held her now bears down on her like a crushing weight.

It’s a hand that has kept her confined — trapped — isolated.

Her voice wavers as she speaks again. "Why did you keep them from me?"

Dad still doesn’t speak, his dark eyes boring into Ariel with an intensity that sends shivers down her spine. There is no answer, no attempt to justify his actions. His silence is louder than any spoken words, echoing around them with a resonance that hits Ariel like a physical blow.

The realization hits her then — Dad may have been silent but he was listening. He heard each word she spat, every accusation and plea, and chose to remain unmoved.

She knows how to make him talk. She’s known for a while now — she knows how to hurt him, how to twist the knife and make him hurt so badly he’ll spill guts out. That thing is out of its mind, but it’s not a liar — not like her father.

“You’re a Death Eater,” Ariel swallows, hard, swallows until her mouth is bone dry. “You were one of them. That's why we had to run — it’s because of you."

Dad's face goes white, his lips pressing into a thin, bloodless line. For a long, agonizing moment, he just looks at Ariel — not that she thinks he’s really seeing her anymore — his dark eyes glittering with something dangerous.

“What,” his lips don’t move. “did you say?”

She reaches down so deep within herself for her courage that she nearly drowns on the way back up, to where her voice tries to flee from her. “I know what you are. I know what you did. The letters — they never knew you were my dad because you were one of his.”

Dad rises from his knees. He stares down at her and his stare is all black — black eyes, blacker than she’s ever seen them, blacker than the Instant Darkness, blacker than the place her stomach sinks to, like a stone.

Her chest heaves, each inhale uncontrolled — she’s going to start hyperventilating, if she’s not careful. She’s going to completely lose it and she can’t — not now. She’s got to be in control if she’s going to get out of here.

“Careful, girl.” Dad whispers. His voice is liquid nitrogen.

Ariel’s heart skips a full beat — maybe two. “That’s why we’re out here, in the middle of bloody nowhere, isn’t it? Because you have to be careful.”

His hand strikes out and grabs her jaw — holds her there, but she reckons she’s pinning him to the floor with her eyes, because he hasn’t moved — only sways slightly on his feet.

She wraps her hand around his, lets her nails dig into his skin but doesn’t pull — not this time.

When Dad finally speaks, his voice is low and deadly calm, each word enunciated with icy precision. "I have done many things in my life that I am not proud of. Things that would make your blood run cold if you knew the full extent of them, but everything — everything — I have done since the moment you were born has been to keep you safe — to protect you from the people that would see you destroyed for the crime of merely existing."

Ariel’s heart nearly ejects itself up her throat. “Why go through all the trouble of having me, then? Or is that why it took you years to come around? You left Mum alone all that time — it was James who was there — who still came —”

Dad gives her a shake and she stops, only because she’s so badly started by it. "You cannot begin to fathom the sacrifices I have made, the parts of myself I have carved out and left behind, all so that you may live — so that you may have a future beyond the reach of the Dark Lord's shadow."

“Thanks so much,” Ariel bares her teeth at him to keep them from clattering together. “Thanks so much for betraying the psychotic madman who murdered my mother!”

Dad's hand loosens, falls away from her face. His gaze drops to the ground and the flickering lantern light catches on his high cheekbones, hollowing out his face even further.

“I didn’t betray him for you,” he corrects softly, painfully. “I betrayed him for her and it wasn't enough.”

Ariel stares at him. Her chest caves in — that must be what the roaring in her ears is. She wants to roar at him, wants to scrape her nails against his skin and tear, wants to inflict her own sort of wound, one she knows will fester.

She’s never felt that way before.

It shouldn’t be a shock when a pale head passes just behind her father’s. It says nothing, but it’s watching, now — Ariel’s probably giving it one hell of a show. She doesn’t care. Her father might as well be that thing in her closet — maybe he sent it. Maybe it’s some dark magic he couldn’t cleave from.

"I hate you," Ariel whispers hoarsely, the words ripped from some deep chasm inside her. "Mum is dead because of you!”

She sees the impact they have, watching as something in her father's eyes fractures, a hairline crack spider webbing across obsidian. He takes a step back then, like her words are some kind of Hex, and Ariel feels a sick sort of satisfaction.

"I know," he says simply. His voice is razor-blade thin, on the edge of shattering.

She feels her father's grip slacken. It's just a fraction, the barest loosening of his iron hold, but it's enough. With a desperate wrench, Ariel tears herself free, nearly tumbling off the couch in her haste to escape.

She scrambles to her feet, chest heaving, tears still coursing down her flushed cheeks. Her father is staring at her, his hands still outstretched as if to pull her back, but he makes no move to do so.

Ariel doesn’t give him the chance. She snatches up the knife she’d left on the coffee table, and then she’s running, heart pounding like a war drum in her chest. The house is quiet and cold as a tomb as she flees down the narrow hallway, but she can feel it — that sickening sensation of being watched, of malicious eyes boring into her back.

The Thing makes no move to follow, content to watch from its murky corner as Ariel barrels past and into her bedroom.

She wrenches open the closet door —

And Ariel falls.

#the splintering #snape #Severus snape #snape fic #dad snape #severitus #hp fanfiction #hp fanfic #Harry Potter fanfic #Harry Potter fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #harry potter #hp

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jigoro81500061 · 1 year ago

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"In this solitude, having just listened to so strange a story, connected, as it was, with the great and titled dead, whose monuments were moldering among the dust and ivy round us, and every incident of which bore so awfully upon my own mysterious case—in this haunted spot, darkened by the towering foliage that rose on every side, dense and high above its noiseless walls—a horror began to steal over me, and my heart sank as I thought that my friends were, after all, not about to enter and disturb this triste and ominous scene.

The old General’s eyes were fixed on the ground, as he leaned with his hand upon the basement of a shattered monument.

Under a narrow, arched doorway, surmounted by one of those demoniacal grotesques in which the cynical and ghastly fancy of old Gothic carving delights, I saw very gladly the beautiful face and figure of Carmilla enter the shadowy chapel.

I was just about to rise and speak, and nodded smiling, in answer to her peculiarly engaging smile; when with a cry, the old man by my side caught up the woodman’s hatchet, and started forward. On seeing him a brutalized change came over her features. It was an instantaneous and horrible transformation, as she made a crouching step backwards. Before I could utter a scream, he struck at her with all his force, but she dived under his blow, and unscathed, caught him in her tiny grasp by the wrist. He struggled for a moment to release his arm, but his hand opened, the axe fell to the ground, and the girl was gone."

- Carmilla - Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

#carmilla #vampire #dark fantasy #carmilla fanart #digital painting #digital art #jigoro81500061 #joseph sheridan le fanu

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sataidelenn · 2 years ago

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I have some thoughts about the Blacksmith, and bear with me because I’m just throwing spaghetti at the wall with this somewhat disjointed analysis.

So in the story of Peer Gynt, the titular wastrel is nearing the end of his life and is approached my a mysterious man at a crossroads. The man introduces himself as the Button-Molder, and claims that he is here for Peer, as he has not accurately displayed the design with which he was originally printed (lost his purpose, in other words) and must be melted down and made new. The conversation calls back to an earlier part of the story, in which Peer is asked by the troll-king what the difference between humans and trolls is. The answer is that while humans say, “Be thyself”, the trolls’ maxim is “Be to thyself enough”. In living for himself, Peer has acted more like a troll than a human, and only narrowly escapes being reforged by learning how to truly be himself, which he finds through the love that his wife Solveig has for him.

Ruby, of course, is about the furthest thing from selfish you could be, but she’s still trying to be enough in herself, trying to mold herself into being something other than what she was meant to be because she feels that is what others need or expect. And just like Peer, the only way she’ll escape being melted down and turned into something else is by recognizing the love that her friends and teammates have for her. And I think that Jaune will be instrumental in that.

Jaune started his arc (Heyo!) trying to be to himself enough. He didn’t go to Beacon because he wanted to help people as a Huntsman, he just wanted to be a hero. It was all about his own image, about being the knight in shining armor, not the damsel stuck in a tree. After Pyrrha died, he swung to the opposite extreme and didn’t care about himself at all, to the point where he sounded borderline suicidal when taking to Cinder.

To me, Jaune’s moniker of the Rusted Knight calls to mind a character from George MacDonald’s Phantastes, whose armor became rusted after he disgraced himself, and had to fight until the repeated sword-blows scraped the rust from his armor and made it shine again. Shedding innocent blood is one of the worst betrayals of chivalry, and so it makes sense that Jaune’s armor would be stained red the same as his sword was last volume, and that he wants to atone for his failures, but there is another possibility for where the show might be going with him.

In contrast to what most of us thought, Jaune seems to still have his identity and memories intact; however, his previous focus on his image is gone. His name was not recorded in the story, his helmet obscures his face, which isn’t even the face any of his companions knew before, and the crest on his shield is almost completely obscured. Neither his own image or the family name he struggled to live up to are important to him anymore. However, he is also not succumbing to self-loathing like he did after Pyrrha’s death, which can be just as self-centered as his earlier obsession with his image. No longer either the hero or the martyr, he’s simply protecting whoever needs it in whatever way he can. I don’t know whether the Herbalist or the Blacksmith had anything to do with this, but I think he’s figured out how to be truly himself.

Ruby, meanwhile, is still firmly in the martyr mindset. She is disgusted with herself for never being enough, to the point where she is considering becoming someone else who could be enough to herself. And I think that Jaune could be in a position to flip the script on the pep talk about leadership that she gave him back at Beacon, and let her know that she doesn’t have to worry about being enough because it was never about her, and her failures, but about the people that she can help. Once she understands that, I think she’ll finally know how to be herself rather than what she expects herself to be; as Little put it, how to Ruby Rose.

#rwby #rwby vol 9 #rwby spoilers #ruby rose #jaune arc #rwby blacksmith #rwby analysis

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whispersafterdusk · 1 year ago

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Ensuring the Future - ch 1

**WARNING: if you have not finished all of Sandrock's and Miguel's stories this will be spoilers from start to finish**

It was Thursday which meant an early morning walk from the temple to City Hall to file the weekly water usage reports (and on the first Thursday of every month Miguel would file the import reports as well). As he'd slotted the file into the correct cabinet Matilda had greeted him so excitedly - almost falling over herself to tell him the good news: a second builder had finally accepted the remaining open contract.

When Mason had announced his impending retirement it had taken six months before Mi-an accepted the first one. While awaiting her arrival Matilda had had the idea of adding a small stipend to the contract, to try and quickly attract applicants (and of course it was added to Mi-an's as well, to be fair) for that last contract, which Miguel had considered a needless gamble with their limited resources (among...other problems) but it seemed it had paid off and the builder would be here within 3 days. ((Continued below cut - and, again, SPOILER WARNING))

He'd been all smiles and hopefulness for Matilda but once she'd gone to inform Yan and ask Mi-an to meet their new builder at the train station he felt his good mood sour a bit. Another variable to figure out... Not the end of the world but not ideal; there were appearances to keep if things were to proceed without bloodshed - a careful balance to maintain. Mi-an had proven to be naive and easily cowed but Miguel doubted this second builder would be as simple to manage... Well, he supposed he would find out soon. In fact, it would probably be a good idea to introduce himself as soon as possible, to assess this newcomer and determine how much trouble they would be.

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Though he'd wanted to greet their new builder on the day of their arrival his duties had kept him busy until the evening, and while he considered still making the trip out to introduce himself it didn't feel exactly proper to intrude on their night; no doubt they were in that moldering workshop settling in after an exhausting day of touring the town and being bombarded by new faces. Miguel was familiar with such - he'd felt overwhelmed and more than a little out of place when he'd first arrived in Sandrock and there were still days where he keenly felt like an outsider still...perhaps along with assessing the builder he could offer some guidance on that front as well.

The saloon was buzzing with chatter when he'd dropped in to order something to take back to his room to continue working until it was time for bed (sermons did not write themselves, after all) and here and there he'd catch snippets about the builder - "nice" and "polite" and "so proper!" and so on. It seemed they'd at least gotten someone with manners...that alone would be a breath of fresh air compared to the usual rabble in town.

Something caused him to pause at the door however -- the barest hint of a name amongst the conversations: Olivia. It was gone in an instant, lost in the multitude of voices, but the sudden and familiar gut punch of regret lingered on afterward; sucking in a breath Miguel shoved through the doors and out into the much quieter dark, exhaling slowly. Olivia... Was that the new builder's name? Surely not... Though he could hardly hold the girl responsible for what her parents had named her if that was indeed her name then having her around was going to be a constant exercise in composure, never mind all the other issues he'd been imagining off and on all day whenever he'd had a moment to breathe between his tasks.

"What an unfortunate coincidence," he sighed, tipping his head back briefly. "How many lanterns have I sent to the heavens with that name on it?" At least 30, not counting the years he'd released more than one.

...the sky was especially clear tonight and felt downright pleasant with the scant breeze blowing lazily over the town. He would bring his work and his dinner outside and enjoy the weather while he could, and attempt to steel himself for speaking to the builder tomorrow.

Her name is not her fault, he repeated in his mind as he walked back up to the dormitory.

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The old bed was creaky, smelled musty, and just barely serviceable; as Olivia begrudgingly opened her eyes to a knock at the door she vowed the first thing she would do today (after a pot of coffee) was head back to that little general store and purchase a new mattress -- the frame itself just needed a few nails to vanquish the squeaks and pillows were will within her ability to make immediately but she had neither the patience or a young enough back to last long enough to make the mattress herself.

Another knock on the door drew out a quiet groan as she leveraged herself up on an elbow; she'd agreed to meet with Mi-an again this morning to discuss divvying up the shameful backlog of commissions (what HAD the previous builder been doing all this time?) but she probably should have specified an actual time rather than "at the crack of dawn."

Grunting she swung her legs out of the bed and gingerly stood up, testing her weight on her right leg; the train ride had aggravated the limb even with her preemptively wearing the brace for the trip and while there was a dull ache from hip to calf it held firm and there were no debilitating sharp, shooting pains -- she could make do with the cane for the day, most likely. She picked up and plopped the brace into a drawer in the nightstand (THAT needed some nails too - wobbly) then grabbed her cane and hobbled slowly over to the door while using her free hand to attempt to comb her long, currently unruly hair into some semblance of order.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming," she grumbled as the knocking came again.

As expected a bright-eyed and cheerful Mi-an was on the other side, and she was pleased to see at least a little bit of sheepishness once the younger woman had taken in her appearance.

"O-oh, I'm sorry, I just thought..."

Olivia waved a hand and moved from the door, leaving it open for her to decide whether to enter or not. "It's fine. I have never been a morning person - I will only wake with the sun because I am expected to, not because I like it. Coffee?"

"Yes, please." Mi-an came in and closed the door behind her. "Wow... Mason must have lived very um...sparsely."

"Or else he sold everything he could get away with," Olivia retorted, and it came out sharper than she'd intended. "I suppose a table, a chair, a bed, and a nightstand count as 'fully furnished.' At least the stove and toilet were left behind as well, and I had the foresight to already own cookware and flatware." No fridge though...yet another thing she needed to take care of quickly.

"I can bring you some stools, if you like? Maybe Matilda didn't realize it was so empty in here..."

Olivia set a pot of water on the stove to boil. "Stools would be welcome for outside work. Given time I'll whip this place into shape -- your general store DOES sell mattresses, yes?"

"I could make you one?" Mi-an offered.

She turned and could see the girl hovering awkwardly near the lone chair at the single table. "I could make one myself, I just require one immediately."

"Oh. In that case, Arvio can order them in but he does sell really nice mattress toppers in the meantime? I have one on my bed and mine is..." she trailed off, looking at the old bed in the corner. "Newer, and... Mine doesn't even need one but it's still nice to have."

"Mmm. It will have to do." She moved to the cabinet to retrieve the canister of grounds and from the corner of her eye could see Mi-an trying - and failing - to not steal glances at the cane; when she'd arrived yesterday she'd been wearing a long skirt over the brace, with the cane packed away in her traveling trunk. "-go on, ask away."

"Ask? Ask what?" Mi-an repeated quietly, smiling awkwardly.

Olivia came over to sit in the chair. "It's an old injury. Most of the time I wear a brace to support everything - had it on yesterday when I arrived. It isn't hurting too badly today so I can manage with the cane, and on those days where it hardly hurts at all I can do without both."

"Gotcha. It's a pretty cane!"

As her back was to Mi-an Olivia allowed herself a tired smile - it WAS a pretty cane. Enameled metal in a bright red and orange swirling pattern with a plain silver handle that looked like a sword's rounded pommel - a very purposeful design. "Thank you. It is my own creation and serves me well." She could hear the water boiling now and went to measure out the appropriate amount of grounds and clip a tiny sieve onto the side of the pot (another little invention of hers, built to fit this specific pot - though, usually she only used it when camping rough. An actual coffee pot would be acquired in the near future but for now this would suffice). Once it had boiled long enough she poured the coffee from the pot through the sieve into a pair of mugs. "I'm afraid all I have is sugar at the moment."

"Yeah...I guess Mason didn't leave you any way to keep things cold," Mi-an said, wrinkling her nose as she looked around again. "...I actually don't even see where a fridge might have sat. But there's no way he lived here all this time without a way to keep food fresh, right?"

"At this point I wouldn't dare speculate 'lest I fall further into unfairly judging a man I've said six words to," Olivia sighed. She returned the coffee canister to the cabinet and tucked the little tin of sugar into her elbow, then moved it and one of the full mugs to the table. "Spoons are over in that little wooden box atop the trunk, if you please."

"Sure," Mi-an replied, hurrying over to grab the aforementioned box. There was a metallic rattle as the contents inside shifted; she sat it on the table between them and opened it to reveal the silverware within it -- 4 each of forks, large spoons, smaller spoons, and table and steak knives, all in silver with black wooden handles.

Olivia grabbed one of the spoons and dipped three spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee and stirred, then carried it with her as she headed toward the tiny bathroom. "Go ahead and have a seat - I am going to attempt to make myself presentable."

A splash of water, a brush dragged through her hair and then the majority of it pulled up and secured with her favorite hair clip - a little curved shield with a hairpin shaped like a sword to hold the hair within the clip...a gift from her old master. One of the few sentimental items that had both survived the years and was something she was willing to let other people see.

A clean shirt finished off morning preparations (or at least as much as she was willing to do for current company); it wasn't as refreshing as a morning shower but she would get used to that...probably. At the very least she looked more human as she slowly headed back out to Mi-an, finding that the girl had put a notebook in the middle of the table and was standing there waiting for her return.

"I hope you don't mind but I actually got up earlier than this and was at the commerce guild as soon as President Yan-"

Olivia snorted loudly at "president" Yan (and noted the mention of time - it wasn't as early as she was thinking, apparently).

"-uh, as, as soon as the door was unlocked," Mi-an went on after a moment. "And, I wrote down all of the remaining commissions on the board, grouped them by material and ordered them from oldest to newest."

"Efficient," Olivia said approvingly.

Mi-an smiled brightly and gestured at the notebook. "Thanks! I figured we could split them more or less evenly and knock them out over a matter of days. Most of them are just small things like screws, boards, and bricks."

Olivia settled into the chair and rested the cane against her thigh, grabbing the notebook with her freed hand and skimming the list. "-separate it out as you see fit and I'll complete what's assigned to me."

"What? You're...are you sure? You get a choice in this too you know."

"You know what you are set up and able to already make, and I will adjust as needed to do the rest."

"All right. If you're sure."

"Mmhmm," Olivia hummed into a gulp of coffee but pausing before getting to swallow as another knock came at the door. "--oh come now... I am not awake enough for company yet."

Mi-an moved out of her way as she stood again and moved to answer the door, coffee still in hand. At the door she leaned the cane against the wall and tugged the door open.

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Though it was early it didn't seem TOO early - the commerce guild did open promptly at 7am and it was half passed nine now. Assuming the builder was home it should be a quick trip to introduce himself and invite her to the sunday sermons; he could stand to do at least that much for this first interaction.

It appeared there had been some effort in tidying up the yard so there was less junk to pick a path through as Miguel entered the gate and approached the door.

At the door, hand raised to knock, he took a last deep breath. It was just a name.

It was just a name.

He knocked and waited, hands clasped behind his back.

There were footsteps beyond the door with a regular thump along with them and the door opened to reveal--

Dark, long, and wavy hair - graying at the temples but still worn in the same way as she had in her youth. Hazel eyes with deep laugh lines at the corners. A subtly hooked nose, full lips, narrow face and-

No. No... How...

At the same time Miguel felt he couldn't get enough air into his lungs and also that there was too much air there as he watched the woman's eyes flick up and down his figure before there was the sudden recognition and her jaw dropped (as did the mug of coffee in her hand - he was faintly aware of the liquid splattering across his shoes and pantslegs as the cup shattered at their feet).

"Olivia..." he whispered.

It wasn't a name. It wasn't just a name. She was here...here!

Alive!

#Ensuring the Future #EtF #Ensuring the Future - ch 1 #mtas Miguel #mtas Matilda #mtas Mi-an #My Time at Sandrock

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kharrneth · 2 years ago

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The Realm of Chaos, Land of the Plaguelords

Amid the roiling Realms, the filth-green expanse of the Plaguelands were perhaps the most peaceful. Not eternally shifting like the Crystal Lands of Tzeentch, not ever-vibrating with war like the Ragelands, or even milling endlessly with busy pleasure Daemons like the Ringlands. It was strangely idyllic, a paradise even, if one ignored the odd flesh-eating plant here or there. It was serene, calming.

It was utterly awful. At least, that had been Khorne’s opinion.

Quickly, he had grown antsy in the Plaguefather’s company. Restless and aggressive, hating how slow-paced everything was here. Everyone, from the daemons to the Great Green God himself seemed to shamble and crawl along. No training, no legions testing themselves against one another. Every so often the Blood God would see two Great Unclean Ones come to blows, but just as often it wouldn’t even end in a rightful, fraternal murder as it should have. More than any of the gods, Kharneth relished bloody contests of strength between siblings and he was denied even that.

He moved through the garden, leaving fire and death in his wake as he did, but as he turned to look over his shoulder he could see the destruction knitting itself back together. The daemons would be back... the lesser ones anyway. Nurgle had bade him to wander and have a look about the massive tangle of plants and fauna-flora and the Blood God had leapt at the chance to be free of his brother’s presence. Otherwise, he would’ve carved himself free and this they both knew. Kharneth had needs, needs which he slaked on the Wastelands of Nurgle’s Gardens where massive floral-beasts roamed. Heedless of his position as a Ruinous Power, they had attacked the Red God and he had welcomed it, welcomed violence and bloodshed, openly. They were like the Bloodworms back in his kingdom, a stubborn “gift” of Nurgle from a war long past, only much larger, having grown fat on the decay of realm.

But although he gloried in battle, he did not forget his circumstances. Certaintly, his injuries were not keen to be forgotten, burning beneath his skin as he tested himself against the fury of the beast. Even injured, he was no less the Blood God, no less the Master of Martial Skill, and with enough slashes of his talons, heads would grace the wastelands. It was a shame they didn’t have skulls. His absence from the Fortress-Manse would be opportunity for Nurgle, for as loathsome company as he could be, it was better to keep one eye on the enemy. But again...Khorne had needs.

It was a moldering, green chaos fury that found him before he could continue his aimless peruse, searching for foes among this stagnant land.

“ Venerable Blood God, Master of all Battles,” The Furies began in a voice laced and heavy with phlegm and mucus, “ Nurgle requests your presence.”

---

“ 𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗵𝗲 𝗶𝘀! 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝘄𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗮𝗱𝗻’𝘁 𝗴𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 𝗹𝗼𝘀𝘁, 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝗿 𝗞𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘁𝗵. 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗥𝗼𝘁 𝗙𝗹𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂.” Nurgle cheered as he spotted Khorne, the Blood God ambling through the thresh hold of the massive manse. Ever since the Brasslord had found the will to walk about, a pronounced limp had plagued his step. It wasn’t so prominent now, but it was still there. So was the long gash goes across his chest, sealed but still very much there. Nurgle didn’t think Kharneth much minded it, however, with how littered his brother was with claw marks, fang marks, even old injuries from where a beak had found purchase.

“ 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭, 𝐍𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐡?” Came the Blood God’s growl. By way of answer, the Plaguelord ambled over to his great, rot-iron cauldron and stirred it a few times. Before his warlike brother’s annoyance could peak into rage, Nurgle deep his arm into the peculiar sludge, grabbing for something. When he seized it, his grin grew and at last he withdrew his hand. There, in the middle of the Green god’s leprous palm were countless Greater Daemons, some new and some reformed. Even on Khorne’s ruined face, the surprise was hard to miss.

“𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗱𝘂𝗰𝗲𝗱 𝗮 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗮𝗶𝗹𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁!” Nurgle declared proudly, holding the ladle across his hole-ridden chest. Kharneth only offered a single nod of acknowledgement, once his surprise had worn off, but that quickly turned into suspicion.

“𝐎𝐮𝐫?”

“𝗜𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗱, 𝗼𝘂𝗿. 𝗜 𝗮𝗺 𝗻𝗼 𝗳𝗼𝗼𝗹, 𝗞𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘁𝗵, 𝗜 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝘄𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝗿 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗚𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗖𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱𝗿𝗲𝗻.” Nurgle began, reasonably, then frowning, “ 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗩𝗲𝗿𝗺𝗶𝗻 𝗣𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗦𝗵𝗮𝗱𝗼𝘄 𝗕𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗮𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲. 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗴𝗼 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘆. 𝗜𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗴𝗼 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘆, 𝗴𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝗲𝗻𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲.”

Khorne didn’t concede that point, but neither did he argue it. The Plaguelord again dipped in his ladle, beginning to stir it. “ 𝗛𝗼𝘄𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿, 𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗵 𝗼𝗳 𝘂𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳��𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗹𝘆, 𝗯𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗲. 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝘄 𝗶𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗲. 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗲𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀, 𝗼𝗿 𝗦𝗹𝗮𝗮𝗻𝗲𝘁𝗵'𝘀.” Notably, he didn’t mention Tzeentch at all. Kharneth had no love for the Changer either, but of all of them, he got the feeling the Great Conspirator would best know how to deal with the Great Beast. It had been...conspicuously absent for most of this war, since the Rise of the New Powers.

“𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐞?” Kharneth finally spoke, seeing where this was going and having no patience for the game of it all. Nurgle chuckled.

“𝗢𝗮𝘁𝗵𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘂𝗽𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗿𝗼𝗺 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗴𝗮𝗺𝗲.”

“𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥.” Rumbled the Blood God, having predicted a term like that. However, Nurgle’s tone suggested there was more to he meant to say and indeed there was. “𝐀𝐧𝐝...?”

“𝗬𝗼𝘂. 𝗜 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝗮 𝗽𝗶𝗲𝗰𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂, 𝗞𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘁𝗵, 𝗯𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱, 𝗵𝗼𝗿𝗻, 𝗳𝗮𝗻𝗴. 𝗢𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗼𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗯𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆.”

At this Kharneth bristled, but Nurgle did not rise nor react to his brother’s anger. Did not give any hint or whit that he was overreaching. This was simply how it was. A moment of pain and displeasure to fix a serious problem, one that might plague him the rest of his life if he did nothing about it. Kharneth had arrived here unconscious-- who’s to say Nurgleth hadn’t already robbed him of whatever organs, blood, or bone matter he had desired?

The Blood God growled, but ultimately acquiesced. If it become a problem, he would muscle through it like he ever did.

“𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥.” He said again, amid the growls, “ 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐚𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐢𝐭, 𝐍𝐮𝐫𝐠l𝐞𝐭𝐡.”

“ 𝗔𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗳𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗜 𝗮𝗺 𝗻𝗼 𝗯𝗲𝗮𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗹𝗶𝗮𝗿, 𝗞𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗲𝘁𝗵. 𝗦𝗼 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗵 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗶𝘁 𝗯𝗲? 𝗛𝗼𝗿𝗻, 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱, 𝗙𝗮𝗻𝗴?” Nurgleth sounded eager, watching giddily as the Blood God ripped one of his short, wide molars from the back of his maw. Nurgle was rather hoping for a canine, but he would not press the War God anymore than necessary.

“𝗢𝗵. 𝗜 𝗻𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻. 𝗔 𝗯𝗹𝘂𝗲 𝗳𝘂𝗿𝘆 𝘃𝗶𝘀𝗶𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗹𝘆 after 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗵𝘂𝗳𝗳𝗹𝗲𝗱 𝗼𝗳𝗳. 𝗧𝘇𝗲𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗰𝗵 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗮 𝗖𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗮𝗹 𝗺𝗲𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴.” Said the Plaguegod as he flicked the offering into the soupy, green mixture. Quickly, it began to turn red. Almost like blood, though congealed and feotid. Adding a few more things and then mixing it further, Nurgle produced a ladle full of the stuff, eyeing and angling it this way and that. He looked at Khorne.

“𝗪𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴?”

“ 𝐎𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞.” Kharneth responded, with a raise of his chin. Nurgle chuckled at his brother’s temerity.

“𝗚𝗼𝗼𝗱. 𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝘀𝗲𝗲 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗺𝘆𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗯𝗲 𝗺𝘂𝗰𝗵 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗺𝗲𝗻𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲.” Nurgle smirked, thinking of Tzeentch, of the look on the Changer’s face when the Plaguelord would deny him the cure against the god-poison. But Kharneth didn’t share his excitement, for that victory would be brief.

Tzeentch, after all, always found a way...

#warhammer fantasy #khorne #nurgle #Plot Point #longpost

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thronelessking · 2 years ago

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❝ i will teach them what it means to put a lion in a cage. ❞ - cornelius to mirabelle

What does one see kneeling at an altar of flesh. What does one see in the skin of victims unknown that stretches over moldering brick, the decay that leeches into it once the blood ceases to drip and pool, cooling into a grotesque mass of which prayer is written in, with the tips of pens, blades, and fingers. What does one see when they lay a new body over the old and offer screams and violence to He who revels in the act.

At the altar a priest kneels over the next body to be offered; masked in utmost secrecy there is a murmur, a litany of prayer to the idol of secrecy and violence, the shadow that stalks the halls of every home, of every church. With every word there is a unison of sound, the whetting of blades in reverence and acknowledgement of the foul tasks one must perform to earn favor; to earn the love of the Father of the many Children of the Mask, to be bestowed with love and favor and gifts from the greedy. The highest of all honors requires hefty sacrifice.

Coin and power do not fall into the laps of those He does not deem worthy, those who do not offer Him that which He desires.

The blade plunges into soft skin, sinks deep, leaves a wound that bleeds the sacrifice on the altar like swine. Their screams bounce off the stone once, reverberate with desperation and the shadows upon the wall quiver for a moment before slithering from the light that birthed them. Across an impossible distance they stretch from corner to corner before the torchlight extinguishes, drowning every parishioner and priest in the darkness that has long since been their cradle. The desperate cries of the one on the altar fall quiet, with little more than the gentle movement of air, a muted, dry, and yet mirthful laugh. Acknowledgement.

Sconces of torchlight flicker and dim, swallowed by something from the outer reaches. The fanged, ravenous maw of the hungry dark of Duskfathom snuffs out that which dares try to illuminate the worlds of secrets, replaces light with an unknowable gloom. For a moment, true faith breaches the veil, a sacrifice made in merciless vengeance is the pinnacle of all displays. It is a blessed sight, an image, a conjuration for the eyes of the priest at the altar and only for him. It is a sign of a much blessed love. Every drop of blood that Cornelius sheds is another step further into the darkest of depths, that promised afterlife.

Communion ends in silence and quiet steps of the faithful who exit without acknowledging the scene. As with all things, what happens in the dark of the night, in the blessed shadows, is not to be spoken about. No face remembered, no sound uttered, no remnants left behind but the priest and a body going supernaturally cold, the blood seeping into robes soon to be washed to pristine. From the soles of his shadows feet does the darkness lurch and writhe, giving way and shape to another as it climbs up his back and drapes over him with a towering height. The nondescript gains an appearance as shadows give way to long strands of pitch black hair, cascading over the priest like a curtain, and where was once nothing but shadow there is flesh; hands that grasp Cornelius' shoulders with a tense but loving grip.

Mirabelle leans down and blows a gentle cold stream of air past the mans ear as he settles his face against the others', cheek brushing cheek as the older of them slides a mask of flesh off the priest. "And so my caged lion breaks the lock of his own accord." He looks down only a fraction at the body, dislodges the pointed claws that threaten to pierce through Cornelius' shoulder and gestures. The corpse writhes and contorts as the shadow it casts is ripped free from its body and forms into an almost tangible thing. Something immediately pulled into the depths of Duskfathom with a gesture. "And to me, my lion delivers me his jailer. He will serve us both well in the far future."

The man makes sure to press close, enough for Cornelius to feel the rumble that works its way through him as he laughs; a delightful, joyous sound that belongs perfectly in this atrocious den. It tapers off with an echoing sigh as Mirabelle rests his chin upon the noble priests shoulder. "And yet only his jailer. Have you not yet found the rest of the beasts that would see you caged?" A tinge of almost disappointment colors the words; much the sort of reaching the highest of highs and yet have no follow through, only a steady descent. "Or do you plan to savor them all by yourself?"

#asks #crimsonetroupe #mirabelle #crawls up to you and puts this into your hands

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procrastinatorrex · 2 years ago

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Arthur wrenched his sword out of the skeletal soldier in front of him. It, like all the others, fell to pieces immediately. The king whirled away, blade flashing in the gloom as he swung at another undead attacker. In the last few days, they’d become very aware that it would take at least a minute for the wretched things to re-assemble themselves, and he had more pressing issues.

“We’ve already done an undead army.” Gwaine was at his back suddenly, parrying a blow from yet another moldering skeleton as he complained. Sweat gleamed from his brow, and something dark that might have been blood was smeared on his forehead, but he was smiling fiercely. “Have you considered laws on mandatory cremation? I know, I know, the Christians wouldn’t like it, but this is getting tedious.”

#merlin fanfiction #merlin fanfic #gwaine is lowkey my fav ngl #undead armies are honestly a great idea #I don't know why all sorcerers wouldn't have them

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shylyobscene · 2 days ago

Text

If Only for Tonight Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: Two idiots who may or may not be in love convince themselves they’re having meaningless sex.

Word count: 7.5k

Warnings: smut, oral sex (giving and receiving), masturbation in front of an audience (Rocket), dirty talk, slightly rough oral sex, inexperienced partner

Ao3 | Masterlist | If Only for Tonight Index

The aftermath of the snap had hit you heavily and all at once.

It was most noticeable in the little things: well-loved gardens suddenly left overgrown and untended, rife with weeds and ivy; abandoned market stalls fulcl of moldered produce, forgotten until rot had seeped into the wooden displays; the cheeks of a child, studded with tears, who watched their mother blow away with the wind.

Half the world gone.

It was tough on Nebula, too. She was already predisposed to a quiet sort of brooding as she struggled to cope with her brutal past under Thanos’ thumb, and that aspect of her only intensified when she lost her sister.

She spent a lot of time with you, early on. The two of you would sit together, shoulder to shoulder; neither of you spoke, but you’d find solace in one another’s company anyway.

Of the three of you though, Rocket took the loss the hardest, yet mourned it the least.

Pete and the others were gone, and suddenly Rocket was the most qualified of the three of you to spearhead the protection of a galaxy that still needed guardians. He locked himself in his room for a rotation, but by next morning, he was already back to maintaining the ship or inventing some new weapon of mass destruction like nothing even happened. It made you angry at first, that he was just going to carry on and pretend the whole world didn’t get turned upside down—like half of the people that mattered most to all of you weren’t as good as dead.

The two of you hardly spoke during that first cycle.

Your frustration with him simmered down over time, before fizzling out completely into pure concern as the days continued to pass and Rocket seemed only to bury himself further into his work. Any gentle coaxing or attempts to tell him to get some rest would fall on deaf ears.

“You don’t gotta coddle me,” he snapped during one particularly bad night, fur prickled and teeth bared. “I’m fine.”

“You haven’t slept in at least a full rotation. You’re gonna crash and burn at this rate.”

“Well, the galaxy’ll keep movin’ regardless of whether I’m up to see it or not, and that’s time we can’t afford to lose right now. As it stands, I got work to do.”

“Rocket,” you said softly. Looking back, the gentleness in your tone was probably what set him off.

“No,” he snarled and slammed a fist on his workbench. You jumped at the noise as his equipment clattered with the impact. “Did you have anythin’ important to say? Or are you just here to waste my time like you always do?”

How fucking dare he. You glared at him, eyes watery. The worst part was that all of your anger was nothing compared to the deep hurt you felt.

“They were my family too, you know. Insult me all you want if that’s what makes you fucking feel better, but not sleeping isn’t gonna bring them back any faster,” you spat. Rocket stiffened under your fury. You struggled to blink back your tears and turned your head away from him, refusing to let him see how affected you were.

The tension in the room ran thick and nauseating.

Rocket clenched and unclenched his fists, and turned back to his workbench with a sigh.

You knew he wouldn’t apologize, and neither would you—the two of you remained silent, stewing in the uneasy atmosphere as you were met with an impasse. You sighed and began to step away, but not before leaving him with one final thought.

“I’m sorry. I just...take care of yourself, Rocket. I don’t want to see you work yourself to death,” you said, halfway out the door. You didn’t turn to look at him as you spoke. “…You’re one of the only people I have left.”

Rocket said nothing, and didn’t stop you when you walked away.

The next day, his apology came to you in the form of breakfast, and a few hours of relinquishing control to you while he slept in his hammock. He started giving you little gifts as well: freshly polished weapons, upgraded equipment, Terran datapads containing romance novels he knew you liked—little things that he could brush off as meaningless.

“It’s all crap that needed fixing anyway,” he would reason, “and you’re probably the only person planetside who likes this schmoopy-lovey shit; better it goes to you than endin’ up in the trash.”

He insisted they weren’t gifts, but they were gifts nonetheless.

You stopped pestering him as much about overworking himself too, when you sat beside him one night in the cockpit and he gave you one, quiet admission once he’d thought you had fallen asleep.

“There’s so much shit that’s out of my hands. Shit I wish I could go back and change, but I can’t.” His grip on the wheel tightened, his throat bobbing as he swallowed before speaking again. “I’m tired of chasin’ ghosts. Flying, steerin’ the ship…this is the one thing I know I can do right. The one thing I can count on myself not to fuck up.”

You hung around Rocket more after that, curious about what other hidden depths he had to offer. Curiosity gave way to fascination, then respect.

It was probably sometime then, between moments shared beneath the stars, jokes and beers swapped between hands, and little gifts-but-not-gifts exchanged, that your quiet admiration for the Benatar’s surly pilot turned into something much softer and sweeter than you were willing to admit out loud.

–

A part of you wonders if you might just be dreaming.

Rocket sighs into your neck, and begins to plant more suckling little kisses into your skin. You roll your head back and he groans his approval, scraping his teeth along your pulse. You press your thighs together, surprised when you feel your cunt ache, slick and sticky.

When he speaks, his lips and his fur brush against your neck in a way that makes you shiver.

“You ever touch yourself?” he rasps.

You consider his question.

The Benatar is a technological marvel; Rocket has tuned the ship to perfection over time, but he never did quite get around to adding soundproofing. There’s very little opportunity for…self-care as a result. You wonder if the ensuing sexual frustration is the reason why every little touch from him burns electric, or if your body is just naturally reactive because it’s him.

“Um. Sometimes.”

He pulls away from your neck and lifts a brow at you. “Sometimes? Come on—legs apart.”

You do as he says without hesitation.

Rocket widens his eyes at your immediate obedience, then grins wickedly.

“You’re the eager type, huh? I can work with that.”

It does occur to you that maybe you should be a little embarrassed at how quickly you respond to him ordering you around, but you hadn’t been expecting him to be so direct.

It’s not like you haven’t seen Rocket boss people around before. As much heart as the rest of your team has, Rocket has always been the actual strategist of the group, able to craft plans and tell people what needs to be done to execute them. Even when Pete was here to act as the guardians’ figurehead, it was hard not to notice how often he turned to Rocket to turn his concepts into reality. That said, It’s downright dizzying to have that commanding energy directly focused on you; you can’t help but give him whatever he wants.

Rocket gives you one last, parting kiss before hopping down from your chair. His tail wraps languidly around your calf as he places his palm on your knee, stroking inward and up towards the apex of your thighs. He pauses right before his claw can even scrape against your cunt, and squeezes your thigh softly before dragging his hand back downward. You want to clamp your legs together and trap his hand between them, to give yourself some friction—but he said legs apart, so you obey.

He watches your reaction closely then backs away, tucking his hands into his pockets. You nearly whine at the loss of his touch. Rocket pretends not to notice, casually stepping back and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, like he’s talking about the weather.

“Why don’t you show me?” he asks, gesturing toward you.

“Show you? Like—touch myself in front of you?”

“Mhm. Wanna see how cute you look when you fuck yourself before I get my hands all over you.” His lids droop lower and he leans back against the console in front of you, crossing his arms. He’s got a shit-eating grin on his face as he speaks. “Think you can do that, sweetheart? Think you can get yourself to come on your fingers a couple times? Just for me?”

Oh my god—he’s going to kill you. His voice is so deep and rumbly and he talks so filthy. You don’t think anyone’s ever spoken to you like this before, and now every word he says knocks around in your mind. After tonight, you’ll probably end up pavloving your cunt into dripping any time he so much as says a word—like a fucking dog.

“Oh,” you say, scandalized.

Rocket snickers.

“Aw. Don’t tell me you’re gettin’ all shy on me. You were real bold earlier.” He pauses to consider you, and his sharp gaze mellows into something sweet and concerned. “Hey. You still alright?”

You straighten in your seat.

“What? Yeah. I’m more than alright. I’m amazing, even.” You try to catch your breath. “I feel like I left my brain at the last jump point.”

The corners of his mouth tug upward slightly, before falling back into a neutral line. “Alright, sweetheart. If you say so. Tonight’s about you. Just—tell me if I’m being too mean, okay? I, uh—“ he clears his throat, looking thoroughly chastised despite you never giving him any indication that you disliked anything he’s said so far. “I’m a talker; obviously. Might be gettin’ a little ahead of myself. M’sorry.”

“I don’t mind,” you squeak.

Rocket arches his brow. “No?”

“…I like it. When you’re mean. You can do it more. If you want.”

Rocket’s hands twitch where they rest against his crossed arms, and he chuckles darkly.

“You’re fucking adorable. Takes everything in me to not wanna tear you to shreds. But don’t stress, buttercup; I’ll be as gentle or as mean as you want me to be.” He backs away to sit languorously in the pilot’s chair. He then swivels the seat to face you. “So what do you say, beautiful? You gonna lemme watch you play with your pussy? Promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

Your mind buzzes with static, and the best you can do is nod.

“Okay,” you say, looking down at your clothes. You pull at them, and glance back up at Rocket for confirmation. He grins at you again, and dips his head into a nod.

Articles of clothing come off one-by-one. You feel woefully inexperienced, fumbling with the clasps on your top. You even stumble a little over your pants once you’ve brought them down over your hips. Rocket, on the other hand, seems like he’s done this plenty of times before. The part of you that craves his attention—his approval—gnaws at you.

An intrusive thought pops into your head: how many other women has Rocket had undressing for him like this? Were they a little sexier? A little more sensual? Shit—maybe you should be taking your clothes off a little slower. You suddenly wish you had a couple more notches under your belt.

Rocket doesn’t seem to mind your inelegance though, watching you with rapt attention, head resting in his hand and eyes lidded.

His gaze never falters as more of your skin is unveiled. Soon you’re standing naked before him, only in your panties. You wrap your arms around yourself, struck with self-consciousness as you bare yourself for him while he remains fully clothed. His eyes trail over your stomach, the slope of your hips, the curve of your waist—the way your nipples pebble under the frigid air in the flight deck.

His legs spread a little wider, drawing attention to the way his cock strains in his pants. You flush, looking away.

You used to worry that Rocket didn’t really see you that way; that maybe you weren’t his type, or worse—that he saw you as a kid, or perhaps a sister. The hard line of his dick proves that theory wrong, and gives you a surge of confidence. You use your arms to subtly press your tits together, and Rocket whistles appreciatively.

“Can’t frickin’ believe no one else has ever gotten their hands on a sweet little thing like you,” he says. “Go on, princess. Don’t gotta be shy.”

You sit down in the copilot’s chair, draping a leg over the armrest; your other leg is bent up against you, hiding the view of your soaking underwear from his sight. Rocket doesn’t say anything, and lets you play coy for now. You close your eyes and pretend you’re alone in your bunk. One hand reaches up to squeeze a supple breast, pulling hard against a nipple while the other trails down toward your cunt.

He looks momentarily surprised at how roughly you touch yourself, before humming in approval. You slip your fingers over your panties, enjoying the way the soft, wet fabric drags over the svelte folds of your cunt. Your hand dips under the elastic and your hips roll into your own touch as you rub tight circles into your clit.

“Open your eyes. Spread your legs a li’l wider,” Rocket commands roughly. “Let me see you.”

You do as he says and slowly roll your knees outward, giving him a better view. You then spit on your fingers, dipping them briefly into your mouth. Some of your saliva connects to your fingers in a line and dribbles onto your tits; you rub it in with one hand, while the fingers that were in your mouth sink into your cunt. Rocket groans, dragging his own palm against his length. Your eyes lock onto the front of his pants and you stroke your fingers in and out of yourself at a steady pace.

“That’s right. You listen so well,” he croons, practically salivating over you. “Prob’ly could’ve gotten you to beg me to fuck you cycles ago, huh?”

Everything he says is so hot and so embarrassing. You curl your fingers, and your hand drops from your breast to slide against your clit. “Ah—Rocket,” you moan, tilting your head and panting into your shoulder.

Rocket’s ears twitch at the sound of his own name, and his grin grows dark.

“I oughta just keep you like this forever. Have you fuck yourself for me in the copilot’s seat while I fly. You’re real good at it, you know,” he jeers, leaning forward in his chair, watching the way your fingers move beneath your panties. “Be a shame to let all that talent go to waste. Could be good for morale.”

Rocket laughs at your expense, and you glare at him half-heartedly. He’s not wrong, but he’s just so damn cocky.

“What, did that piss you off, princess? Hard to look intimidating with your fingers stuffed in your cunt,” he says with a snicker. “Don’t act like you don’t love the idea of it.”

A soft schlick, schlick, schlick noise echoes throughout the cockpit every time you drive your fingers inward, giving away exactly how much you like his filthy mouth and even filthier ideas. Your hips begin to lift from the chair as you try to plunge your fingers in deeper and press your hand against your clit harder. Rocket groans at the sight, adjusts himself in his pants, and stands, stalking toward you.

He thumbs the edge of your panties, dipping a claw beneath the elastic then pulling, letting it snap back against your hip with a light sting.

“How much do you like these?” he asks mildly.

“What, my underwear?” You squint at him suspiciously, pausing your efforts. “Rocket,” you say warningly.

His claws dig into the fabric and he tears, ripping it away and exposing your cunt to the cool air. Your jaw drops. He’s such a brat.

“Rocket!”

“I’ll buy you even prettier ones?” he tries, pressing an apologetic kiss to your hip.

You scowl at him, unamused. “You are so, so lucky I like you.”

Rocket just chuckles and sighs dreamily into your waist. “Oh, I feel real fuckin’ lucky right now, trust me.” Your heart thumps. You roll your eyes and act like you don’t already forgive him.

Rocket lifts his head and his attention drifts downward. He brushes the hand on your clit away and replaces it with the pad of his own thumb. The sensation makes you jolt; his skin is rough and leathery, dragging deliciously against your clit. Your brain stutters, and you sigh.

“You poor frickin’ thing. Breaks my heart that no one’s given this tight, desperate little pussy the attention it deserves,” he coos. He briefly takes his hand away from your clit and shushes you when you whine. You try to pull him back but he proves too quick for you; instead, his hand dips lower to where your own fingers still pump into your entrance. “Look at you. You’re soaked.”

His eyes flick back up to you. “Think you can take one more finger?” he asks.

You nod dopily, still missing the feel of him against your clit. You initially think he means for you to put another one of your fingers inside yourself, and jolt in surprise when his own finger presses in to slide against your own within the heat of your cunt. “You’re so sweet to me. Takin’ everythin’ I give you so well,” he says, stretching you further. You gasp, mind warped with pleasure.

All too soon, he pulls his finger out of your pussy and holds it in front of your mouth.

“Open,” he says. You stick your tongue out to lap it, and he takes the opportunity to dip his finger inside. You moan and begin to suck on it while he watches.

“Yeah…there we go,” he croons, pushing his finger in almost far enough to make you gag. You stiffen at the intrusion, but force yourself to relax. “Good girl. Looks like you do take orders from me after all.”

You glower at him, clamping your teeth down gently but threateningly over his finger.

Rocket laughs. “So feisty. Let me make it up to you.” He runs his hand along your thigh. “Is it okay if I eat you out?”

Your eyes widen and your legs shut reflexively. “No one’s ever…I’ve never done that before.”

He grins indulgently. “I figured. Isn’t that the whole point of tonight though? One last hurrah where you try every filthy little thing you ever dreamed of doing?”

You frown. One last hurrah?

This is more than just sex to you. You had thought…you’d hoped it was for him too.

You can’t contain the slight feeling of dread that starts to seep into you.

Rocket misreads your sudden silence for something else. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

You shake your head and recover quickly. “I want to try it. Please,” you tell him, offering a wan smile.

You can’t change how he feels, but you can enjoy the rest of the night for what it is. He clearly likes you to an extent, and thinks you’re pretty enough to fuck. That can be good enough.

You just need to reframe the situation. Reroute your thinking. This is a fun, spontaneous little stress relief exercise between two people on the brink of death.

Nothing more, nothing less.

You stomp down the ache in your chest.

Rocket, ever observant, can still tell something is off, but can’t place it. “Are you sure?” he presses. “I wanna be clear: I don’t want you to agree to anything just because you think I’ll like it.” He brushes a strand of hair out of your face in a manner that is heart-wrenchingly affectionate. “You call the shots. Whatever you want. That’s all that matters to me.”

This would be so much easier if he weren’t so damn kind.

You look away, because you don’t think you can hold his gaze any longer without doing something embarrassing like crying or worse—telling him you adore him.

“Thanks, Rocket. But I think it’s just nerves. I want to try it, I think.” You give him a shaky smile. “One last hurrah, right?”

“Alright. Just figured I’d check in,” he responds. Rocket tosses you a smug grin. “Bet when you ended up in space you didn’t think you’d be riding this kind of Rocket, huh?”

His comment startles a giggle out of you. You push his face away with the flat of your hand, feeling the way his mouth curves even further into a smile under your palm.

“You’re such a loser. You actually killed the mood,” you tease.

“Whoa, whoa! Get your hands off the goods, pal,” Rocket snickers, trying to turn his face away from your assault, before changing course and licking across your palm instead. You squeal and attempt to pull your hand away, but he grabs it and starts laying kisses into your wrist while he chuckles. You can’t help but laugh along with him.

You know what? At the end of the day, you’re spending what is probably one of your last days alive shooting the shit with your best friend, then fucking him. All things considered, it’s not a bad way to go.

You smile back up at Rocket—genuinely this time.

He lets his eyelids go hooded and heavy as he turns his attention back to his prize.

“I should teach you a lesson for bein’ so rude,” he hums lowly. He drags his hand from your hip and brings it to your core, before pinching meanly at your clit. You gasp, grabbing his forearm as if it’ll hold you steady. Rocket just laughs, and keeps rolling your clit between his fingers in a steady rhythm.

“Rocket, that feels so…” you trail off, riding his hand with a moan.

“Thought you said I killed the mood. This all it takes to get you to change your mind, sweetheart?” he mocks, bringing his other hand up to flick at your nipple. You arch your back into his touch and whine. “So needy.”

He leans forward, laving soft, wet kisses against your stomach and your hip, before making his way lower. He pauses once he’s kissed the crease where your torso meets your thigh, breaths away from your aching cunt. He cackles. “You’re dripping right onto the seat, baby. All this for me?” He nuzzles his face into your inner thigh, skimming his teeth teasingly against your sensitive, milky skin.

He places both of his thumbs on your core, letting his hands frame your pussy; he then spreads you apart, creating a clear view of your pearly clit and right down your weeping cunt.

Your pulse jumps up and some irrational part of you worries that he’s gonna stare down your pussy and figure out that he’s been a primary source of your wet dreams for quarters now.

You blush hard, reflexively covering your face with your hands.

Rocket, on the other hand, looks giddy, like he’s just unwrapped a goddamn present.

“Nuh uh. Eyes down here, dollface—and hands down,” he says soothingly, reaching up to pull your hands from where they press against your eyes. Once he’s placed your hands over your stomach, he reaches down again and pulls you apart even further, watching your cunt glisten. “Just look at you—all pink and perfect. Bet you’re real warm and tight, too.”

“You are so embarrassing,” is all you can think to say. It’s as if your brain flatlines every time he talks…Maybe it’s a good thing that his mouth will be occupied for the time being.

Rocket pinches the fat of your hip. “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. You ready for me?”

You giggle a little incoherently, and nod.

Rocket, sharp-tongued and clever-mouthed, begins to lick his talents into your cunt.

His tongue runs along your slit; he pauses at the top to place a heady little kiss against your clit. You whine and grasp his head. He grunts when you tilt his head further into your pussy, letting him lap you up at his leisure.

You can’t tell which sensation to focus on—the heat of his breath on your folds, the slickness of his tongue as he laps his way up and down, or the way his fur tickles against the sensitive skin of your thighs.

His tongue feels completely different from your fingers too—so much hotter and wetter. How are you ever supposed to come again without him to lick you to completion?

And god, is this how it feels every time? Is this what you’ve been depriving yourself of? You wonder if this is how it always is or if it’s ten times as intense because it’s Rocket.

His arms wrap around your thighs and he grips them firmly, keeping you still while you fight to grind your cunt further into his face. His nose presses against your clit while he leaves teasing little licks against your pussy, before moving back up to suck on the sensitive nub.

“Ah—go h-harder,” you plead.

You can feel him smile into you as he obliges your request.

You squeeze your thighs against his head, rolling your head back. He groans appreciatively, and continues to work at you, digging his tongue into your folds.

“Rocket—Rocket—please pleaseplease please—“ you gasp between breaths.

He eats you out like a man starved, like you’re dripping straight honey out of your cunt and he can’t help but take more. Whenever his mouth leaves your clit, one of his hands moves to continue lavishing it with attention.

You’re still so sensitive from his teasing earlier too—every suck and lick and probing press of his tongue onto your clit and into your pussy lights your nerves on fire.

Words pour out of your mouth and you begin to babble nonsensically, whining whatever pleas first pop into your head. Rocket strokes a hand soothingly down your hip as he pulls your legs snugly over his broad shoulders.

“I—I’m close,“ you cry out, sucking in air like you might never get to breathe again.

Rocket pauses in his ministrations to look at you darkly. “Yeah?” he asks, running his tongue up and down the length of you again, suckling at your clit with an obscene slurp.

“Yes, please don’t stop,” you beg.

Rocket pulls away from your core and you think you might cry. He presses a kiss to each thigh framing his head.

“Dunno…Don’t think you’ve done anything to earn it yet,” he says, giving chaste little pecks to your labia and in the area around your clit but never on it. “You gonna be good for me? Tell me you’re gonna be a good girl and I promise I’ll let you come.”

“I’m good—I’m a good girl,” you sob, “I’ll be good, please, I p-promise—Whatever you want—I’ll be so good, please, please, please—”

Rocket flattens his tongue over your clit and sucks while his fingers dip into your folds. It feels like it only takes seconds before your hips involuntarily jerk up against Rocket’s face and your body begins to burn white-hot. You rut up against him while he groans in satisfaction, muffled against your core. You feel like you’re on fire. You tilt your head back and all you can see are the cosmos coasting past the Benatar—for a second you feel like you might fall through the ceiling and float away into the stars.

Rocket patiently licks loving little kisses into your clit until you’re twitching and smacking his head away from your abused cunt.

“Wait—Rocket,” you slur, unsure if you want him to get away or grind your cunt even further into his mouth.

Rocket grins and keeps licking you just a second too long, enjoying the way your thighs tremble against him, before letting you go and resting his head on your thigh. He heaves a contented sigh into the skin there, and gives it ap kiss.

You look down at him, his head still between your legs and the fur around his mouth a little damp; he drags the back of a knuckle across his mouth and licks the slick off of it before swiping his tongue across his bottom lip and oh, it’s a sight you could fuck yourself to for the next quarter at least.

“Not bad,” you say mildly, still catching your breath and smiling blissfully at the ceiling. Rocket glowers at you from the space between your thighs.

“Not bad?” he snorts. “You ain’t foolin’ me, sweetheart; I know I’m good.”

You swing your legs off his shoulders and stretch in your chair. Rocket stands up from his kneeling position and brushes off his jumpsuit like he just got done detailing a ship.

“There’s always room for improvement,” you respond breezily.

Rocket’s eyes go lidded and his voice drops an octave.

“Hey, if you’re offerin’ yourself up to me for a future training session then I’m not gonna complain,” he says, leering at your naked body still sprawled across the copilot’s seat. Your thighs inadvertently press together when you move to sit up, and even the minor pressure makes your sensitive clit buzz.

You let out a shaky sigh and lean forward to kiss him. He chases after you when you pull away, and you giggle.

“You’re so arrogant,” you respond. “Can’t blame me for wanting to take you down a couple pegs.”

Rocket scoffs and presses a kiss into your hair in lieu of a response. Your eyes slant downward and you catch sight of his length, still hard in his pants.

It brings you no small amount of pleasure that you did that to him; that maybe you have the effect on him as he does on you. You feel your stomach flutter and you bite your lip unthinkingly. You suddenly remember that he is still very much clothed and you are very much not, and you decide that you want an opportunity to make his brain melt out of ears for once instead of the other way around.

You think about the way he looked, nestled between your legs, and wonder how it’d feel to return the favor.

“Can I use my mouth on you too?” you ask bluntly, eyes round and curious.

Rocket startles, stiffening beside you. “…You don’t have to do that,” he says, curling his lip and hunching his shoulders in an uncertain grimace.

“I want to try. Please?” You pout at him and his resolve immediately begins to crack. Still, he shakes his head.

“Tonight’s supposed to be about you, sweetheart. Thought I told you not to do anything just ‘cause you thought I might like it?”

“I mean, would you like it?”

He looks a little baffled at your question.

“What? I don’t see how that’s relevant.” He seems genuinely perplexed, like he can’t wrap his head around why his opinion on this would even matter. You glare at him and he concedes, rolling his eyes and holding his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright, fine…I’d be an idiot if I said I hadn’t thought about it before,” he says with a cough, sounding almost shy for the first time tonight.

Your eyes widen. You’re not entirely sure if he means he thought about it tonight, or if he means that he’s been thinking about you blowing him even before this unexpected turn in your relationship. Either way, his sudden bashfulness makes your heart swell with affection for him, and only makes you more determined to get your tongue on him.

“You said tonight was about what I want,” you tell him, dropping from your chair and onto the floor. Rocket wavers, watching you with round eyes. He then sighs, rolls his eyes, and brings your clothes over so you have a soft place to kneel.

You stifle a grin—he’s so sweet.

He stares at the clothes, seemingly unsatisfied, then unwraps his red scarf from his neck and adds it to the pile. You shoot him a dazzling smile and kneel on top of the fabric, testing the waters by placing both hands on his thighs. You can feel the way the strong cords of muscle in his legs contract under your palms. When he doesn’t move away, you bring a hand up to rest on the bridge of his cock where it tents his pants. It surprises you how thick and rigid it feels, and how responsive too—his dick jumps under your touch. You lick your lips and Rocket’s eyes grow heavy.

“What I want,” you continue, nuzzling your face into the thick length of him, “is you in my mouth.”

Rocket lets out a shaky exhale, and runs his hand through your hair. “Well shit, princess. How am I s’posed to say no to that?”

You smile in victory and begin to press shy, chaste kisses against him through his pants, trying to mimic the slow, unhurried way he’d lavished his attention into your cunt earlier. Rocket lets you explore, humming appreciatively before stepping back to undo some of the straps on his clothing and partially undressing. Once he’s rolled his jumpsuit down his torso, letting it hang lowly on his hips, he pulls you up and tucks the make-shift cushion of clothing under his other arm. He then settles back into the pilot’s chair, dropping the clothes onto the space in front of him, and beckons you forward.

Nervousness suddenly racks through you as you approach. You’re worried you won’t be very good.

All of your knowledge about this sort of thing is limited to what you’ve read about in your datapads and occasionally glimpsed in some of the raunchier holovids out there—certainly nothing true to life, and definitely nothing that’ll translate into any sort of skill.

Rocket senses your apprehension, and pats his thigh. “Hey. C’mere,” he says, taking your chin in his hand and tilting your head up to look at him once you’ve settled between his legs. “You’re so perfect. So pretty. So frickin’ eager to please, too. Hard for me not to wanna take advantage.”

You settle your hands on his thighs. “You might have to show me how to do this,” you confess.

“…That’s not a problem, sweetheart,” he says roughly. The depth of his voice sends pleasant shivers rolling down your spine. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know, and then some.”

He nods towards the tent of his pants and waits for you to move.

You reach forward and begin to free his length, fumbling a little with the fabric. Rocket doesn’t laugh or tease you; he just huffs and smiles softly, running his hand through your hair. Your breath stutters and your eyes widen once you’re faced with his cock. It stands rigidly before you, hot and curved; a slick line of precum rolls down his shaft, pooling into his fur.

You lean in curiously, eyes wide and a little manic, and his dick twitches at your nearness. The tip is blush pink and swollen; your eyes are immediately drawn to the sparkling bead of dewy liquid seeping from it. You take a finger and press it to the tip experimentally, tracing your finger down a vein and collecting some of the liquid that seeps out of his cock.

When you pull back, the sticky fluid connects your finger to his length in a line. You look dazedly at it for a moment before popping your finger into your mouth.

Hm. It’s salty.

Rocket chokes on his own breath above you, swearing lowly.

You flush, looking down at the floor.

“Hey—none of that. Eyes on me,” he instructs. You drag your gaze back upward. He sighs, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Good girl. Go ahead and spit on it a few times. Lap it up; get it nice and wet.”

Okay. Easy. You can do that…you think.

You hesitantly run your tongue across the head, and Rocket groans at the contact, spurring you on further. You press soft, open-mouthed kisses against his shaft, letting drool spill from your mouth until his length glistens under the low light. His dick twitches, more precum spilling from the tip as you move to suck it into your mouth, letting it slip back out with a pop.

You furrow your brows and scrunch up your face in concentration, glancing up at him to look for signs of his approval.

Rocket snorts above you.

You pause, tongue still halfway out of your mouth, and look up at him questioningly.

“You look so serious down there,” he says, brushing your hair out of your face and tucking it behind your ear. He pokes the crease between your brows fondly, then smooths it over with his thumb. “You’re thinkin’ too much. I promise you’re doing frickin’ amazing. Giving me the prettiest fuckin’ show.”

He takes a little bit of his own precum from his tip, and thumbs it into your mouth. You accept the offering eagerly, eyes closed, then focus once more on his hardness.

You lap at him intently, giving him sweet little licks interspersed with sloppy kisses, making sure to trail your tongue along a bulging vein that runs along the side of his cock. Then you spit on him, letting saliva drip down his shaft. You work until his cock has a slick sheen to it; you can hardly even maneuver around him now without getting spit all over your face but you kind of like it. You like the way you can feel his muscles tense under your hands as you press your mouth against him, and the way sighs rack his body as you move, and the way his dick twitches against your lips and your face.

“You’re so gorgeous, slobbering all over my dick like that. You look like a mess,” Rocket tells you with a sigh. “I’m such a lucky bastard.” You smile and leave another wet kiss on the center of his shaft, and he shivers. “Why don’t you try wrapping your hand around it? Not too tight.”

You close your fist around his length experimentally, testing feel of his girth in your palm. You give it a gentle stroke upward and back down—a slick noise travels throughout the room as your palm slides against him.

He groans, then wraps his hand around yours. “Here—lemme show you.” He guides you into a gentle rhythm, showing you how tightly to grip him, how to twist your wrist as you slide your fist up and down his cock. He lets go and allows you to try for yourself. His hips stutter almost imperceptibly as you run your hand along his length. You pause for a moment, rubbing your thumb against the sensitive area where the bottom of his head meets his shaft, and Rocket’s hips cant upward once more.

He groans, then asks, “You wanna try sucking on it?”

“Um, yes. Do I just…?” You gesture vaguely. Rocket chuckles, giving you an affectionate pat on the head.

“You’re so flarkin’ cute. Yeah, just put it in your mouth and suck a little on your way back up. Use your hands on whatever you can’t reach. Mind your teeth.”

“Got it,” you say with a nod, heeding his advice with the same solemnity that you would on the battlefield. Rocket rolls his eyes at your seriousness, but still grins down at you indulgently.

You delicately wrap your lips around the tip of his cock, then sink down his length, trying to breath through your nose. Rocket sighs, tangling a hand into your hair. His claws scrape pleasantly against your scalp.

You begin to bob up and down shallowly, twisting your hand around the base, enjoying the way he fills up your mouth. Your senses are flooded with him and the way his cock feels pressed against your tongue, rigid and salty and warm. Overeager, you quickly attempt to force yourself down even further, only for your throat to reject him with a gag. You pull your mouth off of him with a gasp, coughing and teary-eyed.

“Whoa—slow down, sweetheart. You okay?” His eyes are wide as he strokes a hand soothingly through your hair.

You nod, clearing your throat with a giggle. “Whoops.” Your eyes are a little watery when you smile up at him, and he traces a knuckle along your cheek to catch a stray tear.

Rocket looks at you darkly.

“You know, as pretty as you look choking on it, that might be a li’l too advanced for you right now.” He considers you, on your knees between his legs, lips wet and sticky, eyes teary, eager to stuff his cock back into your mouth. A vicious smile spreads across his face. “But maybe some other time. We’ll train that gag reflex right out of you,” he croons. “Not that the way your mouth feels ain’t already real impressive. Seems like lovin’ dick comes naturally to you, princess.”

You glower at him, moving to lave open-mouthed kisses against his shaft again. “You talk too much.”

“Do I?” Rocket tuts at you with mock offense. “Don’t act like you don’t love it,” he says, guiding your mouth back onto his length.

You allow him to maneuver you, humming around him as you attempt to stifle a moan. He grunts and bucks his hips into your mouth as the vibration of your voice carries throughout his cock, and you hold still for him, doing your best to control your breathing. Drool spills out from the seams between where the plush of your lips meet the pulsing length of his cock.

As you gain more confidence, you begin to bob your head up and down with more vigor, sinking lower and lower every time.

Rocket taps your cheek to get your attention and places his hand on your head once again; he’s not pushing down, but his grip is firm. You still your movements and look up at him, his cock still halfway down your throat as you hum questioningly around him. He sucks in a shaky breath at the sight of you, before drawling his encouragement.

“Come on. All the way down,” he says a little raggedly. You slowly attempt to sink your mouth further onto his cock. Your vision is filled with the fur on his abdomen, and his heady musk fills your brain dizzyingly. You press your tongue against him in your mouth, working him deeper down your throat. “Uh huh. Little further, princess. You can do it.”

You whimper and push yourself to your limits, only stopping when your nose is pressed against the fur at his crotch. “There we go. A fuckin’ natural. ‘s like you were born to fit cock in your mouth,” he moans, and you swallow around him. Rocket lets out a choked groan and holds you there for a second, before pulling you off of him, a line of drool connecting your mouth to the tip of his cock. You sputter, and smile shakily up at him.

“I must be frickin’ dreaming,” he pants, stroking his cock while he looks down at you kneeling before him.

You giggle deliriously, leaning forward to lave a playful lick against him while he works his own cock. He twitches and bucks his hips up into the air, rubbing the head of his cock into your tongue for a moment, before gently pushing you away.

You frown. “Is something wrong?”

“What? No. Just, uh…Any more of this and I’ll probably be coming in your mouth.” He holds a hand up when you open your mouth in protest, grinning at you. “Maybe next time. Don’t want it to be your first.”

Your heart pounds. Next time? You will yourself not to get too excited at his offhand comment, but…if the both of you live to see this through, you hope there will be many next times to come.

Rocket stretches and tucks himself into his pants, letting his tail brush against your lower back as he moves past you. You watch him dumbly. He turns and raises a brow, then holds a hand out to you, waving you upward.

“Let me take you to bed, sweetheart.”

You tilt your head, blinking owlishly. “We’re not gonna do it out here?”

Rocket shakes his head and looks around. He spots one of the jackets he has slung over one of the other chairs, then takes it and wraps it around you as he helps you to stand. Your knees wobble a little as you try to find your balance.

“Listen gorgeous, as much as I’d love to bend you over on my favorite part of the ship…” he starts, looking longingly at the surface of the flight console, “…I’m not gonna let your first time be out here on the frickin’ flight deck.”

“You sure? I might love it too,” you respond playfully. Rocket gives you an exasperated look.

“You deserve better than that. A real bed, for starters. Hell, I’d get you sheets made of Spartaxian silk and the most expensive bottles of imported wine I could find, if we had more time.” His expression softens. “Let me take care of you.” He holds his hand out again.

“Lead the way,” you smile.

You take his hand and let him guide you away.

—

Ao3 | Masterlist | If Only for Tonight Index

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