#the feeling of ice running through her veins melts because he is warm and comforting and familiar | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cynettic · 3 years ago

Note

I just read Kitsune reader x yan Scaramouche's fic, may I have gotten hooked on it? and of course, it's just perfect and that's why I'm here to lose a part two with nsfw, thank you in advance and understand if you refuse:3

Link to Part 1

Summary - Taking you captive, Scaramouche continues to see you as a pillar of support. Coming back home to have you there, always. Even if it meant chaining you up.

Pairings - F!Kitsune!Reader x Yan!Scaramouche

Warnings - Smut, slight noncon ( I tried to make it as consensual as possible but its difficult with yandere themes ), fingering, electricity play

Rating - NSFW

Penpal - Ahhh I'm actually beginning to get attached to this series, might end up writing a couple more posts with different hc and stuff. I hope you liked the post though, have a great day <3

A/N - The literal definition of the ‘stoic cruel boy who’s mean to everyone but you.’ Oh well, Scaramouche is ooc af, but I did change a few things in his backstory so its supposed to make sense for this story ;) Also- since we dont know Scaramouche’s actual name, I have the reader still… yknow, call him Scaramouche. Which is kinda weird cause its his harbinger name but oh well. Also, credit to @cycletr4in for proofreading it ;3

Taglist - @cursedraiden

Stay with Me pt.2

Scaramouche was a gentle captor.

In contrast to piercing eyes and harsh stares when it came to others, he had a soft spot for you. Like the ice that encased him whole melted at your touch, craving for the warmth only you could give him. For your arms around him, to play pretend and imagine he were a child, free, fearless, unbound. A child in your arms, safe and protected.

But you were held hostage, which meant that the chains around your wrists and legs held you down and secured you. Like you were bound to one spot like you’d always been, except this time you didn't have a choice.

You weren't waiting for the Kitsune Saiguu.

Hell, you didn't even have your vision.

This brought on resentment for the dark haired boy. You hated him, you despised him for holding you down under his own judgment. But at the same time, all you saw in him was a child, a little kid who hadn't had the time to grow up. The one who refused to do so because it was his only way to survive in the type of world he lived in. Hide behind that same facade he developed as a kid, snide remarks and unrelenting cruelty.

Just to come back to your arms, sobbing because he was still that child. Sobbing because he was still hurt. Sobbing because you were still his beacon of light, of hope.

He depended on you.

And as much as you built up harsh words to use against him, they dissolved in your mouth when you saw him. His vulnerability that he saved for you and you only. A deep part of you cared for him, a little too much.

Gentle fingers brushed through the locks of Scaramouche’s hair, twirling it around and playing with the strands. It was smooth, a small detail no one would have the chance to notice from the distance he put around himself and others. A quiet hum left his lips as he leaned against your chest, eyes fluttering closed against the soothing feeling of you against him.

The lavish silk sheets were soft against your skin, pillow pushing your form to sit up. Just enough to have Scaramouche in your arms, knees on either side of his body as his head rested under your chin. His chest rose and descended, almost on beat with yours, if not just a tad slower.

You hoped he wouldn't hear the way your heart thrummed against your chest.

Warmth, his body flushed against yours, the luxury of a bed and the small candlelight on your bedside. Different from what you’d grown into just on the side of the trail, sitting for decades. Or with your time with the Kitsune Saiguu, it was never this warm, never this gentle.

But this warmth ended at your beating heart, furiously blazing. Sending an urge of adrenaline through your body, whispering ‘run’ through your veins. A primal urge that would've had your hands around Scaramouche’s neck, till he was wrangling and dead.

Till you could escape.

Hand slowly sliding down his jawline, you let your gentle fingers ghost along the soft skin of his neck. Claws outstretched and ready, sharp and pointed with a deadly intent to kill. You could end him so quickly, overturn his trust and make an escape. You deserved it, you deserved freedom. Not a delusional boy who thought himself protector against someone who’s lived decades more than him.

Jolting at the sensation of a soft grip on your wrist, you watched with idle fascination as he simply cupped your wrist in his hold. Not stopping you, not restraining you, he simply brought your hand to his face. To his lips where he pressed the softest of kisses into your palm. So heartfelt and genuine that all you could do was freeze, not even considering clawing his face.

“I love you.”

You both stayed in that position for a few moments more, silence cradling the tension that slowly dissipated from your body. Forlorn eyes watching as he shift the angle of your wrist to kiss your fingertips. He wasn't waiting for an answer, basking in these soft moments where he could hide in your hold. Like a child, forced to grow up too quickly, yearning back for his foolish naivety, yearning for the childhood he missed.

You were that childhood.

Which is why he clung to you so dearly, showed expressions he didnt know he could make, hold you captive under the impression that it was ‘right.’ What he was doing was okay.

Claws retracted, you pursued your lips, holding back the tears of frustration that burned at your eyes. You hated him, hated him for the chains on your wrists, for the disappearance of your vision that you’d given so much value to. Hated him for the warmth he still made you feel.

You hated him.

You felt like a housewife in some respects. Not with the cleaning and cooking part, and of course no children were part of the equation. But in terms of support, you stayed rooted to that room, loose chains too strong for you to break or tug holding you down. Window was too far, and you were stuck moving around the bed and the desk that sat just a little farther away.

Attempts at having your vision back or more freedom in movement had been discussed with Scaramouche, but as childlike and free as he acted with you, he was not an idiot.

“I don’t plan on underestimating you,” was his answer, head resting on the plush of your chest. “You’re strong, always were. But I have to take extremes to make sure you don’t get hurt, some people out there are stronger than you.”

You wanted to point out that there were a ton of people stronger than him as well, but you kept your mouth shut. “Can I at least see the house? I’ve been cooped up here for so long…”

And he cant say no to such an innocent request as that right?

So he unlocks the chains, the vision at his side reminding you that he was strong. You solely knew that he’d been tough as a kid, and under the intensive training he’d seemed to endure, he was much much stronger. You werent willing to give it a go and lose his trust just yet.

Not like he really trusted you anyways-

At the very least, you’d hoped to get some sort of blueprint of the house, and all you’d received was confusion and your mind making up that the house itself was a maze.

“Didnt we… just pass through here?”

Glancing at the obvious frustration on your face, Scaramouche chuckled, pulling your arm through the hallways you swear you’d seen three times prior. “Nope, most of the hallways look pretty similar. The house wasn't built for dumbasses.”

You flashed him a look and were about to make some snideish rebuttal before you saw the smirk. You knew what he was doing, trying to comfort you with casual arguments you both used to have. Consisting of you telling him to work on his people skills, and him calling you a lazy ass. Of course you missed it, but you also knew you couldn't go back to it.

And then there was the issue when you learned that he was a harbinger.

A scene you didnt want to replay in your head, when a maid burst into your room, Scaramouche acting a tad more intimate. He had an awful tendency to do that, hug your waist and press his face against the crook of your neck. Press gentle kisses down the length of your shoulder that had you shuddering. You weren't used to intimacy, and considering you’d watched him grow up, it was just weird.

Stuttering, the maid had demanded that he was requested by the Tsarista. You’d seen the fear in her eyes when Scaramouche slowly turned to her, seen the unshakable immobility of standing under his gaze.

“Do not enter.” He said, “It’s on the door.”

That was the first time you’d seen Scaramouche kill.

You hoped it’d be the last.

But you’d seen death before, so much death in the time of the Kitsune Saiguu. And for a few seconds, you found yourself fearless as you yanked against the chains, yelling at his figure at the doorway.

“Tsarista?” You snarled, standing just a few feet away from him. His hand on the girls neck, clenching around the pretty skin of hers. Disgusted, the chains that held you back from closing the gap and throwing the girl away from him were impossible to overcome. “Why the hell does she need you?!”

‘Let go,’ you wanted to say. ‘Let her go, she’s going to die.’

It worked, because the ironclad grip was gone, the maid tumbling to the ground lifelessly. You’d been too late, and now her blood was on his hands, your hands. This was your fault and you had half the self control not to thrash against the chains with sharp claws, hands on his neck.

The hard steel gaze vanished in an instant, and like he’d regained his senses, he took a few steps to you. Hands clenching to fists before loosening to fingertips brushing against his palms. Confusion, regret and guilt clouded his features like a child waiting to be reprimanded. You didn't back away, stood firm and fierce when standing and keeping a tough front.

You wanted to cry.

“Its… its a long story.” He finally stated to your question, and when you didnt budge, he took a deep breath. In control again, he closed the distance between the two of you, “I’m sorry.” And that same thrum of electricity jolted through your body, sending you into a spiral of the girls lifeless eyes and Scaramouche’s childlike eyes. Till everything went black.

You woke up with the body gone. Scaramouche was gone as well.

You learned that Scaramouche liked to have things his way. Which meant that he was always in control, always had control of every situation.

Even in those short stretches of vulnerability when he rested in your arms, he still held something over you. And you had to adapt, shift for his wishes, coddle him and stay as his beacon. Because he was stronger, and even if you’d find some way to escape, he would find you.

It was odd, and you slowly let go of the image of him as a child, you knew he was a lot older. He’d probably reached the age your body was stuck in, and with every sweet kiss he pressed to your lips, you knew he saw you as some sort of lover. But as someone who wasn't in control, you simply had to play along, just until you found some way to make your escape.

Without killing him.

_-_-_-_-_

“Strip.”

Laying on one side of the bed, your eyes jolted open at the commanding voice. Slowly, you sat up, eyeing the dim figure at the doorway. Without the help of a candle or the moonlight at the window, you could distinguish Scaramouche at the doorway, taking off the large headpiece as he flung it to the ground.

“Excuse me…?” Your voice was soft, rusty after an evening nap.

“I’ll make you feel good,” was his only answer. Slowly making his way to the bedside till he could properly face you. His eyes were soft, but there was an odd sort of determination that you hadnt seen before. You held back his stare, confusion lacing your features when he suddenly started pulling off loose decorations that hung on his clothes. Just till he unlaced the vest and slid off his shirt. “Don’t worry.” But you didnt know quite what he meant until he leaned further to you, catching you off guard.

So you yelped when his hands suddenly slammed down on your shoulders, shifting you to have access to the buttons of your top layer. He was quick when undoing them, simply swatting away at your hands when you protested and tried to pull him away. Throwing it to the edge of the room when he was done, you could only thrash in horror when he undid your trousers just as quickly, pulling them down before you could grab them back up.

“Scaramouche? Hey-”

And then he threw you down on the bed, exposing you in your undergarments in the cool air of the room. Shivers crept up your spine and bristled across your skin, and before you could curl up to at the very least hide away, you felt a tug at your chains. Fear finally settled in when you saw Scaramouche attach the chain to the bedpost, until your hand was lifted up and he began to do the same to the other.

“Wait wait wait, stop and explain what you’re-”

Only then did he pause from what he was doing, slowly looking down to properly face you. His eyes slid up and down your body, and he took a step towards you. “I’ll make you feel good,” were his only words, and you were forced to take them as all he was planning on giving you. Only when he sat on the bed next to you did you realize what he meant, hand settling on your shoulder, waiting.

“Alright,” you said slowly. Painfully, the words bit your tongue, but you were merciless against someone who had control against the situation. You could say no and you knew Scaramouche would stop, he was gentle to you and you only. And even if he’d been firm just before, you knew that he’d still stop if you asked him to.

A part of you felt thrilled to have that power over him.

Another part of you just wanted to escape.

But you didnt have any hope to do so unless you were willing too give him everything. Because he expected everything and would do anything in his power to obtain it. You’d let him fiddle around with this delusion, thinking that he had control. Until he didnt.

Which is why you didnt flinch when his hand gently slid up your stomach, cold against the warmth you’d had under the blankets. Rubbing gingerly against your skin and drawing smooth shapes over before he slowly slid over your body. His eyes seemed to glint under the darkness of the room, lust filled and wanting.

You didnt shift uncomfortably, you pretended to be that doll he expected you to be.

Just staring up at him as he slowly leaned down to kiss you. His lips felt like snowflakes on a winters day, idly swaying side to side to catch one in your mouth. Jolting like electricity when they melted into your touch, red and swollen when he pulled back. You now vividly felt every touch, as if a current flowed and static jittered in the places he briefly brushed his fingertips.

“You always take such good care of me,” he breathed, lips slowly drifting down your chin. Just past your jawline and right on your neck. The space between your head and shoulder, a soft vulnerable spot that had your lips humming at the affectionate pressure. “Its my turn to take care of you.”

And then his lips were everywhere, collarbone, shoulders, cleavage. Just until his teeth were tugging off your bra, face nuzzled in between both breasts. Both of his hands now resided on your hips, grabbing both thighs to hold them up and against him. You could feel him hard, pressing so close to your heated core.

You managed to keep your reactions in check.

Just until he slowly grinded against you, mouth on your breasts as he again pecked the soft mounds, molding his lips against them as if he could remember the texture, memorize the feel. It was just to that point that mindless sounds slipped past your lips, turning to gasps when his hands on your thighs suddenly buzzed, and static rushed in. Your legs felt weak, entire body thrumming in response to the electricity he sent jolting.

He was using his vision.

The realization was numb against his lips on your breasts, hands slowly stroking the skin of your sides, travelling up. He hovered over you for mere seconds before mashing his lips against you once more, different. He was no longer gentle, and it was with the contact on your tail that you lost all control. When he gently moved it out of the way, backing up.

You were a mess.

Not that you tried to be, you’d been doing your best not to enjoy his touch. But it was hard when your core heated up so fast, mashing both legs together in hopes he wouldn't notice. You knew he would, any action beyond that was just you trying to save your dignity.

He sat there like he was enjoying the sight, the first time you’d seen him actually portray any visual confirmation of satisfaction towards the chains. He’d drink dry any ounce of control you gave him, and it was impossible not to give him it all when you were visionless and vulnerable.

But the dignity you struggled so hard to keep shattered when his hands brushed against your inner thigh.

Fingers slowly made their way to the padded fabric of your undergarments, two digits rubbing the area slowly with expertise. You bit your lip, muffling any groan of anticipation, hiding the way your hips tried to rock back into the gesture. Desperate, oh so desperate. Hiding back the whimpers as he slowly quickened the pace of his fingers against your garments. “Archons Y/n,” he murmured. “I haven't even put anything in and you’re already a squirming mess.”

“Shut u-up,” was all you managed, trying to shift away from the pressure against your clit. But his other hand was on your hip, holding in place. You could only watch and press your thighs tightly together as he slowly slid down your panties, resuming hovering over you. Distracting you with kisses, his fingers gently stroked your core, two fingers slowly sliding into your cunt using your juices.

He was gentle when pumping both fingers in and out, too slow when you thrust your hips to meet his fingers, pleading for him to go faster. But he liked hearing your cries, slowing down when you begged, quickening when you whined and just lay there, taking it.

You shuddered the first time electricity jolted from his digits.

It was when he had three fingers that he sent the static up your body, back arching with such intensity that it even had him chuckling. “Oh? You like it that much?” And then it is like something buzzed against your body, fingers vibrating against your clit as your thighs tightened around his hand. So much that you thought you’d crush it, but it didn't matter, not with the electrifying feeling against your body. It felt so odd, so overwhelmingly good that it had your legs sliding up and down the bedside, toes curling as the static grew and you fell paralyzed to his touch.

It didn't take long with his fingers thrusting in and out of you to cum. Moaning mess when he gave you the time to breathe, teeth biting your bottom lip and then mashing against yours. Your eyes grew fuzzy and most happened in a haze, and all you knew the entire time was that you’d given yourself to him, and that it felt good. You couldn't see the childlike wonder in his eyes anymore, not the need of a beacon or of support. No, the look he shared was feral, the smile tinting his lips almost scary. But it felt too good to care, and you let yourself enjoy his ministrations.

He pulled out and suddenly his own shorts were undone, boxers thrown to the side of the room just like all your other clothing. You didn't see how big he was, just felt his hard shaft against your throbbing cunt, pussy dripping and legs open wide and tired after your first go at it.

You expected him to be gentle like he’d been with his fingers. But he pressed the tip against your core, and in one full motion he was in. Teeth grinding against each other, you held back a scream, shock coursing through your body, overwhelmed with pain and discomfort. It hurt. But it was quickly overshadowed by his movements as he slid in and out of you, slow when pulling his hips back, and rocking himself completely inside you each time. A pattern that let you catch your breath and lose it all the same. Like he was continuously having a go at hitting the deepest parts of you, pulling back before fully thrusting into you and sending waves of pleasure and pain alike.

It was expected, but you couldnt hear yourself.

Not with your mind trapped in a haze of how he felt, body still buzzing after how he’d pulsed his vision through you. And now you were at the mercy of his member, hips swaying along with his, no energy for you to rock with him and try to push him deeper.

Archons, you didn't even think he could go deeper.

But you were proven wrong again and again as he kept the steady pace, hands clawing at your ass and hips. Stabilizing himself and trying to press himself against you, as far as he could go. Slowly, his hands drifted up to your hair, playing with the soft sensation of your furry ears. Pinching and rubbing, fingers coaxing the back of them like a massage. So gentle, but it paled in comparison to the harsh treatment of his dick.

You came first, gripping the chain with your hands in an attempt to stay stable. Walls clenching around him one last time before you got your release, your moans turning into cries when he continued to thrust into you. Your body felt numb, all nerves centred on the way he pounded into you, chasing his own release.

When he did, he pressed his head into your chest, his own breaths heavy with pleasure. Not pulling out, you could only lay there helplessly as his seed filled you, warm in contrast to the electricity he’d shot up your body just earlier. He didnt pull out, and laying in your chest, your heavy breathing didnt stop until he was asleep, collapsing on you and using you as support yet again.

Taking only a minute later to regain control of your senses, you shifted uncontrollably at his member inside of you, sending waves of pleasure every time you moved. Your wrists were restrained and you were stuck in this position till morning.

Achingly, you looked down at the boy, wondering how you would ever manage to escape.

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roanniom · 4 years ago

Text

The Night That Follows

Poe Dameron x Reader

Word Count: 8,000~

Summary: While celebrating a successful mission, you and Poe accidently ingest a mysterious beverage that makes it hard to resist one another, helping you forget the stress that weighs you down and the friendship that you’ve been holding between you two as a shield.

Note: This is my first ever non-ADCU fic and it is dedicated to the ever lovely and supportive @paper-n-ashes who urged me to get out of my comfort zone and cheered me on.

Warnings: NSFW, dirty talk, alcohol consumption, sex pollen, drugged drink (it’s drugged with the sex pollen by a 3rd party and not with malicious intent but it still might be triggering), masturbation (f/m), PIV sex, unprotected sex, war-related angst

When people talk about war, they often discuss the paralyzing fear, the numbing depression. Hopelessness that spreads through your veins like cold water as you face immeasurable odds and stare death in the face day after day. And you can attest to these feelings. You experience them with each dawn that breaks, muddy in the sky regardless of the atmosphere shrouding whatever planet you find yourself waking on each morning. Your life is transient, full of ships and bases and camps. The constants are the clothes on your back, the friends in your squadron (those who survive), and the x-wing you hop in each time danger calls.

The other constant is the part of war that people do not discuss. The rush of adrenaline every time you make it out of a tough scrape. Adrenaline that burns your veins, evaporating the icy hopelessness that had flooded you up until the minute your boots hit turf and your jellied knees catch up to the reality that you are still very much alive. The euphoria that crackles in your brain when you spy your best mate zooming down from above, finally landing and throwing themselves into your arms in the hug you never thought you’d experience again after their coms had gone down in a fire fight. The absolute debauchery of a night of celebration after such a fire fight. Because nobody needs to live quite as much as those who may die.

Which is how you find yourself here, on this non-descript jungle planet, the name of which you didn’t catch during your descent because honestly there have been so many jungle planets and they have all become little more than coordinates on a screen to you at this point. You and your squad have been set up with a mini-festival by the resistance-sympathizing locals as a thank you for your recent decimation of their First Order oppressors. The operation had been pretty seamless, thanks in no small part to the excellent teamwork between you and a one Poe Dameron.

Your flying today had rivaled some of his best, which is certainly saying something since Poe prides himself on being the best pilot in the resistance. You certainly gave him a run for his money, outflying TIE fighters and swiveling shuttle cannons in a perfectly choreographed tandem maneuver wherein the two of you manipulated your assailants to ultimately destroy themselves.

As you knock back a burning shot of the local alcoholic beverage, the liquid tingling and warming you all the way down, you search the triumphant crowd for the cocky pilot who had helped you set the stage for this celebration. You wouldn’t dwell on the earlier events of the day much more tonight. Wouldn’t think much of the comrades you’d lost in the struggle. That was an ache that would throb back to life tomorrow. Tonight, the priority is living.

It is then that you lock eyes with Poe Dameron through the throngs of semi-drunken revelers. His handsome face splits into a wide, cocky grin, so you adopt an exasperated smirk in response as he pushes his way towards you. Such is the game you play. A dance, if you will. Poe plays the role of the self-assured, overly confident golden boy while you, his long suffering partner, humble him with your good-natured criticism and ever rolling eyes.

“Alright there, Sweets?” Poe practically drawls as he reaches you, the nickname both a term of endearment and a teasing reference to the sweet tooth that keeps you hoarding candies of all kinds in your bunk, much to Poe’s own benefit. You beam up at him and upend your little glass to demonstrate its emptiness.

“On my way there, Fly Boy.”

“Looks like you’re falling behind, rookie. Like you did on that triple barrel twist today.”

You throw a punch that lands a little too lightly on his shoulder to produce the grunt and showy flail that he graces you with.

“First of all, you’re not allowed to call me rookie anymore. Your dumb ass might need to be constantly reassured that you’re ‘best pilot in the resistance,’ but by now I am, at worst, second best.” Your gut warms and you’re not sure if it’s the drink or Poe’s deep, full-bodied laugh in response. “And second of all, we don’t talk about the day if we make it to the night.”

Poe almost seems to sober at your words, a phrase of his tossed back at him. The smile remains, though, and he tosses an arm around you before dragging you over to the table that’s been set up with refreshments.

“Right you are, Sweets,” Poe agrees quietly. Louder now and injecting you two into the crowd surrounding the cluster of bottles, he continues, “as for you being second best pilot, I’d rather let the squad decide before you go getting a head too big to fit in your helmet.”

This receives a laugh from the crowd as well as another smattering of slaps thrown towards Poe’s chest.

“Dameron, we all know you already have your own helmet custom made so you can stuff that massive ego in there,” your friend Myrna.

“And those curls,” you add, reaching up and ruffling your hand through his hair in that way that always makes his nose scrunch up in mock anger.

“If you must know, there’s something else they also have to custom make me…” Poe says, grabbing your wrist and forcing your hand to slide down his chest towards the bottom of his flight suit zipper and wiggling his eyebrows. You shriek and yank your hand away.

“In your dreams, Dameron.” Poe leans down toward you so that his face is close enough for you to feel his breath fan across your cheeks.

“Or perhaps in yours?”

Suddenly a small, wrinkled face appears between you. It’s an elderly female member of the local alien race and she’s beaming up at you, holding two steaming mugs and smiling around a garbled statement in a language you don’t recognize.

“Oh I’m sorry, I’m not sure I…” you interrupt her, glancing awkwardly between her massive eyes and Poe’s confused ones.

“I might be able to translate!” Myrna cries out, stumbling forward with a newly refilled glass in her hand.

“You sure that’s not just the liquor talking?” Poe asks with a chuckle. Myrna waves him off and kneels unsteadily to listen to the old woman. More garbled speech issues forward as the woman gestures between you and Poe with her mugs. Myrna nods several times and gives little hums of agreement and affirmation. You and Poe trade glances of amusement during the interaction, but you have to look away when the upturned corner of Poe’s mouth begins to distract you.

“Alright alright,” Myrna pipes up. You turn back in time to see Myrna standing back up to her full height, now holding the two mugs, while the woman waddles back into the crowd.

“What’s the deal?” Poe asks, slinging his arm back around your shoulders. You resist the knee jerk actions that come to mind, both to slap his touch away and to lean into it, standing rigid instead.

“She said these are for you,” Myrna says, pushing the steaming mugs into your hands and Poe’s.

“Did she say why?” You peer at the milky, opalescent contents curiously. Myrna has already moved on, however, turning back to the pilot she’d been hanging on before you and Poe had approached. You look to Poe but he shrugs.

“I don’t know, something about you guys deserving it.” Myrna waves her hand dismissively, obviously ready to get back to her own evening. You look up at Poe, unsure, but he’s nodding and smiling.

“Hear that, Sweets? Seems like word travels fast that we’re the top two pilots,” Poe says cheekily, clinking his mug to yours before throwing back his head and downing its contents in one gulp. Your insides ignite at his acknowledgment, as well as the bob of his adam’s apple, but your eyes still flit warily to your beverage.

“We don’t even know what it is and you’re drinking it?”

“Honey, I’m pretty sure that liquor we were taking shots of earlier was actually jet fuel, I don’t think we need to be too worried about this.” Poe smacks his lips and runs his finger around the inside of the mug. “And besides, it’s really kriffing good.”

Watching the way his cheeks hollow out as he sucks the last dregs of his drink from his finger makes a heat boil in the pit of the stomach. You decide you actually are quite thirsty, and since your curiosity is stronger than your apprehension, you knock the liquid back yourself.

“Atta girl!” Poe cheers you on, nudging you. The drink is sweet and thick on your tongue like a melted version of the ice cream you’d tasted once, many years ago. You can still remember the creamy texture, very much worth the credits paid to the traveling vendor who’d brought it to your village during the hottest summer of your childhood. As you swallow this liquid down, however, its cold temperature changes into a burn, similar to alcohol, though smoother than any liquor you’d ever had.

“Good, right?” Poe asks, eyebrows raised. You nod and lick your lips, sure that you’re imagining things when Poe’s eyes flicker down to your darting tongue.

“That was actually pretty good,” you concede with a grin.

“So what have we learned tonight?” Poe prompts, grabbing your mug from your hands and placing it next to his on a nearby table. You shake your head.

“Your cockiness extends to believing locals on a miniscule planet find you special?”

“The correct answer was ‘always give things a chance,’ Sweets, but you can continue being closeminded if you want,” Poe responds with a chuckle. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and makes to walk away.

“Fine!” You reach out and grab his arm before he can leave. When he rounds back on you with a wide smile you roll your eyes and refuse eye contact. “And just so you know, I’m a lot more open minded than you think, Dameron.”

“Is that so, rookie?” You bristle but as the glee raises in his eyes at your reaction you do your best to tamp it down.

“I’m…flexible,” you say, your grin begrudging. A hubbub breaks out beyond you in the crowd as the makeshift band that had assembled to play party music transitions to a particularly festive song, causing both you and Poe to watch as people begin forming an impromptu dance floor. When Poe turns back at you and raises his eyebrows, expectant, you throw up your hands defensively.

“No. Don’t look at me like that, Fly Boy,” you’re quick to say, but Poe’s even quicker, having already grabbed you by the hand and pulled you to him. Your body collides with his and his other hand finds the dip of your waist.

“Oh I’m sorry, what was that I just heard someone say about being open minded?” Poe asks. In a sudden fluid motion he dips you, bending you over so that your back is parallel to the ground and his face hovers over yours. “Being flexible?”

You let him pull you back up and steady yourself with a hand on his chest to catch your balance, dizzy now, most likely from the suddenness of the motion. You’re about to toss back a witty retort, possibly something that will knock him down a few pegs, but then you catch the glint in his eye and a smile spreads across your lips unbidden.

“You get one dance, Dameron.”

~*~

One dance turned into many, as it turns out. The band, upon realizing their audience’s appetite for raucous music, had begun a steady rotation of upbeat tunes. The dance floor had expanded, spilling out of its original confines in the center of the town square and into the concession areas on the perimeter. Resistance members danced and drank, their bodies jumping and moving to the beat in one chaotic mass of excess energy and euphoria. Bodies writhe against one another in all directions as people seek out friction that can confirm to them that they did indeed survive the day’s trials.

You’re experiencing friction of your own in your little portion of the dance floor. Where things had started out innocently – energetic bouncing to the beat and moving in unison – the tone had long changed. At this point Poe is behind you, arms slung dangerously low on your hips to hold you against him, hands pressed right above your pelvis. The feeling of his chest pressing against your back, his hips bracketing your ass – you’ve lost yourself in the sensations. The rhythm of the music shakes through your muscles but instead of tense and tired, they’re loose and buzzing.

Though truth be told, they aren’t the only thing buzzing. The proximity of Poe’s hands to your lower body feels charged like a magnet. Without thinking you press your hands over the backs of his, encouraging pressure on your lower abdomen. You swear you hear Poe growl behind you has his hands pull you further to him, but it could also be the roar of the crowd. Your hips move in sync, your ass grinding against him in time with the music. Escapism in its purest form is what you’re experiencing in Poe’s arms, held against Poe’s body, matching Poe’s motions. It’s heady and distracting and everything you could ask for to make living feel like living, especially in the aftermath of a day centered on death. You’re content to let this moment last as long as the universe allows.

That is until you realize that the increasing beat you’d thought was a shift in the music is actually the rapid crescendo of your own heartbeat.

Swallowing you find your throat is thick, saliva pooling in your mouth inexplicably. You take a deep breath and allow your mind to reel. How long had you been feeling like this? Why hadn’t you noticed these feelings coming on?

One of the large hands at your hip begins sliding up along the plane of your side and you get your answer. The weight of his touch lights your skin on fire as it drags up and across your collar bone. Your breath feels ragged, rattling around in lungs that can’t seem to take in oxygen no matter how high your chest rises and falls. Poe’s hand lingers on your throat for a second so you swallow again, with even less luck than before. His hand reaches up to grip your jaw which he uses to turn your head back toward him.

Oh.

Poe continues to move behind you, his motions controlling you both on the floor, but his face is strained. Sweat dots his temples, gleaming in his curls, and his teeth seem gritted, making his jaw set at a striking angle. His eyes pin you down, however, and they keep your attention as you gaze back, wide-eyed.

“You okay, rookie?” Poe’s voice is deeper than normal, huskier. The way it reverberates through your body makes a rumbling bubble up deep inside your chest. The beginnings of a moan, perhaps? You’re quick to gasp a response before such a sound has a chance to make its way into the air between you.

“I’m…feeling quite strange.”

The hand still at your waist tightens its grip while the other rejoins on the opposite side. You have to gasp again to keep from moaning. Suddenly you’re being maneuvered forward, Poe’s guidance weaving you through the crowd with ease despite the congested revelry.

Neither of you see the way Myrna is watching you both with a knowing smirk from her place draped around her own handsome pilot beau. Or the way the little old woman who’d gifted you the beverage hovers on the outskirts of the dance floor, a proud look on her wrinkled face as she eyes your retreating figures.

~*~

You’re not really able to follow where Poe is directing you, mainly because of how the imprint of his hands on your body seems to be searing into your skin through your flight suit. While your accelerated heart rate was the thing you had been most worried about, now you are equally worried about the dull ache that has seated itself in the pit of your stomach. You bite down hard on your lip to keep the moan from spilling out, the one you’ve been suppressing since the moment you became conscious to your current discomfort.

When Poe’s stride finally slows to a stop only then are you able to take in your surroundings. Blinking, you’re surprised to find that you’re now outside of the town, far from the lights and bustle of the party, walking into the silent clearing that contains the squadron’s parked aircrafts.

“Why are we all the way out here?” you ask, unsettled by how deep your voice sounds in the darkness.

“Needed to get away from the crowd.” You’re even more unsettled by how breathless Poe’s voice is as he says his first words since the dance floor. So unsettled that you turn in his arms so you can finally take in his disheveled appearance fully.

“Are you okay?”

“I don’t know, it’s the weirdest thing. One minute everything was fine and the next…”

“You can’t catch your breath,” you finish for him and he nods gravely. Both of your chests are practically heaving, pressing into each other with each exhale. When you become aware of this, it also brings awareness of the way his chest pressed up against yours is also adding pressure to your nipples. Since when were your nipples hard? The night is balmy, a cool breeze barely able to disturb the moist warmth that settles in the jungle terrain. You feel sweat begin to collect on the back of your neck and your hairline, much like the sweat causing Poe to shine a bit in the moonlight. And yet your nipples are hard and a shudder runs through your body, nerve endings clearly ten steps ahead of you, taking in some experience to which you’d yet to catch up.

“Wait a minute, look at me,” Poe suddenly orders, his fingers wrapping around your chin to lift your face toward his. You freeze as he stares down at you, eyes widening at whatever he sees.

“What is it?” you ask, voice urgent, almost frightened.

“Your pupils are wide as planets,” he mutters, distracted fingers drawing up the side of your jaw to press to the pulse point at your throat. “Your heartbeat is out of control.”

“I haven’t been able to calm down,” you say, nodding but getting more worried by the second. “Why can’t I calm down? Are you feeling the same way?”

Poe’s mouth presses into a hard line and he turns away abruptly, head tilting down.

“Oh fuck.”

“What?” You try to pull him back toward you but he doesn’t budge.

“I think…we’ve been drugged.”

Your blood runs cold and a hand flies to cover your mouth. You’d known tonight was too good to be true. Your mind races, making connections out of thin air, trying to place when and where you could have possibly come in close enough proximity to First Order agents to be compromised.

“But what – how – what can we do? What is it? Is it deadly?” You’re cut off by a sound issuing from Poe’s now curved body. You wonder at first if it’s a sob, which makes sense because you’re about ready to cry yourself. But then you realize it’s a chuckle.

“I wouldn’t say deadly. Just exceedingly inconvenient.”

“So you know what it is then?” you prompt, tugging at his shoulder some more to try and see his face. “Tell me!”

“Well for starters I’m pretty sure it was that drink the old woman gave us.”

Fuck.

Of course. What was the one suspicious thing you’d ingested all day? The fact that you hadn’t thought about it sooner makes you want to kick yourself, but you press on instead, anxious to have the matter dealt with.

“What does it do?” You hate the tremor that colors your voice. At that Poe finally turns around and you take him in all at once, trying to assess what he could have been hiding. His tall, wide-legged stance makes it easy to notice after a few seconds. As your gaze moves lower on his body you finally see the massive tent forming below the zipper line of his flight suit.

Without even being able to mentally process what you’re looking at your body responds immediately. A rush of warmth and wetness floods the apex of your thighs and the moan that you’d so far been able to hold in finally makes it way out of your throat. Poe’s eyes, which had recently gone hooded, widen in response to the lewd sound. You clap a hand over your mouth and snap your eyes back up to his face, away from the rigid shape that had made the muscles inside you contract wantonly around nothing.

“It’s made from a plant that’s meant to accelerate sex drive,” Poe says matter-of-factly.

You almost don’t hear him because your eyes have already slid back down his body, feasting on the sight of his impressive bulge. You’d heard stories of Poe’s sexual prowess, many from the man’s own loud mouth. You knew he’d satisfied many members of the Resistance, male and female alike. But you had never truly let yourself consider what he’d be like. What he’d look like. What he’d feel like…

“Why would she possibly give that to us of all people?” You feel like you’re going to cry. The feelings coursing through your body are overwhelming.

“Maybe she went around spiking many people at the party. Maybe she just thought you and I would look hot together? You can’t blame her for that one.” Poe winks at you and it diffuses some of your angst. You let out a tense laugh and shake your head.

“How do we make it stop?” you force yourself to ask, just as you force yourself yet again to look back up in his eyes. Poe averts his own, a sheepish look overtaking his face. When he doesn’t answer you step forward and grab his arm in alarm, trying not to consider the way his bicep bulges under his sleeve. “Poe?!”

“We have to…take care of it.”

You’re launching yourself away from him before he can finish the sentence. You probably knew the answer before you’d even asked the question, but his words still sent electricity through your spine.

“We can’t. That’s…that’s crazy – you’re crazy, Dameron!”

“Hey, you think I like this? Standing here like an idiot with my dick so hard I can barely see straight?”

The sexual nature of his words, spoken so plainly and without euphemism for the first time, makes a new wave of wetness pool between your legs against your will.

“Don’t….talk about it,” you say through gritted teeth, closing your eyes in an attempt to center yourself.

“What? Don’t talk about my aching cock?” he asks, almost as a challenge. He’s frustrated now, egged on by your attitude.

“Stop it.”

“Are you about to tell me you aren’t wet right now?”

You turn your back on him in a childish and fruitless attempt at blocking out his words. When you don’t reply you hear his footsteps as he approaches from behind.

“If we’re both having the same reaction, and I’m certain we are, then I’d imagine you’re practically dripping right now.”

His words would have made your eyes cross if you didn’t have them shut so tightly. A hand molds around your hip while the other grasps at the side of your neck, both working in tandem to pull your back flush against his front. The impact, though gentle, knocks the wind out of you. Or whatever wind had been in you in the first place. His lips are at your ear then and you melt into his touch.

“If we take care of this together we’ll go back to normal.”

“…back to normal?” you ask, simply repeating and not really aware of your words.

“Exactly.”

“I…I don’t know.” Poe’s hardened length is pressing into your ass now, insistent and firm behind you. The hand on your hip migrates lower to pull you against him. A swivel of his hips causes your own to follow the momentum, gyrating in their own right.

“We can be quick,” Poe coos, his voice vibrating over your earlobe where his lips are making contact with your skin. Another low chuckle sounds. “Or I can take my time if you want. Either way, I can promise you’ll enjoy it.”

There’s your cocky Fly Boy.

You wrench yourself from his grasp and take a few steadying steps away before gaining the wherewithal to turn back and face him once more. He looks supremely disappointed, arms still outstretched in the place where you had just been.

“Does this really have to be a…team effort?” you ask, face screwed up with discomfort. Poe runs a hand through his hair and casts a distracted glance about your surroundings.

“I mean I guess theoretically one could take care of themselves – ”

“Great!” you cut him off and stalk around to the other side of his x-wing. Of course he’d brought you to his ship. You look around for your own but when you can’t find it you plop yourself down on the ground.

“Are you kriffing serious?” comes Poe’s angry voice behind you as he stomps over. “We could bang this out and feel better but you’re just going to – ”

“Oh ‘bang’ this out? Real nice, Dameron.”

“You know what I mean.” You can practically hear his eye roll.

“The other side,” you say simply, lowering the zipper on your flight suit. When you don’t hear the sound of his retreating footsteps, however, you pause. “Stay on the other side of the ship, Dameron.”

He grumbles but does as you say. When you finally hear the sound of him throwing himself to the ground, you lift the tab of your zipper again. However, the loud and sudden ziiiip indicating that he’s yanked open his own garment seems ring out then in the clearing and you’re inundated with mental images of what that must look like. Poe sprawled on the ground with his flight suit open and askew. You imagine the expanse of his chest, the way the muscle would ripple in the shadows of the jungle. You’d seen him without a shirt before, the arms of his flight suit tied at his waist as he reclined beneath his x-wing making repairs. Covered in sweat and grease. The memory and the subsequent lurid thoughts have you dipping your hand down into the small opening you’ve made in your clothes, not fully comfortable enough to expose yourself entirely to the elements. When you reach the place between your thighs you have to swallow the gasp that bursts forth at the realization that Poe had been right. You’re not just wet. You’re dripping.

“Fuck.”

You think you say it quietly but a chuckle from the other side of the ship proves otherwise.

“Need any help over there?”

You ignore him and try to focus in on your own body, closing your eyes. You allow a hand to ghost over your breast as you ease a finger through your folds. You feel the insistent thrumming of your pulse even down below and your breath is shallow in your chest. The images dancing behind your eyelids show you flashes, glimpses of things you try to banish from your mind. The angle of Poe’s jaw. His faint, ever present stubble. The arch of his eyebrow. The curve of his smirk. His ass in those pants.

“Sweets…”

Poe’s voice interrupts a whimper you hadn’t even realized you were releasing.

“Poe.” Your voice is small and it cracks around his name. Your muscles are contracting but nothing you do eases the sensation. It just continues building within you. “It hurts.”

“Just come over here. I don’t even have to touch you. Just let me help you through it.”

You ponder the darkness before you, the way it envelops the other aircrafts in this makeshift parking zone. You hear a shick shick shick behind you and your cunt aches. Completely in response to the siren call of Poe Dameron’s building pleasure. You’re immediately intensely jealous. Jealous of the way that, you assumed, he was having more luck getting himself off than you were, despite the fingers inside you right now. Jealous of the way his voice didn’t crack when he beckoned you over.

But most of all jealous of the fact that he’s the one currently touching his hard cock. Not you.

You will yourself to stand up, pulling your hand out of your flight suit but not bothering to zip it back up. On jelly legs you make your way to the other side of the ship. The far side, facing away from the town square and the distant glow of the party you’ve now forgotten.

As you round the edge of the x-wing you bite your lip at the sight before you. Poe is indeed sprawled out with his suit zipped all the way down. His thick member protrudes from the bottom of the opening, a fist moving up and down rapidly, pulling from root to flushed tip in skilled motions. However the eyes that gaze up at you from under his unruly mop of curly hair are not doused with pleasure and satisfaction as you’d imagined. Instead he looks pained, almost agonized. At the sight of you he sits up a bit and does his best to give you a reassuring smile though it comes out as more of a grimace.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful, rookie.”

“That’s the drink talking,” you dismiss, despite the way your stomach swoops as you move to settle yourself down next to him, careful not to make contact. “And you know I hate you calling me rookie.”

“I’ll call you anything you want, baby, as long as you start touching yourself.”

Your cunt pulses at his words so suddenly that you almost double over. Your breathing, already ragged, speeds up as you feel the overwhelming urge to have something deep inside you. Dropping your hand into the opening in your suit you halt, however, watching Poe warily in your peripheral vision. He catches you looking and reluctantly stills the hand moving on member.

“Would sitting back to back help?” he sighs. You nod, scrambling over so that your back is to his.

This is better. This is much better, you think as you dip your hand back between your legs and into the waiting slick. You drag a finger in tight circles over your clit and do your best to calm the racing thoughts that flit back to images of Poe’s body.

The body that is currently pressed to yours, though not at all in the manner you would prefer.

Poe grunts then, making you lose your rhythm.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve wanted you, you know.”

You cut your answering gasp off at the source, not daring to make a sound lest it interrupt this information that you desperately needed to here. He interprets your silence correctly and continues.

“I’ve thought about you. When I’m in the cockpit on my way to some distant planet. When not even hyper speed can get me there quick enough before thoughts of you creep in.” He almost sounds mad, but you get it. The emotions coursing through your body along with the hormones are driving you wild and you don’t know how to feel.

“What…what are the thoughts about?” you can’t help but ask.

“I’d love to say it’s your smile or your brains or something sweet like that. And I do think about those things too, don’t get me wrong,” he says on a hoarse chuckle. “But it’s mainly your body.”

You slip a third finger inside your cunt as he says this, his words and the feeling mixing to cause you to let out an unchecked moan. You feel Poe’s body shudder against you.

“Shit Sweets you’re killing me.” You feel him tense as his hand begins moving faster. “I think about how you look poured into that flight suit. The way your tits and ass jiggle when you hop into your x-wing – fuck.” Another shudder wracks through his body and you can’t take it anymore. The way you’re touching yourself isn’t the way you usually do it. Not in those rare moments where you’ve got the sleeping quarters to yourself and you’re able to get yourself off in your bunk to images of a chiseled jawline, a clothed bulge, rippling muscles, soft, curly hair…

You abruptly pitch yourself forward to balance yourself on your knees and one hand while the remaining hand redoubles its efforts between your legs. The shift in position ends your physical contact with Poe and he swivels to see.

“What are you – ”

“Don’t turn around,” you gasp out. Your new angle works in your favor as your swollen clit becomes more sensitive, pulled down by gravity so that every swipe of your finger becomes more potent. “But for the love of gods, don’t stop talking.”

Poe is taken aback by your sudden forwardness, but he doesn’t let it faze him for long. Instead you hear his renewed efforts at jerking off as the sound of skin swiping across skin, made smoother by spit and precum, gets louder behind you.

“What do you want me to talk about? How much I wish it was your tight little pussy I was fucking instead of my fist?”

The whimper you release at that statement is unlike any sound you’ve ever made and it only spurs Poe on.

“And I just know you’re tight. I know it. And wet too, just like I guessed you were. I can hear it, baby,” he practically growls and you become intensely away of the slick, creamy sounds coming from the rapid in and out, in and out rhythm of your fingers delving into your cunt. “You’re dripping, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” You close your eyes and hear his words and wish the fingers inside you were harder, thicker, him.

“You wish it was my cock inside you, I know you do. You don’t want to admit it but you wish I was pounding into you, making you feel good. Making the ache go away.”

Your answering whine confirms his beliefs and he lets out a triumphant grunt.

“Fuck, baby. I want it, too. Bury myself deep inside of you and fuck you till that drink wears off and you’re still screaming for me, that’s how good it would be.”

“Oh gods.”

“Tell me who you’re wet for.”

“Y-you.” It comes out small. You’re shocked that you even say it, especially with how much you’ve been fighting all of this. You want it. You want it in your bones and in your blood and in your tight, spasming cunt. But you also want Poe’s friendship. Want him to tousle your hair on the way to the hanger. Want him to keep sending you funny messages over your data pad, constantly trying to outdo your own silly riddles and jokes. Want to tease him and eat dinner with him in the mess hall and slap him when he says something stupid and yell at him when he does something dangerous and cry when he doesn’t come back on time from a mission…

A sob finds its way out of your body, sandwiched between two moans. You’re not sure Poe even heard it until his voice reaches your ears again, this time gentler.

“Sweets? Is this working for you?”

You take a shuddering breath before answering.

“No.”

You practically hear Poe slump in defeat, the rhythm of his hand on his length slowing down. You bite your lip before continuing.

“Take me, Poe.”

“What?” Poe whirls around so fast you feel the air woosh over you as he disturbs it. You jump to your feet, still facing away from him and yank your flight suit over your shoulders and down your body, stepping out so it pools on the ground. He watches as you get back down on your hands and knees before him in your underwear, ass in the air, waiting for him to catch up.

“I need you, Poe. Just…just please get inside me,” you say, reaching back to pull the damp fabric of your panties aside, exposing your glistening, swollen folds for him to see.

You don’t have to ask him a third time. He’s on you so fast that you’re confused by his motions. It takes a few seconds before you realize that he’s taken your discarded flight suit and stretched it out on the ground, positioning you over it so that your hands and knees are protected from the dirt. The sweetness of this considerate action is offset by the way his fingers dig harshly into your hips, maneuvering your ass so that it lines up with his pelvis. You tilt forward, aided by pressure on your lower back which raises your click cunt to the level of his cock.

“I’m going to make you feel so good – ”

“No more words, Dameron. Just shut up and get your cock inside – FUCK.” He spears you mid-sentence and you immediately fall down onto your elbows. Your ass still in the air, held in place by his hard grip, receives a smack and you cry out, feeling no pain. Only pleasure as the sting ripples through you and into your clenching cunt. He feels it deep inside you and groans.

“Maybe you’re the one who needs to shut up, baby.” His words issue forth from gritted teeth. “Always fucking teasing me with that fucking mouth.” His hips rut into yours, taking up an unforgiving pace, while the rest of his body folds over yours so his chest pressed flush to your back. One hand closes tightly around your chin, wrenching up your head and dragging a finger over your bottom lip which has grown plump from biting. “This beautiful, bossy fucking mouth. Always telling me off, telling me what to do.”

Your tongue darts out to meet his skin and his other fingers caress your chin in response. It’s a stark contrast to the almost feral way he is still clutching your hip and driving into you over and over.

There’s almost no resistance. You’re tight, cunt clutching onto his throbbing cock in an effort to keep him buried inside, but you’re wetter than you’ve ever been and it’s making his thrusts effortless. You assume it’s a side effect of the drink. But in some part of your brain you can’t believe that a plant could possibly make a man’s cock feel as good as Poe’s does right now inside you. How a plant could cause you to feel pleasure that is not simply rooted in the way his hand drags down from your jaw to wrench your breasts out of the cups of your bra. How a plant could in any way magnify the surely already intoxicating feeling of Poe’s mouth working at the side of your neck, the curve of your shoulder.

“This working, baby? This doing it?” Poe checks in then, not relenting in his thrusts. Never relenting. “You’re squeezing me, so I know your little pussy likes it.”

A shuddering gasp kicks through you before you can answer his question and he laughs. The vibrations go straight from his cock to your clit and you whimper some more.

“Your sounds. I want to record these little sounds you’re making and play them back when I’m flying. Have you fill the space in my x-wing till I can’t take it any more.” Poe presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder, nipping and then laving the skin over with his tongue. “I’m going to hear these sounds in my dreams.”

“It’s…just…the drink,” you practically hiccup, barely able to form thoughts from the way your body has focused all energy, all recognitions of nerve endings to the space between your thighs. Poe slaps your ass again and you keen.

“Just listen to yourself, baby. No drink is making you sound this hot. That’s all you, Sweets.”

Before you can argue further you do take a second to listen. To the way your shallow breaths mix with whimpers and whines. The gurgle in the back of your throat when his cock bounces against your cervix. He’s right. It is hot. You are hot. You reach a hand down to your clit, desperate to increase the already mind-blowing stimulation, greedy for more.

“You feel so good. You’re sosososogood,” you barely manage to slur. Despite your inability to fully speak you make the attempt because you assume that if hearing your gasps is egging him on, your words will amplify it. And amplify it they do. Poe’s hips stutter for a second before he drops down heavier on you, thrusting deeper and from a more primal place. A hand savagely kneads at one of your breasts, playing with the nipple.

“I’ve never been this full. I can’t take it, I can’t…”

“Seems like you’re taking it pretty well, baby,” Poe coos, pressing more kisses to the side of your neck.

“I need m-more,” you gasp, realizing with urgency that the pressure in your core is finally building past the plateau of the last…hour? Half an hour? How long had this been going on? All night? It doesn’t matter because Poe’s inside you and he’s listening to you and suddenly you’re being slammed into with all the force he can muster. He expertly wrings pleasure from your body and you feel yourself careening toward a release that you can’t describe. Just out of reach and full of all the potential energy inherent in an object rocketing toward the moon only to soon plummet back to the depths.

“Poe! I…I…oh fuck…oh gods…I…”

“Go on, baby. Cum.”

“You ha- ahhhh. But you…y-you…” You’re babbling. You’re incoherent, not wanting to leave him behind in the blinding ache that comes before release. Your hands are fisting in the flight suit below you, desperate for something solid, something substantial to hold onto.

“Don’t wait for me, Sweets. Let go.”

And then his hands are closing over yours, fingers interlacing and squeezing down, pinning you to the ground with white knuckles that would hurt if you weren’t squeezing him right back, finally grounded in the way you needed.

And you’re cumming.

And cumming.

You feel every muscle in your body seize and spasm and bliss roils out through you in waves. You shake and stutter under him, feeling fresh wetness gush down around his cock as he fucks you through the feeling. You keep waiting for it to stop but it doesn’t, it only intensifies. It must be a side effect. Of the drink not the man. But when you feel yourself transcending the moment, the way your soul feels like it is literally floating above you, you use the out of body experience to take in the man who is causing this pleasure. The way he cages you in, bracing you through the storm of your orgasm, giving more and more to keep the flame burning as long as possible.

His muscles ultimately seize sometime around when your soul seems to sink back into your body and you’re one again enough with your senses that you can feel him paint your walls with sticky, hot cum. He doesn’t drop his weight on you like other men have after the completion of such exertions. Other men who had focused more on the destination than the journey, leaving you as wanting for release as you were wanting for air under the pressure of their body weight. Instead, Poe pulls you of you and flops to his back in the grass beside you. Without him holding you up you crumble down, face pressing into the fabric of your rumpled flight suit instead of the dirt, thanks to Poe.

A few minutes pass, silent except for the sound of your slowing gasps for air. When your breathing evens Poe sits up on his haunches to guide you back into your flight suit. You’re sticky from sweat and your combined cum, but you couldn’t care less with your bones liquified and your eyelids heavy. Gone is the buzzing ache, in its place a heavy sleepiness. When Poe lays you, now clothed, gingerly back down on the ground you automatically curl into him, allowing him to wrap his arms around your body.

Neither of you shares another word. You don’t have to.

Because shortly after you doze off. And for the first time in a long time your final thoughts before sleep overtakes you are not of the dread the morning will bring, but the solace you found in the night.

~*~

When you wake it’s to a dawn as grey as all the ones before it. Hazy with receding fog and with the promise of all the danger that looms ahead in the hours soon to follow. One of the planet’s suns has already breached the horizon, and you raise a hand to cover your eyes as you peer out from under the x-wing’s protective wing. Looking down you take stock.

Your flight suit is on but fully unzipped, leaving your chest and stomach entirely exposed, all the way down to your lower belly. A large hand covers one of your breasts, fingers twitching against your flesh as the man attached to it continues to dream. You follow the length of his arm to take in his body, tucked close into your own, equally unzipped, his broad torso showing through the gaping fabric. You watch Poe’s abdominal muscles contract with his inhales and exhales for a moment while you check in with your body.

The humming from last night is gone, that much is for certain. This makes you believe that the effects of the drink have worn off. You’re quick to question this hypothesis, however, when Poe stirs in his sleep and his hand squeezes down a bit on your breast. Your breath catches in your throat and fire shoots through your veins. A lingering symptom, you wonder. Or perhaps just a normal, biological reaction to sexual stimuli. You kick yourself mentally because of course it has to be the latter. It couldn’t be the third option which you won’t even allow yourself to fully consider.

You require a shower urgently, it occurs to you suddenly. And food, a realization that coincides with a rumbling in your empty stomach. Knowing you’ll never have a good enough excuse to extricate yourself from this gorgeous man’s arms you steel your nerves and pull away. When you stand, Poe groans and allows an eye to crack open, his hand flying up to shield his eyes from the rising sun. You’re silhouetted against the dawn and he takes in your outline. The curves of you.

“Morning, Sweets,” he says, voice hoarse with sleep this time instead of sex.

“Morning, Fly Boy,” you reply simply with a small smile. You feel a buzzing in the pocket of your suit then and pull out your mini com unit, even more portable than your usual data pad. The message that blares across the screen and you relay it before Poe can reach his own device which had similarly vibrated.

“We’ve got a new mission. Briefing is in an hour and then we take off.” The information feels stilted as it leaves your lips. How can you feel so entirely, earth-shatteringly changed and yet in many ways everything is still the same. The sun still came up. The war still rages on.

You look down at Poe and his intense expression as he watches you makes you think that he’s wondering the same thing.

Your heart thumps in your chest, this time unaided by any drugged drink or the eyes or hands of a man whose existence seemed both your making and undoing. Routine is the only thing that can calm these nerves. Routine is what is required to survive war. Routine and protocol and boundaries.

You zip up your flight suit with finality.

“See you at the briefing?” you ask, though its more statement than question.

“Of course.” Poe’s response is quiet as he continues to watch you from his reclining position. You’re still above him and at a distance, a position he often associates with you.

You smile and give him a good natured salute before turning and making you way back toward the town where you know the rest of the Resistance members are already bustling about and preparing for the day.

Another day you hope you, and Poe, will be lucky enough to outlive.

~*~

Doing a smaller taglist since it’s a Poe fic and I’m not sure if everyone on my usual taglist is into it (Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed for future work!): @paper-n-ashes @mariesackler @tlcwrites @foxilayde @mylifeisactuallyamess @sacklerscumrag @jynzandtonic @millenialcatlady @barbers-glimmerin-darlin @hopeamarsu @direnightshade @leather-flannel-liquor @fizzywoohoo @aliveandlonely @wayward-rose @safarigirlsp @emeraldsiren20 @finn-ray-nal-beads @maryforyou @maybe-your-left

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peachbear88 · 3 years ago

Text

Island of Forbidden Love

Pairing: Attendant!Yelena Belova x Attendant!Reader

Warnings: Dark themes such as death, slavery and more, strangulation, etc.

A/N: Inspired by @roger-that-cap's beautiful Greek Mythology fic that you should all check out. Also, apologies it's not as good as I wanted it to be because it's kind of rushed and I suck at writing sad endings. :)

Summary: Wanda (Circe) runs a magical island full of beauty treatments, magic and more. Paradise. But what happens when her faithful attendants fall prey to a more ancient magic then she could ever hope of possessing?

-------------

"And that's you all done miss!" You chirp and the blonde girl in front of you flashes you a smile. Your cheery smile falters when your eyes meet hers. Beautiful, honest hazel eyes that sparkle in the sunlight of the cavern.

"Thank you," she replies graciously and you gulp, an unnatural feeling tickling your neck, like someone poured a bucket of ice water down the back of your flowy, satin dress.

"Y-Your welcome," you sputter, busying yourself with a mundane task in an attempt to hide the blush coating your cheeks.

Another attendant bursts into the room. Carol Danvers. She nods at you briefly, before pulling her mask back on, approaching the girl.

"Ms. Belova," Carol smiles, curtseying to the hazel-eyed beauty. "Our mistress awaits you." The girl nods before following Carol out of the room. 'Wanda has something special planned for her,' Carol mouths as she exits the room swiftly, the girl trailing behind her.

A feeling of dread washes over you and you abandon the moist towelette you were clutching, dashing after the two girls.

------------

You hitch your dress up, slipping through the shadows of the cave as you approach the mouth of the cave. Disappointment is clear on your face when you peer into the cavern to find it empty, no Carol, no mistress and certainly no mystery girl.

Your shoulders slump in defeat and you slink off back to your living quarters, unaware of the dark green eyes piercing your back.

"A nosy one she is. Keep on eye on her for me, will you?" A silky smooth voice purrs. Carol nods her head vigorously.

"Yes mistress."

-----------

"Everyone!" Your head snaps up, turning your attention to the doorway. "Meet your new co-worker!" Carol announces, moving to the side and flailing her arms dramatically to reveal none other then the mysterious, hazel eyed girl.

She rubs her arms nervously.

"H-Hi." She shrinks under the expectant gazes of your fellow attendants.

"Girl, you have to tell them your name," Carol snickers and the girl flushes bright red.

"R-Right. I'm Yelena." She waves. Everyone else grumbles, turning back to whatever they were doing and she slumps, clearly expecting some kind of welcome.

You wave back at her enthusiastically and you see her face light up before contorting into rage.

"You!" She tackles you and Carol lets out an exclamation of surprise. "Ты. Маленький. Сука!" She screams, each word accentuated with a forceful punch as Carol tugs her off of you. You lay on your bed, frozen in fear. (You. Little. Bitch.)

"Wha- What did I do?" Her facial muscles twitch.

"Plumped her up like a cow getting ready for slaughter I s'pose." Carol interjects dryly.

"Oh come on!" You exclaim. "You know if I had the choice, I wouldn't even be here!"

Yelena lets out a frustrated huff before storming over to her new bed. You sigh, tentatively making your way over to her, ignoring the insinuating glances sent your way by the other girls in the room. A strong arm gently tugs on your wrist and you look back.

"Let her be for now. You know how rough it is for the new ones to accept their fate." Carol coaxes you back to your bed and you sigh, running your hands through your hair.

-----------

"No! Let him go!" You cry, wrenching your arms out of Carol's steely grasp. Wanda tuts, running a finger along your brother's jawline. He hisses.

"Such a handsome young boy," she smiles sadly at him. "Shame he won't be around long enough to enjoy it the benefits of beauty." A wicked glint flashes through her eyes as she snaps her fingers, a rope of red mist surrounding his neck, constricting him.

His eyes bulge, the veins in his neck popping. You scream, as he chokes and sputters, the light in his eyes growing dimmer with every passing moment.

Wanda squeezes her hand into a fist and the mist seemingly tightens even more.

"I'll do what you want! Anything! Please just let him go!" She arches an eyebrow, tightening her fist even more. Your brother begins convulsing, toppling over from his seated position. "Anything!"

"You swear?" You gulp. She rushes over, gripping you by the neck violently, forcing you to stare into her dark, clouded eyes. "Swear it on Styx!"

"I swear, I swear!" You plead and the red mist disappears. You rush over, bending over the semi-unconscious form of your sibling. "Are you okay?" He nods weakly. You turn back to the sorceress. "Now give him safe passage out of here." She smiles patronizingly at you.

"My child. I never swore on Styx I would let him go. You pledged your loyalty to me. I never promised you anything." Your eyes widen as she tightens her fist once again.

Your brother floats off the ground, his eyes wide, hair splayed out.

"And now, his blood shall be on your hands, all because you couldn't use that pretty little head of your to think."

You fall to your knees, your eyes wide in horror as your brother stares down at you, a final plea in his eyes before his head falls back, limp.

"Get her out of here," Wanda snips and Carol shuffles forward dutifully, grabbing you and hauling you out of the dark cavern.

----------

A warm figure shuffles into your bed, clutching your waist. You turn groggily to find Yelena there, a frightened look in her eyes.

"I'm sorry it's just- I just-" She struggles to find the right words. "I haven't been able to sleep properly after today's..." Horrors? Nightmares? Brutal murder and manipulation? "Events." You smile sympathetically at the younger girl.

"It's alright." You pat the space next to you. "Come, come." She curls into the empty spot beside you, clutching your waist tightly. "I'm not going anywhere."

"'M sorry for blowing up at you," she mumbles quietly. "Wasn't your fault." You run your hands through her hair gently in hopes of soothing her.

"Shhhhhhh... Go to sleep." You whisper as her eyes droop slightly.

"'M sorry."

----------

The dynamic between you two changed after that. Lingering glances were exchanged, words of comfort whispered in the dead of night.

-----------

You run along the beach, relishing in the feeling of the sand against your bare feet.

"Вернись сюда идиот!" Yelena sprints after you. (Get back here idiot!)

You shriek in surprise as she tackles you, sending the two of you flying.

"Give me back my shoe!" She exclaims, shaking you playfully.

"Never!" You cry, rolling over so she's pinned under you. She arches a perfectly trimmed eyebrow at you.

"No? Then I guess you'll just have to deal with the consequences!" She yells triumphantly, her hands coming up and tickling your ribs. You drop, landing on top of her, laughing.

"Y-Yelena, please, stop!" You cry desperately, tears streaming down your face.

To your utter surprise, she stops. You open your eyes slowly to find Yelena staring at you.

"W-Why are you staring at me? Do I have something on my face?" You quickly wipe at your face, feeling slightly self conscious.

Instead of laughing, Yelena surges forward, wrapping her nimble fingers around your neck and pulling you down to meet her in the middle.

"Mmph!" Your cry is smothered by her lips. You melt into the kiss, letting her pull you even closer as she slips her tongue into your mouth.

Eventually, the two of you break away from each other, gasping for air. She smiles at you dopily.

"That was nice." You burst into laughter.

"Only nice? Hmph. See if I ever let you kiss me again," you pout and she frowns.

"Noooooo! I'm sorry!" You smile, pinching her cheeks. "So does this mean I get another kiss?"

-----------

Words of comfort turn to stolen kisses as the two of you sneak around, stealing moments, moments that feel like something from someone else's life.

------------

"Y/N." Your head shoots up to find Carol.

"Yes?"

"Mistress would like to see you." Her tone is cold, unforgiving, sending shivers down your spine.

You follow her wordlessly, fidgeting with a small obsidian ring on your middle finger. A gift from Yelena.

Carol knocks on the entrance of the cave.

"Come in," a sultry voice replies. You gulp, recognizing the voice of the person responsible for all your trauma, your enslavement, your pain. Carol, enters and you trail behind her meekly.

"Ah, I see Y/N has decided to join us." Wanda turns gracefully on her heel to face you, her red dress flowing.

"Yes mistress. What would you have me do?" You snap, not bothering to keep the venom from your voice. Wanda shakes her head disappointedly.

"Few years on this island hasn't taught you any manners yet I see," she comments coldly. "Maybe this will sober you up."

She steps aside to reveal Yelena, bloody, battered and bruised on the floor, barely breathing.

------------

Each breath is ragged and painful as you race over to Yelena.

"You wouldn't." She smirks.

"Oh sweetie, you don't know the half of what I would do."

You press a gentle kiss to her forehead before standing up, shielding Yelena with your body.

"I'm not going to let you harm anyone anymore." Yelena tugs weakly at the hem of your dress but you ignore her pleas for you to stand down, smiling down at her sadly.

"A sweet but foolish gesture." You draw your silver pairing knife, brandishing it at the witch in front of you. "Please, a knife?" She sighs dramatically. "You were one of my favorite attendants you know?" She paces the room, turning her back to you. "So hardworking and diligent." She raises her hands. "But it's time for you to die now!"

Snapping her fingers, she whirls around, a murderous glint in her eyes as the dark energy shoots towards you.

Time seems to slow as it hurtles towards you. You close your eyes, ready to embrace the arms of death, knowing that you stood by the love of your life in the last minutes on this traumatic island. You wait and wait but the mist never seems to hit you.

Your eyes flutter open just in time to see Yelena jumping up and the red magic catch her in the chest, making her crumple in your arms.

"Lena!" You cry, catching her before she hits the ground. A dribble of blood escapes her mouth as she coughs.

"It's okay. My only regret was not being able to spend more time with you. The Fates are so very cruel but do not fret. Maybe in another life we'll be able to truly live." She coughs violently, hocking up a bit more blood before wiping the tears streaming down your eyes. "I'll see you on the other side."

She flashes you one last smile before her once bright, lively eyes glaze over, her hand dropping from your face.

Waves of anguish wash over you as you watch the life fade from her body, bit by bit.

"Touching. Very touching. A useless sacrifice however. I'm afraid it's time for you to die." Wanda snaps her fingers. "Carol." Your friend shuffles forwards obediently. "Kill her."

You can only imagine the betrayal flashing through your eyes as your former friend approached you, silver knife in hand.

With nothing left to live for, you press one last kiss to your dead lover's forehead before embracing death with open arms, knowing that Yelena awaits you on the other side.

------------

Taglist: @username23345 @musicinourlips @gingerbreadcookieforlife @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @trikruismybitch @ima-gi--na-tion @nicole-rayleigh-hot @olsensnpm @peabrain112

#yelena belova x reader #greek mythology

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spottedenchants · 3 years ago

Text

(helping the self through another- recollected sorrows rest upon those who got out, who survived.)

(cw: vague references to Caleb’s backstory)

A forceful series of knocks reaches all the way to Caleb’s bedchamber and he is suddenly very awake, hazily pleasant dreams shattered.

This is strange, entirely abnormal.

Frightening, almost.

Without much thought, he rises and throws on a robe, passing through door and door to the final one.

He opens this third door, the one out to the rest of the tower, to find its only other current resident at his threshold, eye-to-eye.

The height is unsurprising given Essek’s favored locomotion.

But Caleb has never seen Essek like this.

A deeply haunted, half-present look in his red-rimmed eyes, his ears entirely away, followed by disheveled hair and rumpled clothing, an entire deconstruction of his usual well kept presentation. Arms crossed and clinging to his sides, clenched against the fabric there.

He’s shivering.

It’s concerning.

Concerning enough to call forth a faint echo of a cold, cold tower, a lingering memory of a warm, warm dorm room, and Caleb’s forearms itch at the involuntary recall, despite how weak he’s managed it to be.

But he keeps his hands away. Takes some breaths to stave off slight nausea.

This can’t be that. It’s not. This is different, Caleb knows. He knows.

But that look. And why is Essek shaking?

Caleb’s words escape as a hiss wrapped in worry.

“Essek, what is wr-?”

But dismay jolts his voice to a stop when Essek immediately glides even closer - very close - and raises a trembling hand to Caleb’s throat, wordless with shallow breaths, eyes narrowed, a slightly unfocused scowl pulling at his pretty lips and drawing his brows together.

Caleb dare not move in this moment, dare not swallow or breathe too deep, dare not react to this uncharacteristically bold motion because there is no hunger in Essek’s shining, panicked eyes, and atrophied habit carries no follow-up without it present.

Essek’s cold fingertips - is he actually cold or is this only further remembrance? - find that particularly vulnerable soft spot between jaw and neck and press gently, firmly, likely just enough to feel Caleb’s rapidly beating pulse.

Ah, that’s what this is.

Caleb dare not move, dare not scare Essek from this oddly executed assurance, this check he must be making with those intent eyes of now-dripping violet as they shift to bore into Caleb’s chest.

Right where Essek palpates cautious fingers against clothed scar tissue.

Right above the residence of Caleb’s hammering heart.

After an unbearably tense second or century, Essek’s face, his entire form, seems to crumple small as he lets out a shaky breath, hands tightening against Caleb’s robe, head bowed and tears now unseen.

Caleb dips his head, trying to catch Essek’s eyes.

“I’m alive.”

Essek looks away further, nods, and his breathing stutters into rough sniffles as he releases Caleb’s robe, voice watery.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Hands still raised and now directionless, Essek’s tensed fingers fidget with themselves, thumbnail sides pinched by fingertips, before swiping at his eyes, as if his teardrops are frivolous things to be plucked and crushed.

Caleb opens his arms, extending them to his sides and proffering a quiet warmth.

Essek trusts him to be here and this is different from so long ago.

This is not comfort for survival; it’s a conscious vulnerability on both their parts.

But Essek flinches at the motion, drifting back and away from Caleb’s embrace, away from this room they have spent time sharing, like they would catch and trap him, and he rights himself uncannily well despite the ways his face still leaks.

Disappointment, concern, and relief all burn together.

Essek does not need Caleb like that.

Even so, his muted, jarringly pleasant façade is askew; it doesn’t fit quite right anymore now that Essek has grown to encompass more than another vizard underneath. Caleb knows, can see hesitance slip through the cracks in the way Essek clenches his hands motionless.

Seeming to remember his magic, Essek clears his face and throat, mending the mask some.

“I’ll go. Thank you.”

Still, Essek stays of his own volition, untethered even to the ground.

This current bond between them is something very different from what Caleb had before, very different from what he and Essek had before; it’s something grown newer, blooming fresh of their own choosing, tended to on purpose.

This is alright.

So what can Caleb do but continue to pay forward a gesture of goodwill and good intent, born to soothe memory and fostered to mark safe opportunity, among other hopeful sentiments?

Slowly, slowly, as Essek watches with a level gaze, meeting his eyes all the while, Caleb takes a careful step out of the room.

Over the course of an eon, he raises a single hand to ghost fingertips over Essek’s cheek, to steady himself, to ensure Essek is willing to accept this smaller touch, and waits.

Though he does not flinch again through these snail-paced motions, does not back away from Caleb any farther, the mask slips as Essek seems to realize what Caleb is planning and he bows his head.

Squeezes his eyes shut and buries them under taut brows like he’s anticipating a swat.

This is nothing of the sort.

Caleb leans in and up, and presses a gentle kiss to Essek’s forehead before withdrawing both hand and face, volunteering no further touch.

He keeps the quiet, the closeness, but still asks, head dipped and voice soft, a murmur.

“Sit with me?”

No response, only the same grimace, the same clenched jaw. Tear trails reappear.

“I can show you how to count.”

Essek’s eyes open, violet deep as pre-dawn dusk and framed by dew-melt clung hoarfrost lashes, and they grow sharper, more focused.

“I know numbers fine.”

His eyebrows slant with what could even be read as defiance against presumed patronizing.

Good, good, welcome back.

Caleb crooks a gentle grin, feels the steep upturn of his brow line.

“But do you know my way?”

A tiny fleck of curiosity lightens Essek’s eyes, lifts his ears; it’s a shift imperceptible enough that Caleb would miss it had he not spent time deliberately learning the difference between its presence and absence.

So Caleb turns aside and pulls a cat-call cord, gesturing through the door to their well-familiar couch, before following his own guide. He takes the middle rather than his corner and pats Essek’s side of the seat, looking back to him, keeping his face open.

Essek follows and settles into his place, drifting down and pulling small, clearing his face again.

A moment more and then Gretchen, dutiful as ever, waltzes into the room with a chirp, making a point to rub against Essek’s idle hands as she jumps onto the couch on her way to Caleb.

“Hot cocoa, ice water, and some snacks, those little finger foods with fiddly bits that Jester brought last time, for my friend and I, ja?”

Gretchen purrs as Caleb scratches on either side of her jaw before she disengages, pesters Essek again to receive a few more disjointed pets, and pads away to fulfill the request.

As they wait, Caleb demonstrates how he counts for breath when difficult thoughts swarm and tension grabs his lungs tight.

Staying quiet, Essek breathes along, seeming to sink further into the couch with each exhale.

Cats come and go, filling the low table in front of the couch with drinks and nibbling tidbits.

Perhaps it would be best to keep such things handy and readily present, Caleb notes.

Just in case.

Without much deliberation, Essek claims a mug of cocoa, holding it between both hands, staring in as steam matches the jumbled swirls of his hair.

So he does want some warmth.

Having no specific appetite, Caleb only keeps watch on the fireplace, ready to follow along with whatever Essek decides next, even if that means Essek leaves entirely.

The hearth plays a crackling solo to the room.

Ice makes a single clink to glass.

“Verin taught me that, a long time ago.”

Caleb glances to Essek- he’s gripping his mug tight.

“Checking the pulse?”

“Mh... And I-”

Caleb waits, listens.

A sharp inhale.

“I apologize. For barging in and- doing that. I realize it was strange, unseemly, invasive. I couldn’t collect my thoughts well enough to say anything meaningful, but I should have kept boundaries in mind instead of falling to…”

Essek’s lips push flat as he releases his breath through his nose, an expression of consideration, Caleb decides.

“Buried… habit.”

Habit, hm.

Caleb absently runs a hand down his sleeved forearm before resting his hands together, held loose in his lap. Fingers to palm back, he kneads one thumb to the heel of the other, and looks back to the flames.

“Well, I’ll be prepared should it happen again.”

“Ah.”

Firelight catches in condensation, bejewelling the water pitcher with golden cabochons and veins of amber.

Caleb glances aside.

“Would you like to stay?”

Tired violet eyes turn to Caleb when he asks this, wide as the saucers on the low table.

Then Essek looks back to his untouched drink, nods reticent.

The ice in the pitcher catches Caleb’s ear when it shifts upon melting some from the fire’s warmth.

He tips his head to Essek.

“Would you like me to stay?”

Essek gives a wry huff to his cocoa.

“Would that be selfish?”

“I’d like to stay.”

A quick shift of violet to Caleb before Essek’s gaze returns to the mug.

“Then be my guest. Or- oh. I…. Ha.”

It could be a trick of the shifting firelight, could be Caleb’s sleepy eyes, but Essek’s expression seems to turn just a little tender, just a touch softer on the edges, as his voice lilts a murmur.

“I suppose I’m yours, hm?”

A gentle smile pulls at Caleb’s lips, and he watches as Essek traces the rim of his mug with a thumb, fingers and palms still held against its warming sides, the contents inside rippling slightly.

“Is there anything else you’d like? Anything to help?”

A glinting fang worries a lip. But no words.

“Show me?”

Essek looks up from his mug to Caleb, eyes flicking between Caleb’s, brows softly furrowed, but he neither says nor does anything further than the glance.

No matter what Essek could ask for, Caleb knows this is safe.

“I won’t run.”

A moment.

Caleb will give Essek all the time he needs to consider.

A moment more.

Then, careful and slow, not spilling a drop of his drink, Essek unfurls and abandons his corner in favor of tucking himself next to Caleb, going so far as to nestle his way under Caleb’s arm and press against his side, shoulder to hip, legs folded up and feet drawn under.

This close, Caleb can feel Essek’s tremors immediately lessen, can feel Essek’s chest expand and contract alongside his own.

Caleb can feel Essek’s fluttering heartbeat, rather in sync with his own.

They are both very alive, present together.

“This, if it’s alright?”

Caleb remains stationary, not wanting to spook Essek from this rare moment of outreach, looking into those too-careful, entreating eyes.

His heart feels fit to burst.

“Ja, this is alright.”

Essek blinks, nods, settles further into place and turns his eyes to the fire.

And so they sit, leaning side-by-side, breathing together, sweet steam warming the air around them, the fireplace casting its gentle warm light through crystalline ice water.

Essek’s eyes grow unfocused as he watches the flames.

Deep in thought, Caleb assumes.

Muscles held taut relax, slowly, slowly.

Eventually, Essek takes a sip of his drink.

Caleb, drowsy, comfortable, definitely does not stare when Essek reflexively licks the chocolate from his lips.

He definitely does not wonder how it would taste.

The water pitcher’s ice shifts again.

The hearth cracks in reply.

Caleb holds Essek close until he wants his space again.

Read I Lean In and Kiss Him [Right Here] on AO3

T, M/M, No Archive Warnings apply, Complete (5 Chapters, 10.9k)

#shadowgast #essek thelyss #caleb widogast #critical role #critical role fanfiction #i just really like this bit #chanse writing

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chokemeanakin · 4 years ago

Text

Give Me Love

Chapter Ten

Wc: 2.7k

MASTERLIST

“Master,” Anakin faltered on his way to the piloting chair. His eyes lingered on you for a long moment, unreadable. “I was wondering where you’d run off to after Grievous fled. Looks like you’ve earned yourself another vacation.”

Grievous had thrown him off a building? You’d heard legends about how awful the part-human mostly-droid General was, but you’d never been at the same battle as him before. A small part of you wished to see if the stories people told about him were true-- if he really was the feared Jedi-killer he was known for being all across the galaxy.

“That won’t be necessary this time,” Kenobi was thankful for the banter. It gave him an excuse to get his mind off the searing pain in his arm. “Thankfully, I have Y/n here to fix me up good as new.”

“You’re right. She is extremely capable, isn’t she?”

His eyes twinkled, just slightly so that only you could catch it. You smiled, chest blooming with warmth as your fears were all washed away. Things weren’t different because he’d been gone for so long. He still cared for you, the same as you cared for him. The war couldn’t change that.

“I would trust no one more with my saber arm,” Kenobi grunted again as you began to wrap gauze around his shoulder, fitting it into a makeshift sling.

“Enough flatter,” you hushed them both, though the smile was evident on your face. “Keep this ice on your shoulder and take it off if it goes numb. And don’t move too much-- we won’t know if you broke a bone until we get you x-rayed.”

You let him take over holding the ice pack to his shoulder, reaching into your medcase for some painkillers. You were scraping the bottom of the bottle, honestly surprised you even had any left to spare.

“Lucky you, you get the last two.”

Kenobi grunted in an attempt to laugh, and swallowed the pills you gave him. After waving off your attempts to get him to lie down somewhere, he stood with a groan and braced himself on the back of Anakin’s piloting chair. He began to heckle him, trying to kick him off so you could have a look at his head.

“What’s wrong with your head?” Your heart stuttered in your chest. You had seen a trickle of blood on his cheek, but that was it.

“It’s nothing,” Anakin growled at Obi-Wan, but gave his seat up anyway so the injured man could sit. He pressed a few more buttons on the piloting interface, putting the ship on autopilot as he stepped away. “Y/n, I’m fine.”

You were already pushing him by the shoulders to sit on the chair Obi-Wan had previously been occupying. He sat with a huff, crossing his arms childishly as you turned his face in your hands.

“See?” he mumbled. “Nothing to worry about.”

His forehead had been gashed open, from the top of his hairline to the tip of his eyebrow. Your blood began to beat thicker in your veins, the panic causing your stomach to knot as you got to work dabbing the blood away with some alcohol cloths. It looked worse than it was-- the cut wasn’t deep enough to require stitches, but it had bled a lot. Head wounds always do.

He winced slightly as you cleaned the wound, the half-second of pain crumpling his face causing your movements to freeze.

“I’m sorry,” you stroked his jaw with your other hand, the one that was holding his face steady. You hoped it would distract him from the sting.

Those blue eyes stared at you the entire time, unperturbed. “It’s okay, really. I’ve had worse.”

You assumed he was right. If this scratch was all he’d come out with after weeks on the battlefield, he was either really lucky or really skilled. You guessed it was both. The evidence of less fortunate encounters rested on his right thigh, clad in a leather-buckled glove. You couldn’t even imagine what that pain had been like.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” you said this quietly, so Obi-Wan wouldn’t hear. Anakin brought his flesh arm up to hold your hand to his face, closing his eyes and relishing in the feel of your soft, smooth skin. He had desperately missed your touch, your voice, those steely eyes and that gentle strength. After so long wishing you were there to curl up beside him in the off chance he got to rest, you were finally here. Now, he was going to be selfish and make up for that lost time.

“We’ll be right back,” Anakin called to Obi-Wan with his eyes still closed, hand still holding your palm against his cheek. “Y/n’s going to come to engineering with me to help repair my arm.”

“Your arm? You mean the metal one? I didn’t know it was damaged.”

“Just a little waterlogged. Shouldn’t take too long… or maybe it will. We’ll see.”

Anakin stood, the tips of his fingers tickling yours. He led you out of the room, through the halls of the cruiser, slipping into an unoccupied resting room and slamming the lock on it.

“If you’re expecting me to know how to help you with your arm, you are very mistaken,” you admitted. “I know nothing about mechanics.”

Anakin blinked at you, and then laughed. That glorious, glorious laugh. His arms fell to his waist, where he unclasped his belt and then discarded it on the desk. His tabards came next, and then the robes underneath. You ogled him as he stripped, a steady flame rising to your cheeks, thawing out the weeks of grey-nothingness.

“Umm.. Anakin.. what are you doing?”

It was suddenly very hard to swallow as his bare middle was exposed to you, rippling with muscle. You wanted to reach out and touch him, but you were frozen in your spot, unable to do anything but stare.

“I’m getting out of these wet clothes so I can properly hold you,” he explained, bending down to dig through the drawers underneath the metal cot. He turned to eye you up and down, shamelessly lingering on every inch of your body. “I suggest you do the same.”

“Huh?” You looked down, seeing the blood stains splattered all over you. “Oh.”

He was pulling a loose-fitting recreational shirt over his head, the same kind that was supplied in all resting rooms for people to wear if they wanted to sleep in something more comfortable. You were still rooted in your spot, forcing yourself to gather enough wits to unzip your field suit.

All you were wearing underneath was a black undersuit, tight enough to leave little to the imagination. It was meant to keep you warm and wick away moisture, not to be seen in by any incredibly sexy Jedi Knights. Your heart hammered in your chest, skin beginning to sweat as his eyes probed into you.

“You need help unzipping?”

“Uh… I got it,” your fingers snapped to your zipper, now that he was watching you, you didn’t want to be a fumbling idiot.

You were glad for when he seemed to become enamored by the state of his clothes, and you knew it was for your sake. Still, it did little to calm the pounding of your heart as the suit dropped to your ankles, every inch of your black-spandex clad body now available to his eyes.

Get it together. Your chest was visibly moving up and down as you fought to control your breathing, almost panting with anxiety. It’s not like you were naked. What a fucking virgin.

He turned from his pile of clothes, those blue eyes making no effort to hide the way they scanned you up and down. All you could do was stand there at his mercy, burning under that stare.

You expected him to frown. To snarl and pull away and tell you to get dressed again. How disgusted, he should be, you thought. How appalled.

You knew you didn’t have the best body. You’d been to enough nightclubs, seen enough people naked in your workstation, watched enough programs on the holonet to know that. You had always wanted to be like Ahsoka and Sabè— they were slim and toned, long and graceful. Their cheeks were sharp, their fingers elegant, and waists tiny. Your thoughts turned to Padme— his past lover— horrifying you further.

You were nothing like her.

That tiny frame, the beautiful face, and the perfect body. She was so smart, so important, and shaped so womanly. You were nothing to compare.

How could he even stand to look at you?

“Okay, I guess I’ll come to you then,” that silky voice teased, and suddenly you were wrapped in a pair of big, strong arms. It took a moment for your breath to return to your lungs before you realized he hadn’t pushed you away, and instead he was clutching you to his body like a starving man.

“I missed you,” he breathed into your ear, cementing this reality. Your body erupted in a flurry of butterflies, warming you from the inside out.

He didn’t care. He didn’t care. He still liked you. He missed you. Even after seeing your body like this.

“I missed you, too,” you returned his words with emotion thickening your voice, bringing your arms up to wrap around him as well. He sighed at the feeling of your arms on his back, melting further into your neck.

“Wanna move this to the bed?”

He did most of the work shuffling your embrace onto the metal cot, lying down and pulling you so that you were on top of him. You were beginning to think you actually just had a heart condition, because it was beating out of rhythm constantly now, your pulse spiking and temperature rising at this new position.

You loved it.

He was hard, and warm, and strong beneath you. You were able to lay your head on his chest, stare at the exposed skin of his neck as he rested his chin on your head. Your legs slotted between his, so long in comparison to yours, while his arms secured you to his body around your back.

You’ve never felt safer in your entire life.

Still… you couldn’t help but wonder. Were you crushing him? Was he uncomfortable? What if he was and he was just too polite to make you get off? These thoughts caused you to tense up in his arms, suddenly rigid with fright.

“What’s wrong?” He caught onto your worries immediately. His hand smoothed up and down your back, hoping to soothe your tense muscles.

Maker, you were sick of being the insecure one in this relationship. You wanted nothing more to lie on the man you adored’s chest. Anyone else could do it. Why couldn’t you?

Relax. You hissed at yourself. Relax relax relax relax relax—

“Am I making you uncomfortable again?” The pieces clicked in his head, and the brush of his hand against your back stopped. “I’m moving too fast, aren’t I? I’m sorry, I should have asked—“

“No.”

You wiggled your body, wordlessly begging him to resume his motions. You clutched tighter to his shoulders, dug your head deeper into chest, even turned to plant a small, lingering kiss to his collarbone.

“You’re fine. I’m fine. We’re okay.”

“Yeah?” The smile was evident in his voice.

“Yes.”

You could never ask someone to make more of an effort to make you feel comfortable around them than Anakin did. And he did it with no price held over your head, no expectations, no pressures. If your timid nature put him off, he never let you see it. Honestly, you were surprised he was still here. Any other guy, you wholeheartedly believed, would be running in the other direction when they realized you couldn’t even hold eye contact with them for longer than 5 seconds.

But this shyness— it was exclusive to Anakin. You wouldn’t be this way with anyone else, and it frustrated you to no end.

The least you could do was prove that his patience was paying off, and take a leap yourself.

You planted your hands on either side of his body, pushing yourself up so that you were hovering right over his face. Your knees followed, holding your weight as you sat yourself onto his lap.

Scandalous, for the amount of clothes you were wearing.

A surge of confidence ran through you at the surprise that crossed his features. His eyes were wide, confused, as you took his face in your hands, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

This was your domain. You had always been the mynx of the group, luring men in and then leaving them cold. You loved the power it gave you, the ability to promise everything and then take it all away. It left them yearning for you, begging for you. And you loved it.

Sabè and Ahsoka were entertained to no end, watching you string along guys all night just to leave them hanging by the end. It was all a game to you, the flirting and teasing and wooing. You loved to feel needed, to feel wanted, but you never actually planned to do anything more with them.

So when the night ended, and you wanted to go home, you would break the game off and leave them feeling cold, and angry, and cheated. That’s when you’d get cussed out by egotistical whiny men, demeaned and degraded until their little hearts felt satisfied. To be fair, you never promised that anything would happen. It was simple flirting. It was completely on them that they expected things to go any further than that.

That’s why when Anakin came around, you felt like you had been run over by a speeder. He was the only one capable of making you feel like a bug next to him. Every moment he had you tripping and stumbling, your heart stuttering out of time, your cheeks burning with bashfulness, you hated yourself. How could you let one man have that kind of effect on you? It was pathetic.

But now, you were determined to get a little part of your old self back. You wanted to feel in control again, to have that power. He was just a man, after all, and most men were the same. You just needed to dangle, and they’d be all over you.

You continued to smooth his bangs away with the tip of your finger, ignoring the adorable look of confusion he had on his face. Actually, he seemed to really be enjoying himself despite not understanding where this was coming from, so much that his eyes were closing and he was thinking about maybe taking a little nap.

With his eyes closed, it was easier to lean your face in further. Your eyes zeroed in on those perfect pink lips, so full and inviting and soft, even after weeks of brutal combat. You wondered how they would feel on your own, how he would respond to you kissing him. You could imagine the way he might sigh and cup your face, pulling you closer and kissing you deeper. Sharp pangs of longing twisted your stomach into knots.

Anakin could feel your soft breath on his lips. His heart thrummed in his chest, fingers tightening on your waist. Were you going to—?

He was ready for it, no matter what it was.

Just as he was sure you were going to press your lips against his, you pulled away, planting a teasing kiss to his cheek instead. With no explanation, you fit your head back onto his shoulder, lying down against his body again.

What was that all about?

He opened his eyes, glancing down to see you resting with your head buried in your neck. You were like a kitten, breathing quickly and softly, a small smile curling your lips.

He dismissed the thoughts to analyze for another time. Right now, his body ached and his head throbbed. Your figure was soft and warm against his, and your calming presence was making his eyelids grow heavy. He decided to take your lead, and followed you off to sleep.

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#give me love #anakin x fem reader #anakin fic

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elsanna-shenanigans · 3 years ago

Text

June Contest Submission #8: A Real Howler in July

Words: ca. 5,500

Setting: modern AU

Lemon: no

CW: none

Was there anything worse than inclement weather?

Anna didn’t think so.

Not at this very moment anyway, buried nearly up to the waist in snow as she was. She hefted her ski pole out of the drift behind her with a grunt and plunged it haphazardly into the snow ahead of her. The screaming winds cut through her hard shell jacket like it was made of tissue paper and Anna’s body locked up while trying to shiver violently at the same time. Slush had gotten into the boots a size too big for her, squelching against her socks in an icy, soggy mess. The forest of dark pines offered scant protection against the swirling flurries that obscured her vision in a confetti of white.

Snow, in July.

That was supposed to be a joke, just something people said— not a real thing. Wasn’t it? Anna was just grateful she’d chanced upon that bizarre store in the middle of the woods, otherwise she’d be doing this in jean shorts and a tank top.

Oaken’s Trading Post (and Sauna)— that’s what the sign had said. It looked like any other cabin, but inside was a shop, sure enough. Anna had been greeted by a large man behind the counter in a thick wool sweater, suspenders, and an impressive mutton chop-mustache combo. This was the titular Oaken.

The big, tall Norwegian in the loud sweater had given her a funny look when Anna explained why she was there and who she’d rented her cabin from. “Kristoff did not say anything when you booked those dates?”

Wait, he knew this would happen?! What the hell!

Anna shook her head, failing to repress a full-body shiver as the heat of the shop started to thaw her out. Oaken clucked his tongue. “I swear, that boy. If it is not ice he is very clueless. I told him, ja? I told him he should not put his place on the line for strangers to use.”

Anna pressed her lips together, fighting a smile at the term “on the line”. She eyed the brick of a monitor behind the register that looked like it might be a gateway computer, and wondered if he still had dial-up. Or internet, period.

Oaken caught her looking and shook his head. “No service up here now, phone or computer.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any winter appropriate clothing here?”

Oaken gave her a wry look and gestured to the back of the shop. Their “winter” selection looked very sad indeed. “Not many tourists come to the mountain. Even those in the town stay away in July,” he said as Anna surveyed her options in disappointment.

Well, fine. It wasn’t ideal, but Anna wasn’t about to give up. She slapped her wallet down on the counter. “Whatever you got? I’ll take it.”

The sum total of what Oaken had was a bright fuchsia hard shell jacket, boots in a size 9 (she was a size 8), blue ski pants, gloves, a wool hat, and five pairs of long underwear. She took it all.

Anna looked longingly at the sauna as he was ringing her up, but she couldn’t risk losing daylight. She settled for taking some extra time in the toasty changing room, putting on three pairs of long underwear (she couldn’t get the last two on without going up a size), and every other article of clothing that would fit under her new jacket. Everything else was shoved into her backpack.

Oaken kindly lent her his own ski poles, the caveat being that she return them on her way back.

Anna stood on the deck, looking out at the frozen landscape. She didn’t have much experience with this kind of weather, but that wasn’t going to stop her. One thing Anna wasn’t, was a quitter. She was going to find this damn cabin if it was the last thing she did.

What started as heavy snowfall soon escalated into a full blizzard. Anna kept herself going by composing a strongly worded review for Kristoff’s Airbnb in her head, one that got more acerbic with each step.

So. Here she was: three hours from Oaken’s, slush in her boots, pushing her way forward by kicking through the drift she’d sunk down. Anna could practically feel the blood freezing in her veins, suffocating the vital warmth that kept her functioning. She’d been seeing the markers Kristoff said would be there, but each one was taking longer to find.

Anna unstuck her foot from the snow and took a giant step, pitching forward heavily. That was a mistake. The drift crumbled beneath her and she went down, tumbling head over heels through a sloping copse of trees until she rolled to a stop in a small clearing. Face first, of course.

Weakly she pushed herself up, casting about for the ski poles. They had landed close by, and as she fumbled for them something caught her eye: a warm contrast against the frigid, grey landscape. There, at the edge of the clearing, was an honest to god cabin, with smoke puffing from the chimney and brightly lit windows shining like a beacon against the dark.

She’d made it.

Anna stumbled towards it, the tantalizing promise of warmth so close it made her whole body ache. The wind surged around her the closer she got, forcing Anna to swerve into it just to stay upright. She struggled up the stairs; leaning heavily on her poles. Leveraging herself onto the porch, she shuffled to the door, practically collapsing against it.

It was locked. No key under the mat where there should’ve been. Seriously? Anna let the ski pole dangle from her wrist as she raised her fist and brought it down heavily on the door. “Is anyone in there?” She called out. “Please I just need to get out of the storm!”

She couldn’t hear anything over the wind and no one came to the door.

Anna knocked again.

Nothing.

Anna continued knocking, and the blizzard grew stronger, as if it took personal offense to her presence.

There had to be someone in there— Anna was pounding on the door now. “Please open up! I promise I’m not a murderer or anything!” She winced. Great sell Anna, that definitely won’t creep them out, because real murderers never say that. “Please, I’m supposed to be staying in Kristoff’s cabin and this is the only one around, and I’m really going to freeze out here if you don’t—”

The door swung open and Anna almost toppled to the floor. She grabbed for her ski pole and braced it against the deck. A waft of warm air curled around her exposed face and Anna looked up to see who had come to the door.

Woah.

Okay so a model was using the cabin. Cool. Neat.

The woman who stood there looked like the poster child for Nordic beauty, with long, braided platinum hair and shocking blue eyes. She was dressed surprisingly light (or so Anna thought) in an oversized, cable knit sweater and black leggings, no socks. Anna guessed she was about her age, maybe a little older—possibly mid to late twenties.

The wind gave another disembodied wail, and Anna gestured inside. “Um, can I…?”

The woman stared at her, but after a beat stepped aside silently to allow her in.

Anna breathed a thank you as she trekked inside, basking with unspeakable relief in the heat and abrupt stillness from the absence of raging wind and snow. She turned around to find the other woman watching her from the door, leaning her back against it with one hand clasped around the knob. “So…who are you?”

“I believe I should be the one asking you that.”

The woman had a point, though Anna still wasn’t entirely sure whether or not this was the cabin she’d rented from Kristoff, and maybe he’d double booked it or something. She wouldn’t put it past him.

“Sorry— yeah, I’m Anna.” She gave her a big smile, but her companion remained poker-faced. “I rented a cabin from a guy named Kristoff Bjorgman, on Airbnb? He, uh, never mentioned I should expect snow, which seems like a pretty big oversight, all things considered.” She looked pointedly out the window.

The woman closed her eyes at that and sighed.

“I take it you know him?”

“Yes.”

“So…is this not his cabin then?”

“It is not.”

“Okay…”

The woman gave Anna a wide berth as she moved away from the door to the nearest window, peering out at the squall.

“You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t be here.”

“Well, yeah, of course I shouldn’t. I should be in my own cabin, the one I rented,” Anna said lightly, watching her reluctant hostess wring her hands. She seemed unduly nervous, even allowing that she’d been intruded upon by a stranger in the middle of nowhere.

“Could I…? I mean,” Anna let out a nervous little laugh, “you’re not going to make me go out in that and try to find my way in the dark right?”

She looked at Anna as if seeing her for the first time. The wind screamed, rattling the windows in their frames. “No… of course not.” She swallowed visibly. “I’ll…,” she gazed around the cabin as if it were the first time she was seeing that too, like Anna’s presence had thrown her whole life out of orbit and everything she knew was now foreign.

She took Anna in from head to toe— in all of her frozen, slowly melting glory. A trickle of thawed snow slipped down the back of Anna’s neck and she shuddered.

“You need to get warm,”she said gravely.

“Yes please,” Anna exhaled gratefully. “Um, sorry I still don’t know your name.”

“My name is Elsa.” She gestured over her shoulder. “I’ll run you a bath. You can leave your boots and jacket by the door.” With that, she was off down a hallway and out of sight.

“Thank you!” Anna called after her, quickly shedding her outer layers. Well, this wasn’t the worst development in the world.

Anna let out a dreamy sigh and sank lower in the tub. Steam drifted in lazy tendrils from the surface of the water and her eyelids were getting heavy. Before she fell asleep, Anna dragged herself from the bath and stuffed herself into her last two pairs of long thermal underwear. Elsa had graciously provided her a cable knit sweater and fleece joggers.

She came out of the bathroom and wandered into the living room just as Elsa finished tucking a sheet into the couch. She stacked an enormous pile of blankets on the cushions. “I would give you the bed, but I think you need the fire more. Hopefully it’s comfortable enough.” She looked up and stopped at the sight of Anna.

Anna ran a hand through her damp hair, suddenly nervous under Elsa’s attention. “I know, I look a little different when I’m not rocking the half-frozen rat look.”

Elsa’s lips curled faintly. “It’s not a bad different. And you’re not the worst half-frozen specimen I’ve seen.”

Anna chuckled. “Glad to hear it.” She collapsed onto the couch, sinking into the nest of blankets. Her body was utterly exhausted, but the physical exertion coupled with the muscle memory of getting warm after so much cold left her tingling pleasantly down to her bones. “Oh that’s nice.”

“There’s some hot chocolate, if you’d like.” Elsa indicated the steaming mug on the coffee table.

Anna almost lunged for it. She took a careful sip, and burned her tongue anyway. “Oh, you’re an angel.” For being so reticent to let Anna stay, Elsa was incredibly hospitable.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Elsa said. She turned to go but hesitated. “He really put his cabin on Airbnb?”

“Mhmm,” Anna hummed the affirmative as she took another gulp, watching Elsa’s face.

Elsa shook her head and murmured something that sounded like he should know better. “Perhaps he confused the dates.”

Again with the dates. It was starting to give her an inkling, like she’d wandered into an episode of the twilight zone. Her host was half way out of the room when Anna popped her head over the back of the couch. “Elsa?”

She turned back. “Yes?”

“Thank you, seriously. If I hadn’t found your cabin and you hadn’t let me in… I don’t know what would have happened.”

A look Anna couldn’t interpret passed over Elsa’s face. She nodded once. “Goodnight Anna. Sleep well.”

“Night,” Anna said to Elsa’s retreating back.

Elsa barely slept, too anxious and distressed by the foreign presence in her living room. There shouldn’t be anyone on this mountain right now, let alone someone a handful of meters away in her cabin. The night of tossing and turning, of pacing, had only made it worse and she was completely unsurprised, yet bitterly disappointed the next morning when she came into the kitchen and found the window half obstructed by snow. There was nothing she could do at this point to mitigate the storm.

They were trapped.

Elsa had no idea if Anna could survive the cold that was coming.

One coffee later Anna stumbled in, tousled and groggy. Elsa set a fresh filter in the carafe. “Good morning.”

“Is it?” Anna mumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She’d draped herself in a blanket, only her face peaking out. The effect was quite endearing, a little childlike, and Elsa reminded herself sharply that Anna was still a stranger, and her situation could soon be perilous.

“Well, you didn’t murder me in my sleep, so I think it could be worse.”

Anna cocked her head in confusion.

“You shouted yesterday while you were trying to knock my door down that you were not ‘a murderer or anything’,” Elsa clarified, pouring a steaming kettle over the coffee grounds.

Anna laughed sheepishly. “You heard that huh?”

Elsa allowed herself a small smile. “I did.”

“Well it’s true, I’m not.” She grinned, but it slipped off her face when she saw the window. “Oh my god, all that is from last night?”

Elsa clenched her jaw as Anna moved closer to it, gaping out over the white barricade to the sky furiously hurling snow. “Still coming down too…”

“Yes,” Elsa said tightly, pouring muesli into two bowls. “We won’t be able to leave the cabin until the storm is over.”

Anna sighed and sat down heavily in her chair. “There goes my deposit.”

After breakfast they gravitated towards separate activities. Anna returned to the nest of blankets on the couch and checked her phone, which was dwindling at 5% battery. When she asked about charging it Elsa informed her there was no electricity; the cabin was only equipped with a propane tank to heat the water, and power the stove and the fridge.

They were roughing it…sort of.

Elsa checked the cabin meticulously, fixing blankets over the windows for insulation, cataloguing her supplies, and lighting candles on practically every available surface.

It was quite cozy, and Anna was happy to doze intermittently while her body recovered from lingering jet lag and her frozen hike.

Conversation between them was sparse, but Anna put it down to Elsa’s clear anxiety over the state of things and decided not to take it personally.

—

Anna shuffled into the kitchen the next morning, wrapping Elsa’s thick wool cardigan across her chest, over the borrowed sweater. She stopped.

“Weren’t there five chairs here yesterday?”

“Hmm?” Elsa murmured absently while layering peppered salami on a tray next to a neat row of jarlsburg slices. Anna noticed she made sure to put the pickled herring with dill in a separate bowl; it turned out Anna was not a fan.

“The chairs,” Anna pointed to the empty side of the table. “Are we …missing some?”

Elsa glanced up at the breakfast nook as she plated a handful of rye slices. She turned to check on the potatoes boiling on the stove, brushing her hands on her apron. “I’m using them elsewhere.”

Anna shrugged and went to set the table. They only needed two after all.

By midday, Anna was getting a little antsy.

“If the snow wasn’t so high— and there wasn’t a raging blizzard, obviously— we could be building snowmen right now,” Anna said wistfully, holding aside the blanket to gaze out at the narrow strip of murky white sky. Only a few inches remained between the drift and the top of the window.

“I know!” Anna spun around. “Do you have any paper and something to draw with?”

Elsa looked baffled by the request, but retrieved a notebook and a couple of pencils for her. Anna tore out some blank pages, waving Elsa to sit down across from her. “Okay, so since we can’t go outside and build real snowmen, we can at least make some this way.” Elsa glanced from the paper to Anna, looking unconvinced. Anna shrugged. “We have to pass the time somehow right?”

“Alright.”

It took some doing at first; Elsa kept getting lost in the middle distance while she tapped her pencil anxiously against the table. With enough prodding from Anna though, she got into it and by the time dinner rolled around they had a small army of 2D snow people.

Anna’s second favorite was a delightfully monstrous snow creature Elsa had sketched with precise strokes and deft shading. Her first was undeniably goofy but charming; squat and awkwardly shaped, with big eyes and a bucktoothed grin. That one they’d made together, with Elsa illustrating while Anna directed her and offered suggestions.

They named him Olaf and Anna thought he was perfect.

After dinner they sat by the fire, sipping mulled wine Elsa heated for them on the stove. Anna was grateful for the added warmth and the pleasant buzz.

“It’s just so crazy you guys have a blizzard in July,” Anna said suddenly, voicing the thought that had been a constant, giant question mark. “Every year! What even is that?”

Elsa set her glass aside and leaned back in the chair, cradling her arms across her stomach. “It’s just something that happens here. Though, if it has to happen I think July is probably the best time.”

“How could summer be the right time for snow?”

Elsa shifted and bit her lip. “We already have harsh winters here, a snowstorm like this on top of that would be even more dangerous. Better one briefly interrupts July and then everyone has the rest of summer to enjoy, don’t you think?”

Anna could admit that sort of made sense. Still, it wasn’t any less weird.

—

On day three Anna was up to three sweaters, a blanket, and two pairs of sweat pants. Elsa was down to a fitted henley and jeans. She was beginning to wonder if Elsa would give her the last shirt off her back if it came to it, and that mental image got Anna flustered enough to feel like shedding layers instead of adding them.

She amused herself by exploring the cabin— at least, the areas that weren’t private. Elsa had a few intriguing nicknacks, but what captured Anna’s attention were the two bookcases next to the fireplace. Books of all kinds lined the shelves; in English, Norwegian, and other languages she couldn’t place. There were novels, and textbooks, and books so old she didn’t dare touch them.

Later, after Elsa had finished her bath, Anna persuaded her to read from one with a deep blue cover and silver leaf embossing. It was clear by the illustrations they were fairytales, though she couldn’t understand any of them. Anna quickly discovered she could listen to the smooth lilt of Elsa’s mother tongue forever, but before long her eyes had closed and the soft norwegian story trailed off with her consciousness.

When she woke, Elsa was still curled up in the armchair, reading silently. Anna stretched and plodded over to the fireplace. She grabbed the fire iron and prodded at the remaining wood, making sure it was all lit. One of the logs cracked and split in a pop of sparks, and something beneath it caught her eye. Anna leaned closer; it was oddly smooth and cylindrical, and just there was an intricately carved pattern like—

The chairs in the kitchen.

So that’s where they went.

Clearly Elsa had some strange immunity to the cold, and she hadn’t bothered to stockpile more wood for herself even though she new the storm was coming.

She’d been burning her own furniture to keep Anna warm.

Anna looked over at the woman, still completely absorbed by the book in her lap. Another small piece of the enigmatic puzzle that was Elsa fell into place; one that made Anna’s chest feel tight, and warm, and a little achy.

Elsa glanced up then and noticed her staring. She blinked. “What?”

Anna cleared her throat and stood up, brushing her hands on the back of her pants. It felt important to let Elsa have this secret. She put on a reassuring smile. “Nothing. Can I make you some hot chocolate?”

Elsa smiled. “Yes, please.”

That night Elsa actually joined Anna on the couch, curling into the opposite corner while they started their second glass of mulled wine.

“So why do you come up here all by yourself? And during weather like this, no less?”

Elsa’s lips twisted in a way that was difficult to read. “I’m not bothered by the cold,” she said, confirming the obvious. “And I’m not always good at being around other people.”

“You’re an introvert.”

“Yes, but it’s more than that.” Elsa swirled the wine in her glass. “After a while the world gets too loud and I need to be alone, completely. I come here to get away and try to let go of all the things that build up. All the reasons I can’t be…normal.”

Anna leaned her head back into the cushions, tilting her face towards Elsa. “Normal is overrated, and there’s nothing wrong with needing space. You gotta get those feelings out somehow.”

“Sometimes I think I feel too much.”

“Better than too little.”

Elsa hummed noncommittally. Anna could feel her starting to withdraw, and searched for some way to hold on to this unexpectedly open side of Elsa. “I think that was my ex’s problem.”

Elsa looked up. “Oh?”

“Yup,” she said, popping her lips on the ‘p’. “Too shallow. Took me a year to figure it out, and that was only as he was leaving me. It was a great reminder of why I prefer dating women,” she muttered into her glass.

She inhaled and continued past the bitterness. “It’s one of the reasons I made this trip actually— well that and the vet clinic where I work shutting down. A little hard to start your own practice in a big city that already has plenty. I guess I was feeling a little adrift, and my aunt and uncle always talked about showing me the place where they grew up, so I thought: why not? Though technically they’re from Fevik, not Arendal, but Fevik doesn’t have much to offer in the way of rentals.”

“Why would anyone leave you?”

Dammit. She was hoping Elsa wouldn’t focus too closely on her love troubles. Anna chuckled humorlessly. “When he broke up with me he said, and I quote: ‘Anna, you’re great, but you’re just too much’.”

She shrugged and took a liberal sip. It didn’t matter that Hans had casually flung her deepest insecurity in her face right before he walked out the door forever. Even if he hadn’t been the best partner, and she hadn’t been happy towards the end.

It was fine.

“You are a lot.”

Elsa quickly reached for her hand when she saw the look of hurt Anna couldn’t hide, surprising them both. For a moment it seemed like she might pull away, but she squeezed Anna’s hand instead. “I didn’t say you were too much. You are a lot of a good thing.” Elsa withdrew her hand and cupped it around her wine glass, staring into the burgundy liquid. “Some people don’t deserve that,” she finished quietly.

It must have been the alcohol sloshing in her stomach and the fumes muddying her brain that made Anna say, into a silence suddenly heavy with nebulous meaning: “Why do I feel like we’re not just talking about my ex anymore?”

Elsa sucked in a breath, as if she hadn’t realized her words would be so revealing. She set her glass down on the coffee table then tucked her feet under her, grabbing a pillow and holding it to her chest while she picked at the fringe.

Anna knew her brain had fully turned off her filter when her mouth continued to work, seemingly of its own volition. “Don’t you deserve good things Elsa?”

Elsa curled herself tighter around the pillow, her eyes seeking answers in the embers of their small fire. The cabin groaned as the storm surged around them. “I’m not sure I do,” she whispered.

Anna felt her heart break, just a little, at that soft admission.

“I think that’s bullshit.”

Elsa looked at her, startled. “You barely know me.”

Anna thought of chair legs and hot chocolate, of warm baths and borrowed clothes— of how she’d never experienced so much cold in her life, and she’d never felt so warm either. The way Elsa humored her, not because Anna was a burden or an obligation, but because she seemed to actually enjoy her company. “I think I know enough. And I’m sure anyone would be fantastically lucky to have you in their life. I know I am.”

“Why?”

“Well, for starters you saved me from freezing to death out there.”

Elsa shook her head. “You wouldn’t have been in danger of that if I—” she clamped her lips shut.

“If you what?”

“If I… had checked with Kristoff before he listed his cabin.”

Anna frowned. “That’s hardly your fault, Elsa. It was his mistake. Besides it’s not like you can control the weather.”

Elsa flinched. A thread pulled free from the pillow; she laid it carefully on the arm of the couch. “No… I suppose I can’t.”

“Hey.” Anna extended her leg across the couch and nudged the bottom of her foot against Elsa’s. “I’ve always wanted to experience getting snowed in. I’m glad it was with you.”

Elsa’s smile was bittersweet.

But still there, and Anna took that as a win.

They finished the rest of their wine in companionable silence as the fire burned down and the night grew deeper. Elsa got up to take the empty glasses to the kitchen.

“We’re out of wood.”

“What?” Elsa spun slowly to see Anna squatting by the fireplace. There was nothing left but ash. Elsa had been so distracted by Anna, the wine, and the conversation, that she’d forgotten to find more to salvage, and she’d left Anna without a source of heat.

This was what happened when Elsa wasn’t careful, when she wasn’t in control of herself —

“We should sleep together.”

Elsa nearly dropped the glasses.

“What?”

“Oh my g— n-no! Not like that!” Anna flushed scarlet. “I meant like, for warmth.” She pulled her blanket around herself and looked everywhere but at Elsa.

Elsa’s pulse slowed a fraction, and she tried to ignore the unexpected whisper of heat low in her stomach. It dissipated instantly when she registered what Anna was suggesting. “Anna, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I’m not…I…I run quite cold, I’d probably make it worse—”

“Then I’ll just have to warm you up.” Anna stopped, her face burning again. “I meant like— oh whatever, you know what I mean.” She came and liberated the glasses from Elsa, setting them in the kitchen sink. Elsa protested weakly as Anna grabbed her hand and marched towards the bedroom, but it seemed she remained powerless to the force of nature that was Anna.

“Wait.” She tugged on Anna’s hand. “Let me at least get the blankets.”

While Anna got ready, Elsa layered back all the bedding she’d stripped away that first night, grateful Anna hadn’t commented on the fact that she’d been sleeping with nothing but a fitted sheet.

When Anna returned she quickly flung herself under the covers; Elsa climbed in reluctantly on the other side, staying as close to the edge as possible. After a minute Anna pushed the covers down and looked over at her.

“Okay, I’m not saying you have to spoon me, but it’s going to be a little difficult to share heat from way over there.”

Elsa bit her lip and slid closer, heart pounding. She felt like Anna was asking her to hand over a live grenade. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this close to anyone.

“Liiittle closer,” Anna coaxed. Elsa got as close as she dared, still leaving about 20 centimeters of space between them. She drew up the covers more securely, trying to insulate Anna against the cold, against her. As she tucked another blanket around them, her hand brushed Anna’s arm.

Anna shivered. “Geez you’re cold.” She latched onto her wrist before Elsa could react, pulling her closer. “You must be freezing,” she muttered, running her palm back and forth over Elsa’s forearm.

Elsa was frozen; her whole body had gone rigid, while her heart had leaped into her throat. Anna had pulled her closer as if that would bring them heat, and now she was worried about Elsa being warm enough. The irony was excruciating. But Anna’s grip was strong, and Elsa felt a twisted flair of hope; that perhaps, just this once, she might be capable of more than cold.

Anna shuffled back drowsily into her arms and Elsa held her breath, waiting for the worst. Minutes went by and nothing happened; Anna sank into the pillow with a sigh, still holding onto her. Tentatively, Elsa began to relax, as fragile hope turned to wonder.

Anna hadn’t turned away.

At every turn Anna had been reaching out, even when Elsa was reserved, or anxious, or closed off. Anna kept drawing her out, kept intriguing and surprising her.

Anna had felt the cold, her cold, and she reached for Elsa anyway.

In that moment it didn’t matter that Anna wasn’t aware of the whole truth— yet, because after the last few days with this woman, Elsa was confident that Anna wouldn’t have done a thing differently.

The last thing Elsa knew was a soft snore, and the feel of Anna against her, and then she knew nothing else.

—

The first thing Elsa became aware of, was warmth. Heavy warmth, and a body in her arms, and breath on her neck. She inhaled slowly, soaking in each incredible, hazy sensation. It took a few moments for Elsa’s brain to remember who was in bed with her, and who it was nuzzling closer with a sweet sigh. Her pulse jump started, and for once, not out of fear. It seemed Anna was fine—more than, in fact— and Elsa was greedy for every last moment before the inevitable.

After a few minutes the spell broke as Anna stirred groggily, pressing her face into the pillow with a murmur. One eye opened and landed on Elsa. It grew wider when Anna realized just how close they were and she quickly disentangled herself, cheeks flushed bright red. “Oops, sorry, I uh, I can be a little clingy when I share a bed.”

Elsa struggled with the near physical ache begging her to pull Anna back to her arms, a sensation as terrifying as it was foreign, as baffling as it was undeniable. “It’s alright,” she said softly, her own face feeling a little hot.

She watched Anna hop out of bed and go to the window to throw open the curtains, seemingly more out of habit than anything else.

Anna gasped. “No. Way. Elsa! You have to see this—you’re not gonna believe it!”

Elsa frowned and joined her apprehensively at the window. She peered out, and lost her breath.

Nearly all the snow was gone.

Only a thin layer remained on the ground, melting under the bright sunlight. Large swathes of grass were showing, triumphant and sparkling in the fading frost.

Anna bumped her hip against Elsa’s. “Isn’t this great?! We can go outside! We can stock up on supplies, I can wear my clothes again— not that I don’t like yours— Oh, we could have a picnic! Kristoff said there was a lake nearby, I wonder if Oaken has a boat…“

Anna continued spouting ideas as she left the room, and Elsa registered distantly that all Anna’s haphazard plans involved her. The sharp little anxiety at the thought of having to say goodbye died before it could take root.

Elsa remained at the window, dazed and transfixed by the landscape that had been altered so drastically overnight.

Or perhaps, had been four days in the making.

Anna rushed back in, finally having realized Elsa wasn’t following her. She grabbed Elsa by the hand and led her outside, where they came to a stop in the grass just past the porch. They stood, absorbing the sunlight, the gentle breeze and the birdsong. Anna still had ahold of her hand, and Elsa was content to keep it there for as long as she’d let her.

The sun blazed forth from behind a passing cloud, and Anna shaded her eyes with her free hand. “It seems like that freak storm really has passed huh?”

A smile pulled at Elsa’s lips and she looked up into the vivid blue sky. “So it would seem.”

#elsanna #submission #June 2021 contest #prompt: storm

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woahitslucyylu · 4 years ago

Text

NSFW Alphabet - Erik ‘Killmonger’ Stevens

Author’s Notes: A few days late, but here it is. I write my alphabets as if I am talking to my frands (which I am), so enjoy it, loves!

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A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Don’t expect much if it’s casual - you knew what it was when he was two fingers deep in the Uber. He will be polite, cordial, and a decent host, but don’t expect to lay up. He will absolutely ask you for your number, because he loves options, and is generous to his friends - passing along recommendations of girls worth remembering, buttttttttt, frand, if he loves you…

You. Are. A. Motherfucking. Princess.

He will shower you with cum and cuddles and then leave you to soak in the jacuzzi tub while he rubs your shoulders. He’s a Daddy, so he’s going to take care of you in all aspects after an intense session.

B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Erik’s favorite body part is his face. His smirk is predatory. A glinting gold-fanged smile leaves a lasting impression.

On his partner, he loves thick - here, there, and everywhere. Big boobs, fat ass, thick thighs - love, love, love; whether it is one or all. Erik is a hunk - muscles for days, and he will easily handle allllll you have to offer.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum)

Anywhere you let him?

He’s a freak, so it’s been all over your body. His favorites though are in you and your face. He is really into ownership and dominance, and when he has you in the most vulnerable positions, that’s when he gets off the most.

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He lost his virginity late - 17, a week before his senior year of high school started. A girl three blocks down from the corner store in his hood. She stayed with her grandma and he had to sneak in through the window. He didn’t start fucking until college and well, those scars are from killing pussies too. Meme

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

He’s for the streets, unless you’re the real deal. Erik is incredibly loyal, because he expects it from you - a true ride or die. If he’s not in a relationship though, well, he’s running trains.

F = Favorite Position (This goes without saying)

Back shots are his go-to. Watching your ass bounce against his chiseled hips, your lips stretching over him as he glistens from you will have his eyes hooded as he grips your hair reminding you to be a good girl.

Sliding behind you while you do your make-up, hair in a bonnet leaves you late at least twice a week. He presses his dick into your ass as his hands cup your breasts through your chenille robe.

“Just the tip, ma. Just let me feel you.” Pro-tip: It’s never just the tip.

But, even Kill needs intimacy from his girl though, sooo…

If your Baby Girl, he will slow stroke you so deep with your legs draped over his shoulders as he says you look so pretty taking your dick. The pad of his thumb pressed against your throbbing nub. He will bury his face in your neck - nipping your tender skin and burying himself in you.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Erik finds humor in your proverbial suffering, when you’re whining and whimpering for more or for a break, but he isn’t cracking jokes and dropping one liners.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

He’s groomed and he smells like a man. I get Dior Sauvage vibes from him.

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

This is a privilege, but if you’re lucky enough, you’re spoiled. Candles lit, flowers, soft sheets, expensive lingerie - making love is an art for him. He will degrade you in the most loving way as he lets you cum first, second, and third. Your pleasure and your worth make him feel like a man. Loving you correctly is a source of pride for him, and that means you are emotionally taken care of, even in the nastiest scene.

J = Jack/Jill Off (Masturbation headcanon)

When you first teased at a FaceTime show, you didn’t know you’d love it so much. Watching Erik left you so overwhelmed, you came hard - moaning his name as you pushed the toy in and out. He loves when you initiate. Knowing you want him validates him and indulging you is something he enjoys doing, so when he’s away for business, he treats you to the shows.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks)

Sex is Erik’s kink. There is very little he doesn’t enjoy in the pursuit of pleasure. Not surprisingly, kinky Kill is reserved for his girl only. It’s a privilege to be tied up in his bed as his heavy hands run over your body, whispering the filthiest thoughts. It’s a privilege to role play in the bar on a spur-of-the-moment trip to New York with a blonde wig and end up bent of the bathroom sink as the game melts into real fucking. It’s a PRIVILEGE to have his submission - the times when he sinks on the bed, calling you with a finger, and he begs you to ride him leave you with heart eyes as you sink onto him, getting drunk on his moans as your ass bounces against his thighs.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do)

Erik is a sucker for baecation sex.

Your melanated skin sparkles in the sun as you lay topless in the southern Pacific sun. The ocean breaks gently against the private dock and the soft R&B lulls your eyes shut behind your large sunglasses. Erik leaned against the door frame, watching your curves against the aquamarine seascape and his dick throbbed. He finished the rum - the sweet liquid icing his throat as he swallowed thickly and padded to your lounged body. His dick rested heavy against his thigh, already hard under his swim trunks, as his hulking frame shadowed you.

“Babe, what are you doing?” You raised your glasses and squinted in the bright sun - a wide smile on your face. He dropped between your knees - your legs falling open to accommodate him as his fingers danced over your warm skin. Your breath caught as the pad of his thumb brushed over your nipple - raising it under his touch, “Oh, so we’re doing that?” You mocked as he lifted your leg over his shoulder, his breath warm against your now-wet bikini bottoms.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

Erik’s motivation in life is to dominate, and in the bedroom, that’s no different. He wants to own you in every sense of the word, and vice versa - he wants to be owned by you.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Cleanliness is next to godliness, so anything that is actually dirty, Erik is not into. On another note, disloyalty, shadiness, or any evidence of fuckery really just piss him off.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Not all pussy gets eaten, and that’s just really how it is, but for you, giving head is Erik’s solution to most problems and you don’t hate it. Bad day at work? Need attention? Broke a nail? All of it can be solved with his mouth. He loses his breath at the sight of your sticky lips and swollen clit as he brushes his nose against your folds before licking, sucking, and kissing all the places that make your pussy cry with joy.

Overpowering Erik’s dominance is rare, but you on your knees will make him relax and watch as you take him down your throat, gagging and slurping, as your tongue slides over each vein, swirling his mushroomed tip against your full lips. His hand will fist your hair, holding you still, as he thrusts into your throat - saliva dripping as you moan against him. The vibration leaves his dick throbbing as he lets you swallow, greedily enjoying your prize, hard earned from Daddy.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

There’s a time and place for it all and Erik reads the room.

You’ve been acting out, talking shit in front of his friends, kissing your teeth, and stomping through with a bratty attitude, and the only remedy for you is arched on the bed as his heavy hand lands hard on your ass and thighs. The cracking sound of your skin echoes through the room as you count in a weak voice - wetness pooling between your thighs, as he spreads your cheeks. “You just fucking up, so Daddy can fuck you up? Hmm?” He questions as he pushes into you. His question answered with a string of curses sprinkled with moans. “Don’t got shit to say now that I’m deep in my pussy, huh?” He fists your hair, holding you against the comforter, “If you wanted a little dick, just say it, ma.” His chuckle is sinful as his hips snap against you making you forget why you ever had an attitude in the first place.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

If Erik wants you, he will have you. Periodt.

The same, however, also goes for you, and the moments when you just. can’t. wait. leave Erik bustin’ earlier than he wants.

As Erik reached for the door, the locks snapped, leaving the door shut as he tossed you a side glance. This was the fourth stop of the night and your eyes were glassy from liqour as Erik shuffled you between kickbacks. “Come here,” Your hands reached for him, sliding down his t-shirt, resting on his crotch. “Just let me touch it, daddy.” You stretched the syllables as you pulled at his belt, urging it lower. “Come on, no one can see.” His hips rose, jeans sliding down as you pulled him from his boxers. “I just want a little bit.” Your hand jerked him slowly as you slid over him - your thick thighs pressing against the console and the door. He pulled his bottom lip through his teeth - his golds glittering - as you sank slowly onto him. “Just a little bit? You taking the whole thing,” His shirt was pulled under his chin as he watched his dick disappear into you with each rock. “It’s mine. I can take it all.” Your head lazed as Erik’s powerful thrusts took over and your soft moans filled the car.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

Erik’s whole life is a risk, sex isn’t any different. Threesomes, orgies, tying people up, being tied up - all of it can find a place in his life.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Realistically, he can go two-three times in a row. During a day, you could give it five or six times if you really wanted it.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

Toys aren’t for children and Erik uses them to his advantage. Plugs, vibrators, ties, restraints, lube - all in the drawer beside the bed waiting to be chosen to work your body into a puddle.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Before Erik, you never knew the beauty and power in a delayed release, and with Erik as a teacher, you learned the lessons of edging quite well. He’s a general tease - the build up is half the fun, and unless you’re being punished, he always delivers for you.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

Erik is nasty and his words alone leave you dripping. His dirty talk is another level of freak, and he leaves you speechless when he says things like…

“Is this my pussy, ma?”

“Your shit drippin’ all over me.”

“Where did you learn to suck dick like this, baby girl?”

“Come on, give me my nut.”

“This tight pussy all mine.”

“Daddy knows the spot, ma.”

The filth that falls from his beautiful mouth leaves you begging for more, but the only thing that matters to you are his moans - hard earned and coveted from being a good girl. The throaty sounds that escape as he bottoms out or you squeeze him gently leave you panting and craving more.

Your acrylic nails raked over his scars - a sharp hiss escaping his mouth - as he pulled your leg over his hip, deepening his thrust. A flex of your walls shut his eyes - a guttural moan slipping out as he stilled himself above you. Your eyes drank in the heavenly sight above you. Loose dreads hung over his face, his lip caught between his teeth - his amber eyes glazed, “Quit playing, baby.” It was barely a whisper as he pulled back, slowly inching from you, when you squeezed him again and another moan echoed through the room.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Intimacy, for Erik, comes in the form of non-sexual activities. Almost anyone can get the dick, but not everyone gets their hand held at the Farmer’s Market while he shops trendy black-owned farms for fresh vegetables, not everyone gets to drive him to urgent care when he chilled with a fever, and not everyone gets the privilege of cleaning on Saturday mornings with 70s funk narrating the choice to use Fabuloso or Pine Sol.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants)

8-9 inches

Thick

Curved

It bounces when he walks

And it smells good.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

He enjoys sex and it keeps him even. He wants you all the time. Of course, there’s real life responsibilities, but in the house, if he wants you, he will take you.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

This is assuming he only has sex at night or in a bed, but generally, he sleeps when he wants to and that includes after sex too.

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toosicktoocare · 4 years ago

Note

OKAY SO IM CURRENTLY VERY INTO MANDALORIAN. and i’ve been thinking of a point in time where maybe din & grogu are alone, off in space somewhere or grounded on a planet, and din gets sick, assuming he can take care of himself. but it turns into something much more serious, and eventually grogu manages to find the distress button and cara or someone gets it, and can’t contact din so they go to find him and help him because the poor baby has exhausted himself trying force heal? something in that vein! (i’m a big fan of all your stuff btw!! keep up the good work!)

I’m going to have this set in between seasons 1 and 2, so I’m going to go with Cara and Greef Karga.

It’s becoming apparent to Din that he’s struggling to discern between the most basic of concepts. Take up from down as an example: When he looks up, if anything to just determine if it’s still day or if his world has blurred to night, his vision doubles vertically. The image of the sky above him, sometimes darker than any shade of black he’s ever seen and sometimes bright enough to burn his skin past his helmet, splits into two wavery scenes, and the bottom half is heavy. It presses against his neck until his head is lolling downward, and suddenly, he’s looking at a snow-covered ground and not the sky. Wasn’t he just looking up?

What’s less apparent, at least to Din, is how he exclusively underestimated this virus, or rather, how severely he overestimated his sheer ability to care for himself.

It started as a nusicance poking at the back of his throat, nothing more yet nothing less. It was a minor, scratching pain that was only present enough to make sure he was aware of it. He considered that he was getting sick, but under the guise that he’s far too preoccupied to be ill, he brushed it off as allergies. Sure, his helmet’s filters are incredibly advanced, but, he’s still one to succumb to seasonal allergies.

But, as quick as pushing the Crest into hyperdrive, his symptoms heightened until they were plowing over him, pushing against every muscle, bringing aching pain that dances amongst heat that could melt the snow beneath him and amongst the ice that could frighten the chill around him.

Terrible, which is the only word his muddy mind can supply, doesn’t seem to bring justice to whatever foreign virus is running rampant through his insides. It’s vicious, all-consuming, and more than anything, he wants to sleep. He wants to yank his helmet off, toss it far away from the heat coloring his cheeks, and he wants to curl up on a cot and sleep until this virus runs it’s course, which, right now he’s thinking, might truly be eternity.

A small, shaky coo brings forth a brief, harsh burst of clarity, and Din looks down to see the kid tapping lightly on his leg. He should bend down and pick the kid up because, per the inconsistent temperature spikes his body’s currently exhibiting, he’s suddenly well aware of how cold it is, and he shouldn’t be making the kid walk in the snow. Bending, however, requires a movement that, for him, appears as climbing down a mountain. And then, he’ll have to climb back up, with added weight.

He drops heavily to one knee, and then he teeters. He tries to reach out to the kid, to snag him, but gravity’s conspiring with the virus, and he’s not aware that he’s fallen onto his side until the cold of the snow beneath him begins to chill his armor.

He opens his eyes, and the kid’s poking at his helmet, dark eyes crowding his vision. Din’s not one for reading expressions, but, if he had to guess, he’d easily say the kid’s worried for him.

Shit.

“Sorry, kid,” he rasps out, and he doesn’t even recognize his voice. It sounds heavy, just like the rest of him. Heavy, tired, and shaky. He tries to push himself up because he has to.

He’s not sure if the kid can understand him, but he promised food nevertheless. He intentionally landed the Crest a miles walk from a small village, and he has to make it there. For the kid.

The second his arm’s supporting his weight, he blacks out.

He’s not sure how long this time, but when he pries his eyes open, his helmet’s beginning to frost over, and the kid’s focused in front of his vision, both small hands raised, eyes closed, and face scrunched up. Din thinks he’s seen this before, but then the pain in his head is reminding him that unconsciousness is much better, and he’s drifitng off.

He wakes the second time to shouts that he can’t quite make out, shouts that carry across a too-cold wind. He’s freezing, yet, the skin stretched across his face is relishing in the ice creeping underneath his helmet. The kid’s still in front of him, but he’s no longer standing, and his large, dark eyes are drooping. Something’s wrong, Din thinks. He reaches one hand out, his glove brushing against the kid’s foot, and then he’s being dragged underneath the virus once more.

When he wakes again, it’s because he’s warm, and though his mind is struggling to wrap around sentences that are even remotely coherent, he knows that the warmth isn’t normal, considering he’d almost gotten used to the cold.

Still, it’s not unwelcome, by any means. It’s comfortable, the only comfort against his otherwise struggling core, and he’s nodding back off when two thoughts abruptly burst across his mind: the kid and his helmet.

He jerks forward, eyes practically bulging, and the gasp that rips down his throat is coming back through harsh coughs that crowd the inside of his helmet. One hand flies up to his face, thankful to feel the now warmed metal against his gloves, and his eyes shift, alert, until they fall on two backs.

“The kid,” he rasps around deep, hollow coughs.

“Beside you,” Cara says, back still turned. “Insisted on it, really. Hope he’s got an immune system of steel.”

Din glances down to see the kid curled up at his side, sleeping, his small face faintly scrunched up still. He breathes a shaky breath in around his coughs, allowing the filtered air to settle his lungs, and then he ghosts two fingers over the kid’s face, right above the small furrow temporarily etched in his forehead.

“We won’t turn around,” Greef Karga calls out, and Din whips his gaze back up, happy to see that he’s able to look in an almost straight line.

“We wanted to make sure you weren’t dead under that shell first,” he adds, and Din thumbs at the bottom of his helmet.

“We imagine you’ll be much more comfortable without it. Plus, you’ve got medicine you must take.”

Din spares a glance to the wooden cup of green liquid at his side.

“What is this?”

“Some weird concotion of ingredients I promise you don’t want to know,” Greef Karga replies, and Cara sighs loudly.

“Just drink it, so you don’t die.”

Din brings the cup up to his face, squinitng down at the less than appetizing liquid. “What happened?” he asks, abandoning the cup at his side.

“You,” Cara starts, dragging out the word, “were lying half dead in the snow. Somehow, the kid called for us, used one of your devicies, I think, and when we arrived, I think...”

“He was attempting to heal you,” Greef Karga finishes lowly, and Din whips his gaze back down. Memories flood his mind until it’s swimming, and he shakes his head with a low sigh that gives way to a few coughs.

“I don’t...”

“The proper terminology is ‘thank you,’“ Cara interrupts, and though she doesn’t turn around, Din can easily picture the light-hearted scowl stretched across her lips.

“Thank you,” he says, and he means it. His life is one thing, but the kid’s... That’s a life that’s in his hands, that he willingly put in his hands, and he can’t jeopardize that. He won’t.

“We’ll be just outside the tent,” Greef Karga starts, stepping to leave. “We’ll make sure no one comes in, so you should really consider losing the helmet for a bit.”

“And taking the medicine.” Cara adds, and Din watches as the two leave. His hands move toward the base of his helmet, and he waits until the flaps of the tent’s entrance still before he slowly slides his helmet off, setting it aside with a long sigh that’s been swelling in his lungs for days. A few coughs trail behind it, and he tugs one glove off and presses the back of his hand to his cheek.

The contact is hot, burning even, and he drops his hand to his neck for just a moment. He can’t let himself get this bad again, he thinks to himself. This... was careless. Dangerous, and somehow, he’s been dealt the best, possible outcome to a corner he backed himself into.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he downs the cup of medicine in one gulp, grimacing at the odd mixture of flavors, and then he’s sinking back down against the makeshift bed of furs and woven pillows. Instinctively, he feels for his blasters. Still there, so he can still be prepared, even in his current state.

He still feels horrible. His body’s still too heavy, and everything’s aching almost loudly. He knows he’s got another few days before his fever gives, and he’s sure the cough, a new development from what he could last remember, will linger. But right now, in this warm second, he’s safe. The kid is safe. And, in a moment of unscripted vulnerabilty, he tugs the kid a little tighter to his side.

Perhaps it’s the fever distorting things yet again, but he swears the kid’s face softens, even just a little.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #sickfic #baby yoda #grogu #the mandadlorian #grogu djarin #whump #mandaddy #whumpfic #hurt/comfort #greef karga #cara #a) i didn't actually intend on writing and finisthing this tonight #b) do people call greef karga just greef? like? is greef his first name??#it felt super weird to only write greef #hence why i didn't do it lmao

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ais-for-alex · 3 years ago

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The Scars of Our Past: Chapter 26

Logan was avoiding mirrors, the moment his eyes caught sight of his own image in the reflective surface he forced himself to look away almost instantly. He couldn’t stand to see the gash just over his eyebrow, still held together by a steri strip, the skin around it purple and blue with mottled bruises. He couldn’t stand to look at it, because each time his eyes caught hold of the physical reminder of that game Logan found himself snapped back onto the ice. Back to that moment he glanced up through bloody fingers to see his normally even-tempered best friend filled with a white-hot rage, beating another man down onto the ice. Logan would see that horrible look in his eyes, the look that if someone hadn’t pulled him off of Carrow, Finn would have continued hitting him until his hands bled.

Almost worse than that though, was the memory of their conversation afterward, in the locker room. Logan could hear Finn’s words, playing over and over, like the needle of a turntable getting stuck creating a fucked-up loop of his voice.

You’re a fucking coward. You’re a fucking coward.

The hardest part was that Logan knew Finn was right, he is a coward. He had been running away from his feelings for his best so long, now it was all he knew how to do. Sadly though, it seemed that while Logan was too busy running with his tail between his legs, he had finally pushed Finn to his breaking point.

In all the years he had known him, Logan couldn’t remember a single time he had actually raised his voice to him, despite all of the shit they had been through together. The sound of hurt in Finn’s voice as he begged Logan to just tell him, was a sound he wouldn’t be forgetting anytime soon.

Coward.

I know.

It felt weird now, sitting in the locker room. The rest of the team seemed completely unfazed, they moved and joked as if Logan and Finn hadn’t flung themselves over the jagged edge of a cliff and were now tumbling through the endless sky. Just waiting to see if there were rocks at the bottom of the fall waiting to break their bodies on impact. In their defense though, the team didn’t know any of that, however, Logan still felt like their cheer was out of place.

Finn hadn’t been there when Logan got in that morning but even without the man himself there, he was avoiding Finn’s stall like the plague. Logan had zero desire to step back into that space, back into those memories so he kept his eyes firmly trained on the floor. He made quick work of getting his skates and pads on, so quick he ended up being the first player out on the ice for practice.

Beginning his warm ups Logan took in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then when he breathed out, he pushed away every thought in his head. He let the scrape of his skates on the ice drown out the memory of Finn’s voice, he let the smooth glide of the puck against his stick ground him in the moment, he let his mind focus on Kasey getting the puck past his sharp eyes into the back of the net. Over and over those were the only things Logan let his mind focus on, scrape, slide, shoot, that was it. He breathed a sigh of relief when he finally heard Coach’s whistle signaling the end of practice and he joined the throng of his teammates shuffling off the ice.

Logan savored the feeling of hot water coursing over his body, the feeling of it rinsing away the sweat that clung to his skin, he closed his eyes and let the spray wash over his face.

“Dude! Drop it,” Finn’s voice echoed through the shower as he wandered into the showers.

“Oh, come on Don Juan, tell us about her!” James said teasingly.

Her, Logan’s eyes opened, the water stung but he didn’t care, her?

“So what? She sees your fight on the ice and suddenly you’re just irresistible?” Logan turned to find James ruffling Finn’s hair.

“Pfft, I’m always irresistible,” Finn laughed and gestured to his naked body, “unlike some of us,” he said, giving James a bit of a shove before turning on the shower head and stepping into the steaming water.

“Ok first off rude,” James said indignantly as he turned on his own shower, “and second I’m not letting this go until you tell me something, hair color, eye color, was she at the game? She’s not a snake’s fan, is she? Ugh,” James shivered in disgust.

“Seriously?” Finn scoffed, turning his head to shoot an exasperated huff. When he did though Logan’s eyes zeroed in on the dark red bruise over his pulse point, distantly it clicked in his mind that this was probably what had prompted James’s probing but in that moment he didn’t care. Logan felt sick, the thought of Finn going out and finding just some random girl after their fight made his skin crawl.

“Please! I live vicariously through other people!” James shouted.

“Fine, blond. You happy?” Finn asked with a shake of his head.

“No, but I’ll accept that’s the only information you’re gonna give me.”

Logan was done, he didn’t want to hear another word, didn’t want to think about Finn and her whoever she was. He quickly shut off the shower, snagged his towel, and hastily moved towards the exit. Out of the corner of his eye though he noticed Finn glance up at him just as Logan slipped through the door back into the main area of the locker room.

He moved mechanically, it felt like his hands had flipped into autopilot as he pulled his clothes on over damp skin, darkening the fabric of his shirt as his hair dripped onto his shoulders until Logan roughly shoved a snapback on his head. Logan grabbed his things at random and chucked them into his bag hoping to make a quick escape, but just as he was zipping it up Logan felt a warm hand settle on his shoulder. Every muscle in his body tensed then melted as a shiver ran down his spine as the soft brush of Finn’s thumb against his neck, Logan couldn’t help the sigh that fell from his lips.

“Hey,” Finn whispered in a hushed voice, “it’s not what you think.”

It felt like his heart was breaking but Logan shoved the feeling aside and shrugged out from under Finn's touch.

“It's fine Harz, you don’t have to explain yourself to me. If you want to go out and screw around with random girls, it’s your right to do so. Not my place to have an opinion.”

“Lo…” Finn’s voice was sad and soft.

“I’m- I’m going home,” Logan said, slinging his bag onto his shoulder, the strap digging into the place Finn’s hand had just been.

“Give me a minute to get dressed and I can drive you,” Finn replied. Logan’s heart shattered even further at that, the small selfless offer, because this man; even when he was mad and hurt he just couldn’t seem to stop himself from caring for the people in his life.

“No,” Logan said firmly, “it's fine, go finish your shower. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that Logan stepped away, leaving Finn behind standing in front of his stall as fled the ice rink out into the blistering cold winter air.

***

Logan pretended not to notice the slight tremble in his fingers as he slid his phone from his pocket and typed in the pin number. He pretended that the cold afternoon air wasn’t burning his lungs as he made his way down the sidewalk heading home. And he pretended the reason his heart was beating out of his chest was just lingering adrenaline from practice rather than the roiling jealousy in his stomach. Logan pretended he wasn’t turning green with envy over some faceless, nameless woman who got to so carelessly touch Finn the way his fingers had itched to touch him for years. He pretended that the blood running through his veins wasn’t spiked with bitterness, that it was her lips that sucked wine colored marks into the warm skin of Finn's throat rather than his own.

Shakily, Logan pulled up his contacts and scrolled past Finn’s and easily found the number he was looking for, the call rang loud in his ear for a moment before finally connecting.

“Hey,” Leo greeted, his voice filtering through the phone, his breathing was loud like he was panting heavily.

Logan wasn’t entirely sure why he had called Leo, all he knew was that he was sad, and jealous, and hurt, and the one person he would normally turn to for comfort was firmly off the table considering he had just walked away from him. All he knew was that Leo made him happy, and Logan desperately wanted to feel happy right now.

“Hey,” he said softly, “whatcha doing?”

“At the gym,” Leo huffed, “running- grabbed the call- on my- headphones,” his words were interrupted by sharp breaths.

“Oh, um- sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your work out.”

“S’ok, I’m- almost- done,” there was a faint beeping on Leo’s end of the call as he turned down the speed on his treadmill, he was still panting but his breaths seemed to start coming easier. “So, what’s up?” Leo asked when he was breathing a bit more evenly.

“Ah, not much. Just left the rink and I-“ Logan paused, he wasn’t sure how he wanted to finish that sentence. He what? Ran away like the coward he is? He wanted to be comforted by the man that made his insides squirm just to think about over another man?

“Lo? Are you ok?” Leo asked, voice soft and filled with concern when Logan’s pause stretched a bit too long.

“I- yeah, I’m- I’ll be fine, it’s nothing,” Logan shook his head as if he could shake loose the thoughts in his mind.

“Alright, if you say so,” Leo said, accepting the answer but Logan could hear it in his voice that he didn’t entirely believe it was nothing. “Hey! What are you doing in like an hour?”

“Um, nothing?” Logan answered a bit thrown off by Leo’s sudden question, “Why?”

“If you want some company, I can come over? We can hang out, if you want?”

Logan felt something tight in his chest break loose at Leo’s offer, “yeah?” he asked hopefully.

“Yeah,” Logan could practically hear the smile in Logan's voice, “It’ll be fun.”

“I guess I’ll see you soon then,” Logan said softly, a smile beginning to pull at his lips.

“I’ll see you soon.”

When the call ended Logan sighed and slipped his phone back into his pocket, he glanced up when a car honked near him only to find Dumo’s car pulling up next to him.

“Why the fuck are you out here walking?” Dumo asked through his open window as the vehicle rolled to a stop.

“Ne posez pas de questions stupides, vieil homme. Laissez-moi entrer,” Logan huffed, trudging over to the passenger door.

Logan rolled his eyes at Dumo’s chortled laugh as he popped the lock to let him into the car.

French translation: Don't ask stupid questions, old man. Let me in!

Read on AO3

Chapter 25 Chapter 26

#sweater weather #coast to coast #leo knut #logan tremblay #lumosinlove #the scars of our past #writing #hockey #figure skating

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fredweesleyismyslut · 4 years ago

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Name of the Game - Neville Longbottom x Slytherin!reader

A/N: This was a request from the lovely, @obsessedwithrandomthings and I hope I did you justice with my writing!! This request just gave me warm butterflies as a Slytherin and just because as much as I love Fred, hence my name, I have a little soft spot for Neville. Anywho, I hope you guys enjoy this potato of a writing and enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it and pretending as if I was writing a masterpiece and acting as if I was Shakespeare writing Romeo and Juliet. Welp, now I’m gonna go back into my hermit cave and stress over how I probably didn’t do great on my psych midterms because I like self sabotage.

“Hey, Longbottom,” you said, smiling up at the boy who denied your attention each time. Neville clenched his jaw slightly as he quickened his pace to walk away from you, “Awwww come on Longbottom don’t be like that between us.” He turned quickly on his heels, face slightly red from most likely what you would assume was anger, “There’s nothing between us, Lestrange.” Then, he turned around walking faster and into the Gryffindor common room, which you were quite surprised as he usually forgot the password to get in, was he that determined to not be in the same space as you? Trying to not let the rejection get under your skin you shrugged softly, “One day Longbottom, one day.” You weren’t necessarily surprised at Neville’s hate for you, one: you were a Slytherin while he was Gryffindor, which didn’t necessarily mean he had to hate you but there definitely was a lot of rivalry between the two houses, two: the big, unforgettable fact that you were Bellatrix Lestrange’s daughter. Bellatrix Lestrange, one of the death eaters who tortured Neville’s parents into insanity, you knew about this as it was a fact that Neville would never forgive you for, you knew he didn’t necessarily hate YOU just the idea that you were Bellatrix’s daughter was what made him disgusted by you. Ever since school first started you were immediately drawn to the quite awkward, clumsy boy from Gryffindor, not just because you felt awful for what your mother did to his parents, but also he just had an aura that made him unforgettable to you. Every time he rejected your advances it hit a pang in your heart as if someone was poking the heart of your voodoo doll somewhere to cause you searing pain. Neville didn’t know but you did visit his parents whenever you could, not out of charity or because you thought it would make you look good to Neville, but because you wanted to make up for what your mother did. You wanted to somehow make up for what your mother did, although nothing could fix it, and eventually, you started to really like spending time with his parents and started to actually look forward to your visits with them.

Next thing you knew in a week everything flashed by as Hogwarts started preparing for a war with Voldemort, or as most called him “The one who shall not be named”. You were running around helping out your friends as much as you could, which was harder than expected as some held a great suspicion of you at the beginning especially Neville, sadly, thinking that you were working together with your despicable mother who was on the wrong side of the war. Once the war started, however, people started to believe in your actions on how you fought bravely, protecting those you loved from Voldemort’s army. Over the sounds of people shouting and some screaming blood-curdling screams on both sides as the life escaped their bodies, you heard the sound of your mother. Her voice made your blood run ice-cold, as adrenaline pumped through your veins you ran towards the sound. She was screaming something unintelligible through the noise surrounding you, blood pumping through your ears along with the soft ringing that ran through your head, probably from the hit you got earlier. Pushing through you found your mother duelling with Molly Weasley, whom you saw as more of a mother figure than your biological one. Mrs Weasley had taken you in as basically a second daughter once you left the reigns of your mother’s toxic brainwashing and insanity. Seeing Bellatrix attack Mrs Weasley set a type of blood broiling anger inside of you that you had never felt as you stormed up. “Bellatrix!” you shouted, your mother and Mrs. Weasley turning their heads toward you, Mrs. Weasley’s eyes widened with horror as you knew she was horrified at the aspect of you being harmed by your mother. You gave her a reassuring nod as you walked up, head high and shoulders back, “I was wondering when you would show your face y/n darling.” Bellatrix said, eyes glinting with what you could only describe as pure madness as she took a defensive stance in response to yours. “You don’t get to call me darling, you bitch.” you seethed, as she cackled softly, “Oh sweetheart, you can’t talk to your mother like that.” She tsked softly as she waved her wand playfully as if reprimanding a child for throwing a tantrum, “You’re not my mother, you’re just a crazy bitch who can’t even think for herself.” She cackled again, clearly not taking you seriously, “I’m not scared of you anymore, Bellatrix.” She was about to respond until you took the chance and quickly pointed your wand at her and shouted, “Petrificus totalus!” Her eyes widened as her body froze, limbs unmoving as you proceed with your spell, “Reducto!” her body exploded into dust as you swear you could hear her wailing in your ears. As the action was finished you dropped to the ground body shaking as tears fell down your cheeks, “Oh, y/n, sweetheart.” Molly said as she came running as she engulfed you in a hug. She whispered shushing noises in your ears calming you down as the hiccups decreased, “I don’t even know why I’m crying, I hated that bitch.” Molly patted your hair down, trying to pat down stray hairs in a calming motion as she replied, “You’re just relieved, darling. You finally don’t have that bitch of a mother looming in your life.” You tried not to smile at the sound of Molly cussing as you hugged her back, “We need to check on everyone and the wounded.” Nodding she gathered everyone as you stood there for a second, “Take that you bitch, guess I won this time.” you muttered softly to the wind.

As the war came to an end you looked around at the despair, people crying over loved ones and the wounded, you especially went around the Weasleys as Fred had died, although not related all of them were family to you and that broke your heart. You comforted Molly as pain flooded your heart, the war was over and your turmoil with your mother was over and yet you would all still feel the effects of the devastation, and for what cost? Sitting alone in a corner to catch your breath a finger poked your shoulder, you turned to see the tear stricken face of Neville, he suddenly wrapped his arms around you. The only intelligible words that you could make out was, “I’m sorry, y/n.” The sound of him using your first name melted your heart as you pulled him close as well. “I know what happened with Bellatrix.” he finally said, gulping to catch air. “Yeah, she’s caused enough pain in this world, someone had to stop it.” you patted his shoulder, “Neville, I know this probably isn’t the best time to say this but I just want to tell you before I regret not saying anything…” You took a second to take a deep breath before continuing, “I-I’ve always loved you, Longbottom. I don’t know why I love you. My name is the one thing that causes you so much pain and yet here I am, falling deeper and deeper in love with you and I’m so s-sorry I never meant to love you I just wanted to make up for my mother’s actions and yet…” Neville cut you off, kissing your forehead and staring into your eyes, “I love you too y/n. I never meant to be so harsh to you throughout the years but...I just couldn’t accept the fact that I had fallen in love with the daughter of the monster that tortured my parents...and yet here we are.” He glanced down at your lips before looking back up as if for permission, you nodded as you leaned in closing the space, “I love you, Neville Longbottom. Please don’t leave me.” you sobbed out, shoulders shaking from the sobs of stress and despair from all the pain you had felt in the short span of the war that felt like an eon, as Neville pulled you closer, “I promise to never hurt you or leave you, Lestrange. I truly love you y/n Lestrange.”

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ffangirlingsince2001 · 4 years ago

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Stone Cold

anonymous asked:

(similar to frozen) Geralt x Reader where he has been mean to her lately because he's had a bad week. Reader was born with ice powers. He lashes out at them during a small argument turned into a fight. He tells her to leave. She runs to the moutains, builds a ice palce (her hair turns white from fully using her ice powers). A few hours later during the night, he tracks her scent to the mountains. He's worried at first but when he finds them, they tell them about their ice powers. He apologizes?

A/N: Sorry for the wait, I wasn’t sure how I wanted to write this and I hope the direction I chose is to your enjoyment!

Geralt x Reader

Warnings: angst, description of smut

He had never known someone so cold. It wasn’t that you didn’t care for him or others, you did, so much so that it often felt forced, heavy with an attempt to seek recompense for something he was unaware of. It was just how you were. He had never felt someone with such cold skin. Even with the first handshake he had wanted to recoil, icy flesh a shock against his warm hand. You had laughed and apologized, explaining that your hands had that affect on everyone. He soon learned that’s just how they were.

It wasn’t just your hands either.

The first time you had laid together he had found it impossible to warm your skin. He had slid your dress from your shoulders, slow and tantalizing, lips leaving a trail across cold skin. His hands had found the apex of your thighs, and he was surprised to find that even at your center you were cold.

‘Are you cold?’ he had whispered, and you had shaken your head, eyes filled with a fire that didn’t match the rest of your body. You had moaned and screamed like the rest, nails raking down his back with each thrust. It had gone for hours, the ferocity of two cats in heat, but when you arched your back for the final time and he pulled himself from your body, dropping to your chest with a lover’s exhaustion you were still as cold as when you had begun. He didn’t mention it then, or anytime after that. He simply continued to hold you close, fighting to hide the shivers that yearned to run up his spine every time you snuggled against him.

You were so loving and tender, hands always gentle when they held him, but the tinge of winter was always present. It was hard to be warm when you were made of ice. He tried so hard, but it seemed that every time he dared to get close, a sliver of ice would lodge itself within his heart and something cold and deep within him would begin to creep up his throat. He would find himself shivering every time you brushed against him. And the cold seemed to linger, etching itself in his veins until he was shivering when she wasn’t even around. He’d even found himself shivering beneath layers of wool while wrapped in the warmth of a pub. He would feel the colds tendrils wrapping around his ribs, crawling into his tones like snakes constricting before a meal. He would pull away, go hunting and try to warm himself, but it never seemed to work. And then he would return, and something would happen, small and irrelevant most days, but not when he was cold and restless. And then, before he knew it he was yelling and you were crying.

That was the only emotion you ever seemed to show him. Sadness and frustration while he howled in anger, trying to melt whatever had wedged itself inside him. She would scream back, tears running down her face. Even feet apart there he could feel the chill.

They were always fighting, screaming until their throats raw. And it would only get colder, sometimes it even seemed that snow around them would fall faster and faster, whipping through your hair, catching against his cloak, pushing you further and further apart until the clearing was between you and the sound of your screams could barely be heard over the sound of the wind. It was so foggy, a dark echo across a tempest, he could barely hear you let alone understand you, but the final words he uttered in the argument were loud and clear.

“Just leave.”

The snow and the wind stopped for those two words, as if someone had held out their hand with a malicious grin and demanded that only ultimatums make it through the snowstorm. You stared at him, icy eyes filling with tears once more. You nodded slowly and took off into the woods, leaving a frustrated Geralt behind you. He slammed his fist into the nearest tree, and for the first time in months, screamed at something other than you.

Startled black birds sprung through the trees in grand contrast and he leaned against their home, taking a deep breath. Part of him screamed to run after you, to pull you into his arms no matter how frigid, but another part whispered how much warmer he could be if he simply let you disappear.

It was easy the first few days, he traveled into town and ordered a drink, reveling in the way that the liquor burned like an inferno as it settled in his gut. When he wrapped himself in blankets, he finally felt their warmth. And the women who accompanied him to the sheets were just as warm, hot and heavy as they rolled around in the darkness. The tips of his fingers were no longer numb, and his toes finally felt comfortable in his boots. He relished in the heat for days, basking in a warmth he had been pulled from, but soon the novelty disappeared, and he was left with a gaping hole far worse than the cold. It rested in his chest, ugly and black, aching for the thing he had forced away. He ignored it at first, telling himself it would go away with time, and he would be free to enjoy life as he once had, but it didn’t. Soon the warmth felt artificial, nothing in comparison to the smiles you sent him from your horse or the way you stared at him when his scars were on display. So, he began to listen, hunting for any news of strangely cold girl settling in a town.

When the town where he resided had nothing, he set out in the direction you had run, smelling for the familiar essence of pine and holly. It took two weeks before anything caught his attention. At first he was sure that his mind was playing tricks on him, taunting him as he grew delirious with loneliness. Then it grew stronger and stronger until he was sure that only the real thing could create something so beautiful.

He urged Roach forward, the clearing of the forest nearing. He prayed you were there, your cold hands and all, but as he stepped from the trees he was not greeted with a campsite or a town, but a palace so magnificent it seemed it had been carved from diamonds. It was not until he drew closer that he realized it was ice. He touched it with tentative fingers and admired the craftsmanship. Each line was precise, carved with the utmost skill. As the sun crept over the trees it lit into a magnificent white fire, glittering with energy. Spring was growing nearer and with the heat of sun, he wondered how the integrity of the structure did not falter. He wondered who had built such a thing, and then with searing hope, he wondered if you were inside, taken in by this magnificent architect.

He climbed the stairs, gripping the handrails as if his life depended on it, and finally with an unshakeable resolve knocked against the icy door. It creeped open and he slipped inside, tugging his cloak around his shoulders.

The beauty was not limited to the outside, and the structure only grew more wonderous as he drew closer to its center.

“Geralt?” came the familiar voice from above and his eyes snapped to yours. Although, he wasn’t really sure if it was you. Your eyes were the same and the sound of your gasp had not changed, but so much had. Your hair was white, like his, and your eyes were hard, a jarring change from the warmth they had once greeted him with.

“Y/N?” he asked, returning the question and you nodded, descending the staircase with a grace he had never witness from you before. “Is it really you? After all this time?”

“You make it sound like it has been years,” you laughed sadly. You reached the bottom of the staircase, but approached him no further, pulling away when he tried to advance.

“It might as well have been a thousand years.”

“Always so dramatic, from what I’ve heard you have been splendid.”

“I could never be anything but miserable without you.”

“I’m sure,” you whispered, eyes narrowing but not delving any further into his transgressions.

“Y/N-,”

“Why have you come, Geralt?”

“To apologize and return to your side.” You raised an eyebrow, suspicion lacing itself with the cold.

“I thought I was too cold for you. And now that you know, are you not sure?”

“Now that I know what?”

“What I am capable of,” you said, ushering to the walls that surrounded you. He followed your hand, admiring the construction once more before placing the pieces together inside his mind.

“You built this?”

“Built is such a crude word, Geralt. I created this. I drew life from the earth and poured every ounce of sadness, every ounce of anger into it in return until I was able to fashion the very thing that haunted me into something beautiful. You told me I was too cold, and it destroyed me. You took my identity and spat it in my face, but I did not allow that to stop me. And now you wish to join me once more when I have become one with myself?”

“I am so sorry,” he pleaded with you, but you only scoffed. As you spoke, the hope he had conjured was withering away like a flower beneath the first snowfall.

“I’m not. Had you not cast me aside I would not have found what I am capable of, but I also know that I do not need you, just as you clearly do not need me.”

“I do need you!”

“I’m sure your whores will suffice; they are a much warmer pocket to stuff yourself in.”

“They mean nothing.”

“And yet you used them to fill my absence.”

“I love you, I cannot live without you.”

“It’s funny you choose those words. That’s how I felt when you sent me away, aching to have me banished from your sight, but now I speak from experience, you will learn.”

“Y/N, please-,”

“Leave.”

“Not without you.”

“If you do not leave on your own, I will not hesitate to force you from my sight.”

“Then you will have to force me,” he declared and then the wind started, the same force as the day you had fought, but now it was pulling him towards the door, ice cutting at his skin as you watched with emotionless eyes while he was pulled from your home and tossed into the snow. He brushed himself off and caught you watching him from the window. He waited for you to speak, to call out to him, but you said nothing, letting the coldness of your gaze speak for itself.

He couldn’t bring himself to leave, praying that you would join him once more, but the days drew into weeks and still your fortress remained unmoved. It wasn’t until after the night when you had sent six feet of snow that he left, glancing over his shoulder as he left.

Once upon a time he had been sure you were made of ice, but now he knew he was wrong. Back then you had been a blazing fire of love. Your heart had kept him from catching frostbite when you wrapped your frozen hands around him. It was not until now that you had become what he believed you to be. And it was all his fault that you had become the terrifying heart of ice.

#geralt x reader #geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia fluff #geralt of rivia angst #geralt of rivia smut #the witcher #the witcher x reader #the witcher fanfic #the witcher fanfiction #the witcher smut #the witcher fluff #the witcher angst #geralt of rivia fanfic #geralt of rivia fanfiction

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jaxsteamblog · 3 years ago

Text

Cuddling for Warmth

Click here to read the entire fic on AO3

“I want to run away now.” Katara said.

The interview left them feeling raw. It wouldn’t air until the next day, and they debated where to go. Zuko doubted even his uncle would be pleased, and Katara wasn’t looking forward to anyone’s response from either Pole.

They were silent as they rode down the elevator. The talk show hadn’t taken them to some fancy lot, but instead sat them down in a sharply lit room with barely any furniture. Katara had kept very still in the canvas backed chair set for her, while Zuko talked with great animation.

Overall, she could barely remember anything.

Stepping out of the nondescript building, Katara shivered. Winter in Republic City was more wet than cold, but she could still feel the humming burn of the lights on her skin. On the awning above them, the fat clumps of falling snow were fingers flicking against the top of a drop. Flinching at the noise, Katara pulled the edges of her coat tighter around her.

After Zuko finished putting on his gloves, he put an arm around her.

“Cold Ice Queen?” He asked, kissing the top of her head lightly.

“Weren’t you hot in there?” Katara questioned.

“I’m very good at regulating my body temperature.” Zuko said and paused as Katara snorted. “But yes, I think the lights were particularly warm.”

Zuko tilted his head to look past the edge of the awning. Katara could feel the slate gray sky that stretched above them. With La in her veins, her bending could thread through the debris and water vapor hanging thousands of feet in the air. The weight of it just to dump clotted snowflakes over their heads.

She shivered again.

“I don’t think it’s going to let up.” Zuko remarked, rubbing Katara’s arm absently.

“Where should we go?” She asked.

“I’d say Ember Island, but that’s a bit too close to home.”

“Is there any place in the world far enough for that?”

Zuko paused and Katara glanced over at him.

“There might be one.” He said slowly. He then looked back at her with a small smile. “But we’ll have to do some pretending.”

“How did I not know about this?” Katara gasped. She then smacked Zuko’s shoulder. “How did you not tell me about this?”

“I’m telling you now!” He answered, laughter rippling through his words.

Katara gasped again, her hands holding tightly to the handles of the wheelchair.

The ice spiral resembled a bamboo shoot. That alone didn’t make it impressive; the miles of arid desert that surround it did.

“How is it not melting?” She asked quietly.

“Oh, it’s melting. The Avatar has to do regular upkeep and obviously Thuy hasn’t been here.” Zuko answered.

“Why not?”

“She’s not a fully realized Avatar. This takes spirit energy.”

“How do you know that?”

“Jinora.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“I can’t believe we’re going to miss our reservation.”

Katara clicked her tongue in annoyance but started pushing the wheelchair down the smooth walkway.

One of the many amenities of the Misty Palms Oasis were the purported healing spring spas. Zuko, unable to truly hide his scar, had heavily bandaged that side of his face and plunked himself into a wheelchair. He had a fake passport, of course, and Katara had only done some slight lying to keep her presence equally under wraps.

Not many were willing to deny the Water Tribe Queen access to healing water for a mysterious patient. One that required a different oasis, deep in the southern continent of the Earth Kingdom.

While they couldn’t sightsee, here was a privacy they couldn’t get elsewhere.

Zuko was mute while Katara checked in. A woman in a crisp green uniform was swift, showing them to their private room with barely a sound. The door closed and the AC unit kicked on, blowing cold air into the room just as Katara walked further in. On the other wall was a wide window, and Katara pulled back the curtain just enough to peer out.

She heard Zuko stand up, groaning as he stretched.

“Blazes this thing itches.” He muttered and Katara smiled.

The ochre sands that covered or inspired the equally sandy buildings felt warm. It was subdued where the South Pole, another desert, glared under the sunlight. Ice blue broke against her eyes, while the dunes spilled like honey.

The air conditioning curled over her flesh, raising trails of small bumps.

“I feel like those sand dunes.” Katara said, feeling Zuko standing behind her.

He collected her hair in his hands, lifting the heft of her thick curls up so he could kiss the back of her neck.

“You’re darker and much warmer.” He murmured.

She shivered.

The air conditioner ran continuously. With the curtains shut, there was no desert sun to fight back, and so the room quickly filled with frigid air. They burrowed under the downy blankets, finding each other in the subdued light.

All hotel blankets were snow white. Even here in the desert, with the ice tower slowly melting into blue-green pools, Katara could not escape the snow.

But, as Zuko’s body curled around hers, it wasn’t like she really wanted to.

“My birthday is coming up.” She said.

Zuko had returned to kissing her, on whatever bare spots he could find.

“I know.” He replied when she didn’t continue.

“Will you visit?”

“Of course.”

Katara sighed happily, her umber skin melting into his starlight body.

Sokka was right; they weren’t opposites because they never opposed each other. Emptiness meant to be filled, darkness meant to be illuminated, and pain meant to be loved.

“How do you like being in the Poles?” She questioned.

“I like it well enough when you’re there.” He said, jostling her so she turned.

When they kissed, Katara lost all hold of time. When they stopped, she continued.

“I wish you were more comfortable there.” She said.

“I’m more comfortable than you are in the Fire Nation.” He retorted.

“Hmm.”

“Hmmm?”

“I think I’d like to spend more time there.”

“Why?”

His tone was somewhere between surprise and disgust, but not at all suspicious.

“I want to know more about you.” Katara said.

“You already know everything about me.” Zuko replied.

“I don’t know about the war.” She countered.

“You know enough.” He said. He sounded sad and tired.

“I don’t know about the Eastern Air Temple.” She added.

“That’s…” Zuko drifted and Katara waited.

“Difficult.” He finished.

“I don’t know about your mother.”

“I don’t know about yours.”

He kissed her again, knowing her tenuous hold on time. He was distracting her, obviously, and his hands spread out the sand of her body over his.

When he stopped, the room was dark even outside of their snow white burrow.

Katara tossed back the blanket and propped herself up on one elbow. Looking down at Zuko, she saw how his ink black hair spilled over the white sheets. It resembled something abstract, or like the cards she saw in the psych department that made people see weird things.

Tilting her head, she looked for some subconscious imagery. As she searched, Zuko ran his slender fingers up and down her side. The heat escaped from the blanket and the air conditioning rushed in to fill the void. As his hands moved, he stirred up a current and Katara shivered.

“You have been awfully cold lately my love.” Zuko stated.

“Only when you leave me.” Katara said.

He placed his hand firmly on her lower back, and she lowered herself over him.

“I’ll keep you warm.” He said.

“Is that a promise?”

“It’s a vow.”

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#zutara #fanfiction #jax writes #modern au #the fic that prompts built #zutara month 2021

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saviorinsilk · 4 years ago

Text

Right Hand Witch

Words: 2 810

Ship: Cordelia Goode x female reader

It was a moonless night, the sky a deep pit of darkness that seemed to go on forever. I yanked the front gate open and walked up the stairs of Miss Robichaux's Academy, my relatively slow pace annoying one of the women behind me.

"Hurry up bitch!" Madison spat as she pushed past me, her designer dress soaked in the down pouring rain. I didn't pay much attention to her or her comment, my mind stuck replaying the events of tonight over and over until it made me sick. The horrible images flashed in my eyes, blinding me with pain. I had never seen that much blood in my life and smell of his breath still lingered in my nostrils. I desperately craved the heavenly scent of Cordelia's perfume, her aroma had always calmed me and right now I could use a bottle of it. Madison left the front door open and Queenie and I walked through as she shook her head, the water spraying everywhere. The short walk from the taxi to the house had left us drenched. I lazily kicked my flats off, each one falling perfectly beside the other, on the grey shoe match. I made no effect to get any of the water off me, making a mess was truly the last thing on mind. I just wanted to crawl into bed with my sweet Delia and snuggle my face into her glorious blonde hair, the floral scent of her shampoo coaxing me to sleep.

As Queenie shut the door, I hung up my soaked black jacket as well as my matching hat on the brass coat holder and I started down the hallway. I squeezed my eyes shut, cursing under my breath as Misty came darting down the large staircase, the panic in her filling the air. I had wished that I could have just pretended that tonight hadn't happened but Misty knew and if Misty knew, she knew too.

"Oh, Darlin come here!" Misty cried as she slammed into me, knocking the wind out of me in the process. Her warm arms held me tightly to her heaving chest and she planted a big kiss on my forehead.

"I'm so glad you're okay. I don't know what I would have done if something had happened to you." Misty sniffled through tears. I hugged her back, melting into the silky material of her shawl and was about to tell her that I was fine when the loud clicks of high heels sounded down the stairs and my heart sank. I had never felt as connected to another human being as I felt to Cordelia Goode. In some circumstances, it was a joyous gift. Our intimate moments were like something out of fantasy but when either of us was in despair, this gift of ours sent aches through the heart and soul of the other. Tonight Cordelia's heart was breaking and I felt it more intensely than I had ever felt anything, good or bad.

I squeezed my eyes closed, still hidden from her sight in Misty's hair, I knew this peaceful moment wouldn't last for long.

"Miss Cordelia was so worried about you Y/N. She had a vision. She saw him kill you." Misty whispered in my ear. I didn't want to let go of my best friend, I knew I had messed up tonight and being aware of how much agony I had caused Cordelia made me even more ashamed.

I finally faced the facts and I pulled away from Misty and glanced over her shoulder. Cordelia reached the bottom of the stairs at that moment and I took her image in. She was in her long, light pink robe, the cream nightgown she wore underneath poking through the bottom. Her hair was messy at the front and her beautiful pale face was red and puffy from the numerous tears she had cried over me. If it had a cheerful moment I would have chuckled at the black high heels she wore. No matter what time it was, or was state she herself was in, Cordelia always liked to look presentable and even though it was late into the night, she walked towards me with them on. I could imagine her saying to me something along the lines of, "What if one of the girls got up for water and saw me? I got to make sure they always feel safe and secure, even if I'm falling apart."

Since it wasn't a time for laughs and giggles, I look at my hands, avoiding her eye contact. I normally wasn't like this. I stood up for myself no matter who was against me and I always challenged Cordelia, even if it got under her skin sometimes. Right now though, I watched as I fiddled with my fingers nervously, every ounce of fight I had left in me vanished with the sight of her mournful eyes.

The room filled with silence and Cordelia simply nodded at the others. I heard their footsteps carry them up the stairs and into their bedrooms. Misty ran her hand gently up and down my arm, trying to offer what little comfort she could. After a few agonizing moments that seem to last a lifetime, Cordelia's voice sliced through the silence, sorrow laced with her words.

"Misty dear, could you please give me and Y/N a moment alone?" As she asked she disappeared into the living room and I was genuinely surprised. I had thought she would run to embrace me, as I would have with it had been her stumbling in from a storm late at night. As Misty pulled away, giving me a sympathetic smile as she left, I was filled with dread. Delia had just walked away without a word to me and the only time she ever did that was when she was angry. I gulped and somehow convinced myself to follow her into the open area of the room in which she was in.

There she was, standing in front of the fireplace, which was light on the cool rainy night. I stepped closer to Cordelia, as she wiped her cheeks free of tears, sniffling loudly.

"Delia, baby I'm so s-" She cut me off with a booming voice before I could properly apologize.

"HOW COULD YOU!? I have told you over and over again that I don't want to you going to Bourbon Street at night! Not only did you go there, but you also left and went off on your own!" Cordelia's anger shook me to the bones and my bright blue eyes welled up with tears. I knew I deserved whatever she was going to give to me but what I really needed her to do was to hold me, to feel her skin against mine.

"I know. I was stupid. Queenie and Madison wanted to go out and get a drink. I told you were just going just out for a late dinner because I know you worry so much and I really didn't think anything would happen. I just wanted to save you so stress. I left the bar because I was really hungry and all they had there were super spicy wings and you know I hate spicy food. There was a diner across the street and down a few blocks so I went to just get some friends and an ice tea." I tried to explain but as the fiery only grew in my women dark eyes I cursed in my mind, wishing I had left out the part of me not wanting her to worry.

"YOU DIDN'T WANT ME TO WORRY!?" She shouted. I knew half the house was awake by now and I wished I could punch myself for the idiotic act I had committed. Cordelia never got this mad, never even raised her voice much at Madison. I had awakened the beast deep in this beautiful creature.

"I thought you were dead Y/N. I watched that hunter silt your throat as he laughed, but I couldn't do anything about it because your mind was blocked from me because of his voodoo relict." Fresh tears streamed down her sunken face and I had to fight back the urge to stroke them gently away with my thumb.

"I'm sorry Delia I-" I tried to say but once again Cordelia interrupted me as if she hadn't heard my timid voice at all.

"You risked your life for fries? Fries, really Y/N? I'm sure one of the girls would have gone with you if you were really that hungry. You shouldn't have even been there in the first place. When are you going to start listening to me instead of Madison? All this time you're spending with her is causing her bad traits to start to rub off on you." She spat, her voice shaky with dark emotions. She knew that would hurt me but she wasn't holding anything back. Something went off in my head at that moment. I was nothing like Madison and no amount of time spent with that spoilt, ungrateful witch was going to change that. As anger pumped through my veins, my eyes darkened and with a pulse of energy that shot from me like a bullet, the flames inside the fireplace soar to impossible heights, it roaring loudly. Cordelia's furious expression shattered and her eyes flickered for me to the flames my anger had caused.

"I am nothing like that inconsiderate bitch. I left because I was uncomfortable staying where I was. Some drunk asshole groped my ass and pushed me against the bloody wall when I was trying to find my way from the bathroom back to our table. I begged the girls to leave, telling them what happened but Madison just blew me off, saying maybe a good dicking would turn me straight. Queenie was too busy talking to one of the guys that Madison had dragged over to our table while I was gone. I wasn't going to stay there, plus because of their new "friends", there wasn't even a chair for me anymore. I had seen the diner when we arrived, so I figured it was a good option for me. You know how I get when I'm mad. I can't control my abilities as well as you Cordelia. I told them where I was going and they said they would come to pick me up when they were done. I got there fine but when I reached for the door that's when he grabbed me. There were people around, I should have been fine but as he dragged me down the back ally, no one even looked our way." I stopped speaking and held my hand to my mouth as a soft sob broke through. I couldn't stop the tears now and they flooded my face like a city below a broken levy.

All traces of anger vanished from Cordelia's face at that moment. She hated seeing me cry, even if she knew I deserved the self-loathing I was putting myself through. I took a few steps towards the couch and I lowered myself down to it with shaky legs. I hadn't noticed how cold I was until now, it felt like the chill had eaten away at my flesh.

Cordelia moved quickly, grabbing a white plush towel that was draped over the armchair that sat beside the couch. She wrapped it around me snuggly but gently and practically fell to her knee in front of me. Her slender hands cupped my flushed cheeks, running her thumb along my cool skin in a soothing circular motion. I sighed at the contact and leaned into her touch.

"I know I should have listened to you. I wasn't thinking. I never am. I thought I was going to die." I frantically apologized. My lips were silenced by Cordelia warm, soft set of lips. Her lips were wet with salty tears and they slid against mine wonderfully. The desperation we were both feeling poured out in that kiss and my breath was taken away as Cordelia kissed me as if it were the last time she ever could. Which was probably something that earlier in the night she thought she would never get to do again. This kiss spelled that out as clear as day. When she pulled back, she wiped my tears under my eyes again with her thumb, gazing lovingly into my eyes.

"I know you are. I'm sorry for losing my temper. I just never thought I was going to see you again." She spoke, her voice hitching when she got the words that caused her the most pain. I brought my hand up to her face and I wiped her tears as well, my fingers sliding over them like a hot knife on butter.

"You are my everything Y/N. I couldn't go on without you. Death would be better." She cried. I shook my head and kissed her softly again.

"Shh my Delia, I'm here and I'm not going anywhere I promise," I mumbled against her pale rose plump lips that I so desperately wanted to devourer with mine once more.

"Are you hurt? What did that bastard do to you?" She asked, pulling back. She began tracing every inch of my exposed skin with her eyes, searching for injuries. When they settled on the superficial cut that ran across my neck her expression dropped, her brows furrowing. She traced it with her finger and she opened her mouth slightly, her eyes fluttering closed.

I felt the wound begin to tingle and I knew without seeing it that the cut that had once circled my neck was gone. Since Cordelia had become the Supreme there was no lid to contain her jaw of powers. If she could imagine it, it happened. She looked up at me once more and I gazed back at her as I spoke.

"If it wouldn't have been for Queenie feeling someone was wrong and coming to look for me, the slice would have a crimson stump." I shivered at the thought. "She made sure he died in the exact way he had been ordered to kill me. She had brought a knife from the bar with her and she slit her own throat but instead of her own blood flowing it was his." I had heard about what Queenie could do but I had never experienced it with my own eyes and as satisfying as it had been too see the hunter bleed out from wounds she inflicted on herself, I had never had a strong stomach. After I puked my guts out we jumped in a taxi and left, the crime scene being noticed by none of the drunk crowd that litters the street.

"I'm so grateful she was there," Cordelia whispered, pressing her forehead against mine. After a moment and intimate kiss, Cordelia had laid me down on the lush couch beneath us and had lowered herself down as well so that I was cuddled between the back of the couch and her. Her body protecting me from the world. The towel still covered me and as we laid there, her fingers caressed my face and slowly ran through my tangly hair. The heat from the fire was reaching us easily and the warmth from it, plus the warmth radiating from her body, left me warm and dry a few hours later.

As my eyes struggled to stay open, sleep trying to seduce them, Cordelia kissed me slow and gently, pulling back slightly so she could look into my dazed eyes.

"I couldn't be Supreme without you by my side." She whispered sweetly, her voice relaxing any tense muscles in me that had held on.

"Your my right-hand woman," Cordelia said with a smile. I couldn't help but shoot her a toothy grin as I came up with something better in my head.

"I'm your right-hand witch," I stated with a giggle. Cordelia rolled her eyes at me, scoffing but no matter how hard she had tried to hold a smile back she couldn't and she chuckled softly, and a gorgeous smile spread across her now calm face.

"Right-hand witch. I can't believe no one has thought of that" She said in a hushed voice. Cordelia Goode plastered me with gentle kisses all over my neck, chest, forehead and then finally my lips.

That night I drifted off to dreamland snuggled into Cordelia, the floral scent from her hair filling my nose as I buried it in her warm chest. Safe and loved, right where I knew I needed to be and no dream that night, or any night, in fact, would ever be as sweet as the life I would wake up to tomorrow.

To the women who loved me.

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jeongi · 5 years ago

Text

fermata | myg (m)

↣ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | composer!yoongi x pianist!reader

↣ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 5.8k

↣ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 | pianist au. smut. fluff. pwp.

↣ 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐱 | explicit language and sexual content. oral sex (f receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, unprotected mirror sex (wrap ya dongs), choking, light dirty talk, marking, very soft soft soft yoongi.

↣ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | fer·ma·ta: from fermare, it means to stay or to stop. min yoongi teaches you exactly how to let go.

↣ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | fermata

The audience is silent.

A soft gasp lingers throughout the auditorium air as the rumble of Paul de Senneville radiates underneath your fingertips. Your eyes are closed, hands memorized to the touch of each key, each note.

It’s fascinating to see, at least it is to Min Yoongi.

He watches from the row of seats just in front of the stage, awaiting his turn to perform next. His forefinger is pressed to his pout, his thumb resting just under his chin as his coal eyes sharpen towards your hands, breathing in every movement. He could name precisely each note you play, his tongue spelling them behind his teeth.

Crescendo. Alla breve. Fermata.

Your body sways, fingers purposefully twiddling the keys as you hold the major chord. Hold, you tell yourself. You’ve practised this a million times and you’ll practice a million more when this performance is over. You are fully immersed with the song, the piano a second part of you as the last of Mariage D’amour comes close to reaching its final bar. Although Yoongi has seen you perform more times than he’s seen his own family, you’ve never once wavered his amazement. He remembers when he first saw your knack at the piano at four years old. And now you two were in university, too much of strangers on campus to have known each other your entire lives. He’s watched you grow, watched the way you’ve evolved from Big Ben to Liszt, La Campanella. Yet, you’ve never uttered more than five sentences to him.

You were meant to be rivals since childhood, forced into competitions that never seemed to simmer. However, you went on to become a piano prodigy, your fingers effortlessly gliding through the likes of Tchaikovsky and Chopin while Yoongi had become one of his own, of sorts— in composing. He could never really play anything exceptionally unless he had written the pieces himself. He’d almost say he was envious of you, seeing you so earnest with your love of classical piano and their composers. Even days he’d catch a glimpse of you not glued to a piano, you’d be reading about it. A true marvel you were to him. One thing Yoongi was sure of, no matter how many of these boring shows he’d have to sit through, your presence has always made them bearable. He’s never grown tired of watching you play. And when had you gotten so beautiful? He supposes you always have been.

As the vibrato of your last key echoes throughout the hall, there’s a beat of a pause. You twist your head to look out towards the sea of heads, shadowed away from the stage lights. Resting your fingers atop your skirt, the crowd howls- a symphony of its own showering you with applause and whistles. You stand from the leather seat, smoothing out the pleats within the skirt of your black gown as you bow. The crowd cheers louder. You shift your body towards Soojin, your teacher and mentor since you were just three years old. She grins at you, a thousand-watt smile and palms relentless in their clapping as you bow to her in homage.

When you turn once again to the audience, your gaze is caught by the ones of dark feline eyes. Min Yoongi is clapping too, a quirk to his pink lips as he nods towards you in acknowledgment. You bow again, this time discreet and only to him. Your eyes gleam, twinkle against the stage lights when he returns a gummy smile.

As the announcer’s voice booms through the mic, you usher off the stage. The clack of your heels trace against the laminated stage floors as you walk towards the back door. Backstage, you are met with more squeals of delight. Your friend, Reina welcoming you with a dutiful squeeze of a hug.

“You were amazing!” She praises, fingers intertwining with yours after she pulls away from the embrace. “I mean— you’re always incredible but that one was just-”

“He sat front row.” You feel rose dust the apples of your cheeks from your statement, your teeth capturing your bottom lip as you coyly drop your head to your feet.

Reina staggers in her words. “He?”

“Min Yoongi,” you quip, lifting your head up when the announcer simultaneously says his name. You can see from the monitor backstage, Yoongi’s mop of icy white hair shifting as he situates himself on the stool you were just seated on. Surely, you’ve warmed it up for him, you muse. You’re tempted to join the crowd, to see the breadth of his talent in his composed pieces. That’s all Yoongi plays at these shows nowadays anyway. His own work is exquisite, like the scent of fresh linens or a bed of freshly fallen snow. Oh, how you would kill to play one of his own compositions.

Yoongi takes a moment’s pause, foot finding the pedal, arms adjusting the seat comfortably as the audience once again quiets with his arrival on stage. He starts without warning, the knead in his arms gliding over the keys in absolute sureness. His fingers are deft, light on the keys as he plays each chord lovingly, as if he were making love to the piano itself. You watch in awe from backstage, the pale blue dress shirt he’s wearing moving with every motion of his torso. His eyes are focused on the keys, the jerk in his body on beat with the pedal that rests underneath the sole of his dress shoe. He is far too beautiful.

“_____!” You hear from behind you and you are ripped away from the television screen. Soojin wears a beam, her perfectly white teeth displayed against the thin wrinkles that have formed on her face. She has gotten much old. “Dear, that was marvellous.” She graces her knuckle against the clouds of your cheek, her eyes crescents as she pulls you into a hug.

Resting her chin on your shoulder, she whispers carefully. “A little birdie told me Min Yoongi has a composition ready for you to perform at the Red Glove.” You freeze.

You pull away from her, eyes wide in shock as you’re met with an even broader smile. The Red Glove is an annual concert, exclusive to only invited guests and performers. It’s only broadcasted to the riches, a night of the finest champagne and wealthy attire. Only the most prestigious of artists get to perform and amongst them, you’ve been invited for the first time in your life.

“Min Yoongi?” You repeat, his name getting caught in your windpipe. You cough down the choke, clearing your throat afterwards before trying to speak again. “H-he wants me to play his song?”

Soojin’s smile never falters, the greys of her hair shimmering underneath the glow of the backstage ceiling lights. “Exclusively you.” You don’t know why you frown but you do.

“Why me?” Soojin’s thumb comes up to your forehead, smoothing out the creases as her perfect ringlets shake, she nods in glee.

“There’s no time for self-doubt, dear. His music is breathtaking and he’s chosen you to illustrate it.” She moves her hand to rest on your shoulder. “You’ve known each other your whole lives, this will look great for the tabloids as well.” You should have known part of the reason would be for show. That is how the Red Glove harbours acclaim after all. You and Yoongi have been depicted as enemies for years but little did they know the small crush you’ve harvested within those years. Perhaps it had started when he would refuse to play anything but his own composition, each piece unique to only him. You had fallen in love with every song.

Enemies to partners, you can already visualize the headlines in your head. Perhaps that’s the sole reason he wants you to play his song.

“No, no, it says to play with a rubato, you’re too stiff with it.” You tuck your fingers into your palms, making fists of mild frustration over the piano keys. Min Yoongi is leaned against the curve of the grand piano, his hands rested against the rim. He watches you carefully, eyes lidded and concentrated on your slumped figure. It’s not like you to get irritated like this but Yoongi has made you play this part over thirty times now- you know this because you’ve been counting. However, you’ve lost track of how many times he’s called your playing ‘stiff’. The small crush you had harboured over the years is beginning to wilt at the touch of his blunt tongue. He sighs and nods at your seat, a silent request to move over. You do as told.

“See here?” His tongue clings around his teeth in an adorable lisp and you find yourself leaning into him as he speaks. It takes away from the natural baritone that is his voice. Yoongi sounds like the finest of Egyptian silk, low and smooth, caressing every inch of your skin with a gentle thrum. You wonder how you’ve gone all these years without ever hearing it properly. He nods to himself, sucking in breaths through his teeth with each pause of his words.

When he points at the sheet of music stood on the rack, you’re seemingly too distracted to look. Distracted by him, observing how he talks in pouts and overly animated hand gestures- though, he touches his lips a lot right after, as if he’s overstepped boundaries by saying too much of what he’s feeling.

You watch the way he plays with his bottom lip with his second and third digit, then marvelling at the veins that run down his hands. You can smell the strawberry flavoured bubblegum on his breathe, mixed with the faintest scent of his musky cologne as he shifts to rest his hands on the keys.

The cotton-clothed shoulder of Yoongi’s left side presses against yours when he begins playing, and you feel every muscle within his arm flex and release as he plays his version. You think if this were your thirteen-year-old self, you’d be melting around his fingers like ice cream on a warm summer’s afternoon. Your younger self would squeal and dance around in her room, a toothy grin plastered on her face over the thought of Min Yoongi so flushed against you. Something tells you that it’d be no different than your current self now.

As Yoongi plays, the melody pours through the soundboard of the piano, ringing against the walls of the practice room. He talks in between breaks and you ogle blatantly, taking in the whole of him to the greatest of your capabilities. But when his words come to its end, you realize you hadn’t heard a single word he’d been saying.

“You’re doing great, I promise. You’re just a little…”

“Stiff,” you finish for him, fingertips raking over the tops of your thighs before you’re trailing up to the keyboard. Yoongi observes this motion carefully, midnight eyes focused on you once again. “I’ll have you know, I’ve won gold every competition I’ve played in,” you boast pridefully as you hold down a chord. You play the bar of notes you seemingly keep ‘messing up’, however; you’d argue that you aren’t messing up at all. You’ve played Yoongi’s composition perfectly for the last hour now.

“I know.” It’s as if Yoongi reads into you like an open book, his words grazing against you, akin to the beginning nips of autumn air. “You win because you play pieces exactly how they’re written.” You gulp when you feel his hand hover above yours. It’s when he encases it with his own that your gulp morphs into a hick within your throat. “But when’s the last time you let go, _____?”

Your head twists to the silver-haired boy, your eyes wide when you come to realize just how close he’s gotten.

“L-let go?” Usually so sure of yourself, the stutter in your words gives away just how wavered you’ve become. Yoongi’s gaze flicker to your lips and back to your eyes before he’s dabbing his bottom lip with his tongue. You mimic his motion, except you linger a beat too long on his pout and startle yourself when your fingers press down on the piano keys, playing a hellish symphony of stray notes. You jolt, swiftly moving your fingers to your lap as your head drops along with it. You feel a powder of blush flush over your cheeks and the soft eyes of Yoongi melt into a series of chuckles. When you look towards him once again, his shoulders are shaking, eyes squinted and a boyish gummy smile to accompany it.

You can’t help but giggle yourself, shaking your head out of whatever daze Min Yoongi has summoned within your mind. Although he does have pretty lips…

“Let this be your first lesson,” he points towards the sheet of music on the rack. “Play my composition in E minor.” You scoff, baffled by his request.

“Yoongi, that’ll sound horrible—”

“So what? Let go, _____.” When you meet his midnight gaze, they’re filled with a fruitful challenge. A glint of mirth twinkles somewhere amongst the utter darkness that swirls in his pupils. If he seeks a challenge, a challenge must come his way.

You straighten your spine, your hands in a practiced routine as they find purchase against the keys. You look towards the sheet of music, confident by now that you won’t even have to look at it from the amount of times that you’ve played today. Yoongi inquires you eagerly, poking the inside of his cheek with a swipe of his tongue.

You play the abomination as if it’s Beethoven’s sonatas, a charred mixture of tones ringing through your bones hard enough that you have to grit your teeth. It’s unbearable, something so disastrously played, you wonder how you’ve managed to pull it off. You don’t make it through the entire song, losing your way as the crash of your fingers frustratedly slam against the keys.

“I told you it’d sound horrible! I don’t understand how playing such a musical malfeasance will teach me how to let go, Yoongi.” You use quotations around the words “let go” because what was even meant by that phrase? You’ve let go plenty, he didn’t know you. Yoongi, on the other hand is focused on something else. It’s the first he’s heard his name roll off your tongue and it only stirs something deeper within him, edging him to wonder how it’d sound if you’d said it differently. Perhaps pinned underneath him and writhing in pure bliss.

“Is there something else you had in mind?” He questions and you hate that it’s a valid one.

I don’t know, maybe if you kissed me.

A silence engulfs the room in a thick blanket, and not the kind that’s been handmade by your grandmother from the finest of wool, no, this one is made from hay and porcupine quills.

You hadn’t just thought of this desire, you had uttered them out loud. Min Yoongi now knows you want him to kiss you.

Panic-stricken, you turn to look at him wide-eyed, ready to let the river of apologies splutter out of you as if you’re on stage during a poetry slam. But before the words can even come out, you catch a glimpse of a smile on Yoongi’s face. Lips quirked up to one side, his night-filled eyes are much too comforting for a time of such chagrin. He sucks air through his teeth and cocks his head to one side, his icy blonde bangs following suit to the movement.

“Is that so?” Oh god. You want to say out loud, making sure you don’t actually say it out loud. Yoongi’s gaze is far too kind, too warm as his smirk cracks slightly to show his teeth. He smiles, amused by your flustered presence and carefully chooses his next words. “I can’t deny that.” You pull yourself from the blaring siren in your head, all systems pausing as you match his friendly gaze. Is he serious?

“Very.” You’d spoken out loud again. You try squeezing your eyes shut, hoping maybe if you pretended to not see him, he would actually go away but then you feel it. His hand gently places itself over your own and a jolt of tingles dances through your veins. A simple touch as this should not make you feel so bothered but from Min Yoongi, you’re ready to drop to your knees already.

When you open your eyes again, hand crusted with his own, your gaze sharpens once again along the veins that run up the back of hand. His fingers are so long, ridged and slender. A very distinct feeling bubbles in your chest, floating down to an untouched temple you have not stepped foot in for weeks. Or had it been months?

Yoongi squeezes your hand with his own and you’re ripped away from lewd thoughts, attention focusing back onto his face. If Yoongi wanted you to let go, then you would.

You grasp courage, turning in your seat upon the stool until you’re straddling it. It’s an inner push that leans you forward until your lips are timidly pressed against his. As surprised as Yoongi is that you’ve kissed him first, a pang of slight disappointment hits him that you’ve beaten him in his own plans to do it first. Perhaps the competitive streak between the two of you had never quite simmered. He kisses you back, wholeheartedly, a thrum of flurries bubbling in his chest that he hadn’t quite expected to be there.

Yoongi’s lips are just as soft as you’d imagined them to be. Albeit they’re slightly chapped and coated in a thin layer of wax from his lip balm. You feel him smile into the kiss when you unwillingly moan, letting his hand move away from yours so it could travel up to your waist. With this motion, he briefly pulls away to twist in his seat so he’s facing you. He kisses you deeper now, leaning himself into you and you don’t hesitate to take more of him.

The familiar tingle in between your legs festers into a lustful daze. It grows when Yoongi begins to nudge the hand on your waist past the hem of your shirt to hesitantly grasp at the bare skin. He rubs small circles with his thumb, feeling the curve of your waist underneath his palms. To him, you feel like velvet smoke, as if you could disappear at any given moment. Your head only grows cloudier with every stroke of his thumb, and you gingerly place your hands on each of his shoulders as you scoot down the bench so you’re even closer.

Yoongi’s free hand meets the other side of your waist, giving a light squeeze that elicits a deep desire in you. It brings you greed, reminds you of the starved woman you’ve become- devoid of intimate touch. The words don’t even register with you as they spill.

“Touch me, Yoongi.” He groans at this, wholly satisfied with each syllable of the phrase your tongue carves in whimpers. He does not deny you of this request. The hand tucked under your shirt begins to roam up and down the curve of your waist and you gasp into his mouth when you feel a finger outline the underwire of your bra.

Your mouth parts, rendering leeway for Yoongi to delve his tongue against the flesh of your own. The utter intimacy of having someone’s tongue shoved into your mouth has your arms looping around his neck, pulling him closer until your knees touch. Yoongi nearly growls, hands sliding down to grasp at your hips. You yelp in surprise when he pulls your thighs over his, letting you circle your legs around his waist. You’re now straddling him of sorts, lips only parting for to garner air in your lungs.

For a moment, Yoongi unlatches his lips from yours to move to the skin just under your jaw. He licks the area before wrapping his lips around it, a gentle suction telling you that he’s leaving with more than just your saliva as a mark. You whimper at the feeling, his teeth lightly grazing as his mouth siphons your skin into a bruise. When he pulls away, he uses a thumb to skim over the bloom of purple that’s marked the skin of your length. He gives you a few more after that, a mismatch of purples and blues painted across your neck.

You’re not sure how you’ve gone from innocence to this, feeling the slight poke of something behind Yoongi’s jeans-clad crotch. Instinctively, you grind your hips against it, leaving Yoongi the one to whimper instead.

“You’re driving me crazy,” Yoongi gasps between each breath, feeling the quirk of your lips against his own.

“Then do something about it— ah!” Yoongi lifts himself off the stool and you along with it. Tightening his hold around your waist, your fingers thread into his white locks as your lips capture his once more.

When he places you on top of the keys of the piano, the char of dissonant chords ring through the practice room and you both giggle into each other. You kiss him harder, unravelling the arms around his neck to grip at the collar of his shirt. The large expanse of his hand roams up your side until he’s reached your shoulder. He smooths down your collar bone until he’s reached the base of your neck. With gentle urge, he wraps his hand around it, a mild possession that overtakes this action.

He leaves your mouth, feathering kisses to the corner of your lips, to the apple of your cheeks and then your nose. While he does this, a stray hand finds the zipper of your own pants.

“This is okay?” His voice has a gruff to it, the already bass of his tone, deepening with crave. When you look into his eyes, they’re as dark as black liquid, a gleam bouncing off of them from the sunlight seeping into the room. You nod, both sure of yourself and unsure if you’d really like your first time with Yoongi to be on a piano, in the practice room you both practically lived in since you were young. In some ways though, you’d almost say it’s too fitting.

With the hand remaining on your neck, Yoongi forces you off the piano and you follow as silently commanded of you. He’s gentle with his persuasion, your gaze watching him as he releases the hold around your neck to walk over to the lid prop that holds the lid of the piano up. Knocking down the prop, the lid gently drops, letting the smooth canvas of the piano top make a perfect surface for you to lay on. He nods over to it and you nervously walk to where he’s standing, bringing the piano stool along with you. Using it as a step, you hoist yourself onto the top of the piano, teeth tugging on your bottom lip as you wait for his next command.

“If I’m going to eat you out, I’d preferably like to do it with your pants off.” You swallow thickly. Looping your thumbs around the belt loop of your pants, you hike them down your legs. Along them, come your panties and soon enough you’re completely bare for the ice-haired boy. Laying back down on the black, glossed lid of the piano, you tentatively smooth out the hem of your shirt.

Yoongi regards you with caution, eyes glimmering in a prurient haze. Careful to spread your legs apart, your sex is glistening in arousal, saccharine full and ripe. His mouth waters at the sight.

“Beautiful,” he mumbles under his breath but the silence of the room lets the words echo effortless. You flush, impatience scathing in between your legs before you’re propping yourself up on your elbows. Yoongi is too preoccupied to note your anxiousness, his eyes pinned to your already soaked cunt.

“How long has it been?” He asks. “Since you’ve been touched?”

Your cheeks deepen in crimson and you feel the want to curl into yourself at your confession. “A few months, maybe?” You can’t precisely recall your last time either. You were far too drunk and the young lad, Hoseok had been equally intoxicated.

Yoongi hums in response, shaking his head in clear dissatisfaction. “Who would leave a pretty girl like you untouched?” You release a shaky breath in response.

Dragging the stool closer to him, he rests a knee on the leather covered cushion before spreading your legs wider apart. He nearly drools at the sight, your glossy slit encased in your outer labia. He very carefully uses his thumbs to unravel your glistening cunt, the touch already sending a shiver through your body.

“I reckon you wouldn’t,” you bite back and feel the rumble of Yoongi’s chuckle.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” With that, he dives in. Kissing the flesh of your inner thighs, Yoongi wastes no time in pleasuring you where you need it the most. The tip of his tongue glides up your sticky slit as his fingers pull apart your lips. You gasp, fingers immediately rushing to lace into his snow hair as he continues a rhythm of steady strokes up and down your folds.

You think you could come undone without him even touching your clit at the pace he’s going, fingers unable to have bedsheets to clutch against. Instead, you find the edge of the piano, gripping tightly until your knuckles turn white. As if on cue, Yoongi’s pointed tongue beams to your clit with an expert touch, leaving you to moan his name. He hums into your core, tongue idly circling over the sensitive bundle of nerves. The back of your head presses further into the lid of the piano, eyes squeezing shut as you focus on the feeling of Yoongi’s dutiful tongue.

It’s when he quickens the flick of his wet muscle over your throbbing clit that you feel a distinct growing something building against your abdomen. Your fingers clutch his hair tighter, the supple silk of his tongue running over your sensitivity with such determination, it has you squeezing your legs shut around his head.

Yoongi is moaning into you, your taste only what he had imagined in his dreams to be. He dabs at your clit with pointed flickers of his tongue, his first and second digit finding their way to your hole. You feel the rough, calloused pads of his fingers run over your folds, his tongue still relentless against you.

“Yoong-gi,” you choke out, the tedious build up of your impending undoing encasing you as Yoongi works his mouth against you. It’s when you feel the slip of his rough-edged fingers prod past your folds and sink into you that you completely lose your senses. The ridges of each digit curve against you until your walls are clenched tightly around him.

He curses under his breath, beginning a slow rhythm as each drag of his fingers work in coalition with his tongue. You writhe underneath his paler, taut arms that hold your legs apart, feeling a burning coil that wrings tighter with every stroke. When Yoongi quickens his pace on both his fingers and deft tongue, you find yourself shaking underneath him.

Your legs quiver, Yoongi’s name etched on your tongue as you edge closer to seeing white. With one more pump of his fingers and one more flicker of his tongue, you lose yourself against his mouth.

Voice clamouring, your legs stretch and freeze as you feel the familiar snap in your belly unravel until you’re mush underneath Yoongi’s hold. He’s relentless, continuing his motions as you tap against him in urgency when it becomes far too much to take.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please, just fuck me, Yoongi,” you beg, breath hitching in your throat when Yoongi’s fingers pull out of you, along with the squelch of his mouth latched around your clit. You sit up, instantaneously, leaning forward to grab the collar of his shirt before pulling him in for a messy kiss.

When Yoongi pulls away, he wears a smirk. Cocking his head to the side, he regards your flushed cheeks and fucked out expression with anticipation. “You on the pill?”

You nod. As he helps you off the piano, he uses his knee to slide the stool closer for you to use as a step. You happily oblige, letting his hands grasp at the skin of your hips as he turns you over.

“Wanna watch you watch yourself, doll.” For a moment, you’re unsure of what Yoongi means but as you turn to lean against the side curve of the piano, you see the mirror that lets you see both your figures in its reflection.

“O-oh.” There is something so ravenously breathtaking about this sight, it has you push your hips out to Yoongi’s bulge. “You’re too clothed,” you frown, talking to him through your reflection in the mirror.

Yoongi laughs, a curt nod exemplifying his agreement to your statement. “Shake your shirt off too, I wanna see you completely bare for me, baby.” You can’t help but groan in response.

Coyly, you watch each other through the mirror as you strip off the remainder of your clothings. Yoongi’s eyes don’t stray a second away from you when you yank your shirt over your head. He sucks in a sharp breath, biting his bottom lip before rummaging his fingers through the white of his bangs.

“Beautiful,” he repeats from before, holding the base of his cock in one hand before stepping closer. You only see a glimpse of the pink tip, your mouth already watering as he urges you to lean over against the piano. “Let’s see how well you take me.”

Fuck.

Gripping your waist firmly with one hand, the other guides his cock to push past your folds. As he slides into you, you both moan. Every inch of his length is eagerly hugged by the comfort of your walls, inching him in until he’s reached the hilt. Yoongi is thick, his cock filling you with a cinch. He stills his hips for a moment, letting you adjust to him before he swivels his hips out of you and quickly pushes back in.

You arch your back into the feel of him, eyes fluttering to a close when he begins a steady rhythm.

“Eyes on the mirror, babe,” he gently urges, his voice a low gruff. You do as told, lifting your head to view your reflection in the long standing mirror in front of the both of you. How had you never noticed this mirror here before?

Yoongi rocks into you, slow drags growing into into fervour ones as he drags his nails down your sides. He doesn’t know whether to watch you being fucked by him or watch how your cunt eagerly swallows him as if you’ve been deprived for years. You’re so tight, Yoongi feels he can’t hold himself together for too long.

He quicken the rock of his hips, letting you push your hips back to meet his own. The sound of skin slapping echoes through the walls, Yoongi’s hips hastening in their motion. His fingers dig into your skin, sure to leave marks.

“Y-yoongi, that’s so fucking good,” you breathe out, watching the blonde of his bangs sway with the thrusts of his hips. Yoongi licks his lips and ruts his hips in and out of you, that familiar build up starting again.

“Yeah, baby? You like watching yourself getting fucked by me too? Fuck, look at you, so willing for my cock. Absolutely gorgeous.” If you weren’t already red from being fucked out, you’d flush even deeper just from his silky words.

You reach out behind you, finding the mass of Yoongi’s left thigh as you grip against it tightly. Yoongi uses one hand to let go of your waist, intertwining your fingers instead as he relentlessly gyrates his hips into you.

“Just like that— please, Yoongi, I’m going to come,” you whimper, dropping your head as his hips slam into you with heed. You can tell Yoongi is close from the way his hips grow less calculated, more sloppy in their motion. This angle grants him access to the very spot he knows will make you come undone. With a few more thrusts, the tip of his cock grinds harshly into the sweet spot just underneath the cap of your cervix and you shout his name as the tension in your abdomen releases for the second time.

Yoongi’s grunt follows, his hips now slapping harder, faster until he too feels himself splurging his hot seed into you. “Fuck!” He groans, continuing his movements as you both milk out your highs. When he stills himself inside you, he leans forward, his forehead hot against the curve of your spine. You’re both heaving breaths, the quiet space growing even more silent as the only noises that can be heard are your joined panting.

He kisses down your spine, slowly inching out of you and you wince in mild discomfort at the loss of friction from his girth. “You are…incredible,” Yoongi breathes, swiping his bangs away from his face as he helps you up. A dribble of your mixed cum seeps past your folds and drags down your legs, the sight only making him want to take you again and again, until your legs would give up.

You smile shyly at his words, your head clouded with your lingering high as you hold your weight against the side of the piano. You’d never been fucked like that before.

“You know…” you begin, words slurred from your orgasm. “I’ve always had a small crush on you.” You don’t suppose why you couldn’t tell him now, just after he’s fucked the living crap out of you. “Ever since…” You step forward, circling your arms around his neck as you beckon his lips closer to yours. “Ever since I heard your rendition of Beethoven’s Moonlight.” Yoongi smiles, a lopsided one at that as he firmly grasps the skin of your waist.

“Oh, yeah?” He tilts his head to one side. “I’ve had crush on you since watching you learn to play hot cross buns on the piano.” He kisses you mid-giggle, looping his arms around your torso as he pulls you in closer.

You think this is exactly how it was meant to happen between the two of you; you would always be brought together by the thread of your love for piano.

“Yoongi,” you breathe out as he pulls away. “Play with me.”

“Hm?” His brows furrow in clear bewilderment.

“At the Red Glove! We could compose a piece together and play it together.” By far, it was the greatest idea you’ve ever had, you reckon.

Yoongi displays a set of a gummy toothed grin, his shoulders shaking as he chuckles at your enthused state, completely butt-naked and in his arms.

“I’d love that,” he says.

a/n: so i went to a piano show the other day and this fic was born ksjfkdsjflk. im so sorry if i butchered piano terms, i literally did on the spot research and wrote this bc i was so inspired!!!! i hope you guys liked it!!!! this is my FIRST yoongi fic, can you believe ive put him off for this long???? please let me know what you think!!! i can’t wait to get started on his series for you guys!!

as always, im so in love with you and thank you so so so much for reading. that’s all i’ve ever wanted to do on this platform and the fact that you guys give me that freedom is!!! *chef’s kiss*

my dear @hobidreams helped me with the planning of this fic and with her constant love and support that always keeps me motivated to write. i love youuu bb (do i make ppl send you a piano keyboard emoji? hm? 🎹)

#bts smut #bangtan smut #yoongi smut #yoongi x reader #armiesnet #bangtanarmynet #networkbangtan #yoongi #min yoongi #myg #yoongi x you #bts x reader #bts x you #bangtan #bts #oneshot #pwp #fic #kpop

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izzyfandoms · 5 years ago

Text

Roceit - Ash and Bones

(@themelodeeartz requested this! It’s a part of my Clouds and Moss AU!)

GENERAL TAGLIST: @quillfics42 @ajdraws0430 @phlying-squirrel @phantomofthesanderssides @creativity-killed-thekitten @sly-is-my-name-loving-is-my-game @because-were-fam-ily @imtryingthisout @a-creepycookie @emo-disaster @littlestr @spooky-scary-virgil @fuyel @mimsidoodles @soupgromlin

WARNINGS: Sympathetic Deceit, dead people, descriptions of corpses, burning, murder

Masterpost

Clouds and Moss AU Masterpost

Janus had met the god of fire before.

Of course, he had, they had existed for millennia, how could their paths not have crossed? And humans died by fire all the time, so he felt Roman’s heat like warm breath on his skin almost constantly.

Humans were endlessly dying of many different things, though, so it wasn’t like Roman was special.

But, in all his many years of knowing – though never really knowing – Roman, he hadn’t expected the other god to seem so… human.

Janus swept through the bustling town, his cloak fluttering in the wind behind him. He had a job to do, and he would get it done as swiftly and efficiently as possible, but that didn’t mean he had to enjoy it. This town was much too alive for his tastes: full of music and dancing and laughter. It was just his luck that his visit coincided with the festival celebrating the fire god, Roman.

The humans that moved through the shadows couldn’t see Janus – he stuck to the shadows and blended in like that was where he belonged – but they all instinctively dodged him nonetheless. His boots made no noise as they thumped against the ground. It was like he wasn’t even there, more a ghost than a god.

Janus didn’t really mind that, honestly.

He soon reached his destination, the town square. There were men with instruments at one end, and at least half of the people present were dancing, but none drew nearly as much attention as one man who danced in the centre.

His eyes were closed, and he was smiling, serene, but he never once tripped as he expertly weaved through the crowd. He moved like a flame that danced in the wind: gorgeous, mesmerising, hypnotic. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Janus could see right through his glamour – revealing too-perfect skin that glowed in the moonlight, and bright eyes identical to burning coals – he would have mistaken him for just another particularly talented human.

Janus watched Roman dance for an unknown period of time, his eyes following as Roman’s feet left glowing imprints on the ground behind him, that only they could see. Many tried to reach out and touch the god, to pluck him from the square and pull him right into their arms, but his skin burned their hands: the extent depending on their intentions.

The music sped up, and Roman twirled and twirled around and around across the square, so light on his feet that he almost looked to be floating, until he suddenly stopped, right in front of Janus , opening his eyes and looking up in surprise at the taller god.

“Oh, Janus, I didn’t see you there,” Roman said, bowing his head for a moment, respectful. “What are you doing here?”

“I have a soul to collect,” Janus responded simply.

Most human souls made their way to the underworld almost immediately after death, as if yanked from their bodies by an invisible string, but a rare few were a lot more… difficult, whether intentionally or not, and Janus had to come collect those by hand.

Roman’s face fell for a moment, as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The longer he stood with the death god, the more the surrounding humans’ eyes seemed to slide over him, like he wasn’t even there. Something appeared to be bothering him, which Janus thought to be a little peculiar – most gods felt only joy on their festival days – though he didn’t comment on it. Then, after a second or two, Roman’s expression smoothed over, and he straightened up.

“A young woman named Elizabeth disappeared yesterday,” He said. “I’m- I’m assuming she’s the one you’re looking for.”

Janus raised an eyebrow. “You must spend a lot of time here.”

Roman gave an awkward laugh, running his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, well… I like this place.”

The festivities continued around them: humans chattering and chuckling, ignorant to the solemn conversation happening right in front of their noses. Janus’s eyes scanned the crowd; nothing stood out to him.

“They worship you.”

Humans worshipped all the gods – of course, they did, it was just common sense – but they worshipped Janus out of fear and obligation (and, at best, respect), not out of gratitude and love.

Roman made a face. “That’s not why I like it here,” He said. “They think I’m human, just a wandering traveller. I’d like to keep it that way.”

Janus nodded as if he understood. “Of course,” He answered, and that was that.

The fire god gave Janus a small, grateful smile, before turning on his heel and melting back into the crowd. To the humans, he blended in, like a predator camouflaged in a forest – he wasn’t a threat to them, not really, but he could be, if he wanted to, and they’d never see him coming. To Janus, he couldn’t possibly stand out more; even when he retreated down the street, turning a corner and disappearing from sight, the death god could still feel his presence, like his skin was on fire, like there was magma in his veins.

Janus hesitated for a moment, before pulling his hood back, running his ice-cold fingers through his dark hair. In the blink of an eye, he was suddenly visible, and the movement around him screeched to a halt. The surrounding humans spotted him instantly, inhaling sharply in fear – as loudly as they dared – and freezing in place. The life had drained out of them, and they stared at him like he’d come to reap their souls, which was rather ridiculous. If he started killing the living, Patton would start complaining, and Janus just didn’t have the time for that.

He took a step forward, and the crowd parted in front of him. There were some benefits to being feared, he supposed.

The humans watched him fearfully. The longer their eyes remained on his face, the more his appearance shifted and changed, distorting under the weight of their stares. If they looked close enough, the skin on the left side of his face almost seemed to peel back, revealing a broken skull that wasn’t his. He was a god, he didn’t have bones, he was made up of something much older and scarier, something mortals couldn’t possibly comprehend. They saw only what they could understand, and, no matter how horrified they felt, they just couldn’t look away.

Just before he reached the centre of the square, a figure appeared in front of him, flickering in and out of existence like a broken illusion. It was a young woman dressed in rags, her skin as white as bone and splattered with shiny red blood. She looked lost and in pain, and when she turned to stare at Janus with dead, frozen eyes, there was no fear in her gaze, only quiet relief.

He held out his hand. “Come with me,” He spoke softly.

Elizabeth paused, glancing around at the numerous people surrounding them, all fearfully holding their breath, people she’d likely known all her life: friends, maybe even family. Her killer may have even been there, too. Janus didn’t know the specifics. It wasn’t his job to know.

She took his hand.

He closed his eyes. There was a second of stillness and silence, and then the ghost disappeared from sight, oozing through his skin and settling in his chest. The tension in his shoulders melted away, and he straightened up, opening his eyes.

Janus scanned the crowd; there was no trace of Roman remaining. It was cold.

He waited from a moment, and then stomped his foot. The ground opened up and swallowed him whole, closing behind him, and dragging him back to where he belonged. He would have choked on the earth if he was human, it would have stuffed his lungs and stolen his life – humans died so easily, like the fallen twigs in a forest that snapped underfoot – but he was a god, so, instead, he felt only comfort.

***

The next time he saw Roman was less than half a year later, in the exact same town, which he internally remarked as an odd coincidence, but nothing too unusual.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” Roman spoke plainly, his hands in his pockets as he drew shapes in the mud with the tip of his boot. “I thought most souls travelled to the underworld on their own.”

“They do,” Janus responded.

Roman’s hair shone in the midday sun – red and orange, amber and gold – practically glowing, and Janus had a difficult time tearing his eyes away. Fortunately, though, he succeeded, and when the fire god looked up at him, he had already turned to stare down the winding dirt path that led into town.

“Would you like to accompany me?” Janus asked eventually.

“Sure.”

Their walk through town was quiet. Roman’s glamour extended to Janus just enough that he appeared almost human, and Janus’ glamour extended to Roman just enough that the townspeople paid little attention to them. It was relaxing, really – birds chirped joyously overhead, children ran and played around them – and if Janus hadn’t been so focused on watching every little movement Roman made, he might have felt at peace.

“John Wicker died last night,” Roman finally spoke. “I doubt the townsfolk have even noticed yet.”

Janus gave a quiet acknowledging hum. Humans were remarkably ignorant creatures; they tended to take a while to notice things.

They stopped in front of a small, cosy-looking cottage. If Janus had had an appreciation for architecture or horticulture, he might have admired the pretty little house, and the various plants that sprawled across the garden surrounding it. But he didn’t, so, instead, he found himself observing one fiery-coloured flower in particular, internally remarking it as similar in hue to Roman’s hair.

To his surprise, after a moment or two, Roman knelt down and plucked that very same flower from the ground, before standing up and twirling around to face the death god. He then reached out and tucked it behind Janus’s ear.

“There,” Roman smiled. “Your attire was looking rather drab. Why not add a splash of colour?”

Janus blinked back at him, perplexed, reaching up to brush the petals with his gloved fingertips. His touch was light as a feather to avoid damaging it.

“I’m already wearing colour,” He stated, gesturing vaguely at the yellow that outlined his shirt collar, barely visible under the hood of his cloak.

Roman wrinkled his nose, tilting his head to one side as he looked over Janus. “That’s not quite enough,” He decided eventually, waving his hand. Janus’s gloves turned from the dreary black to a much brighter yellow. “Much better,” Roman concluded.

He looked back up at Janus , his eyes shining triumphantly.

“Okay,” Janus responded, as he had no idea what else to say, looking over his new gloves in confusion. They matched his collar, and Roman seemed pleased, so he decided not to complain.

There was a beat, and then Roman inclined his head towards the front door of the cottage,

“Are we going inside?”

“Oh, yes.”

Janus turned and walked up the path, carefully avoiding stepping on any stray flowers, before pushing the door open as easily as if it was unlocked. He stopped before he stepped through the doorway, however, and when Roman peered around him to see what was going on, his face fell as his eyes landed on the body sprawled across the floor.

The corpse was laying on his back, limbs at uncomfortable angles, a large knife protruding from the centre of his chest. There was blood splattered across his clothes, the floorboards, and even the walls and ceiling; it had all already dried, but it still wasn’t pleasant.

The fire god looked a little sick at the sight, which did confuse Janus, though he didn’t comment on it.

“Would you like to leave?” He asked instead.

After a moment of consideration, Roman shook his head.

Janus turned back to the body, and it only took one more step forward for the ghost to appear, standing over his body and staring down at himself in abject horror. He was almost identical to his corpse, though greyscale apart from the blood, and lacking the knife. His shirt was torn, practically falling to pieces, but his skin was in far worse shape.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?” He asked eventually, after an unknown period of time, his voice distorted and crackling.

“Yes.”

It was best not to say too much unless prompted, Janus found. The dead weren’t usually too talkative, and they tended to find the death god more… creepy, than comforting.

There were a few beats of silence.

“It didn’t hurt as much as I’d expected it to,” John continued. “The stabbing hurt, obviously, but then the pain just… stopped. It was like falling asleep, and then I woke up again.” He looked down at his hands, trying to clasp them together, but they just phased through each other. It can’t have been a very pleasant feeling.

After another second or two, he looked up at the two gods. “What’s the underworld like?” He asked.

Janus took a moment to mull it over, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes scanned the numerous plants that decorated the room, and he thought back to all the bushes and flowers in the front lawn.

“It’s… like a garden – an infinite garden with no end in sight,” He answered finally. “You’ll stay there as long as you wish, and then, one day, when you’re ready, you’ll fade.”

John seemed surprised at that answer, but satisfied, humming thoughtfully under his breath. The sound was twisted and broken – like eerie music played from a broken instrument – but Janus found it soothing. He held out his hand, and John took it without hesitation, seeping through his gloves and his skin and then settling in where the death god’s ribcage would have been, if he’d had one.

“I’ve never been to the underworld,” Roman said once it was over, breaking the silence and reminding Janus of his presence. “Is it really like that?”

“Patton’s the only one who visits regularly,” Janus responded simply. “He likes to come see his children. And it’s whatever they want it to be, a dream they can dwell in for as long as they wish. Just a beautiful lie – nothing more, nothing less.”

Roman’s expression was unreadable.

“I’d still like to visit, someday,” He said eventually, and then he disappeared, leaving a charred mark on the floorboards where he’d once stood, and a waft of smoke that wouldn’t truly dissipate for a while, the smell permanently etched into Janus’s brain.

***

The third time it happened, only one month after the second, Janus realised it was no coincidence.

It was midnight. The townsfolk were all fast asleep; the streets were empty and silent. The moon shone brightly above them: the glowing crescent reminiscent of Remy’s smile, like the night god, himself, was grinning down at them. Perhaps he was, if he had nothing better to do, but it was much likelier that he was busy courting his human lover, ignoring his duties as much as possible.

Roman was sat on a small patch of grass outside town, staring up at the stars with an unreadable expression. His skin was glowing slightly, his bare chest giving off a faint fiery light. It was barely visible – humans would never even notice, but Janus did, and it was hard not to stare.

He shook his head, trying to get back on track.

“It’s you,” Janus said simply, pausing for a moment, before sitting down beside Roman in one swift motion. “You spend so much time here. You’re the reason their souls are strong enough to stick around.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Roman apologised. His voice was quiet, bordering on emotionless, but sincere.

“It’s fine.”

And it was fine, really. Janus didn’t mind spending so much time with Roman.

There was a beat of silence.

Roman glanced at Janus, opening his mouth to say something, but shutting it again with a snap when he spotted the death god’s gloves. They were bright yellow, impossible to ignore, and identical to how they’d been when their paths had last crossed. He raised his eyebrows, tilting his head to one side.

“You kept the gloves?” Roman asked softly.

Janus stared down at his hands, looking almost startled, like he hadn’t noticed the colour.

“Yes, I did,” He said. “I like them.”

Roman smiled, and Janus’s heart did a funny little tremor in his chest, which he didn’t understand, but chose to ignore. His face warmed – likely from being in close proximity to the fire god – and he quickly cleared his throat in an attempt to regain composure.

“Do you know who died this time?”

The smile slipped from Roman’s face, and Janus instantly regretted the question.

“Yes,” Roman said, standing up and brushing the non-existent dirt off his trousers, before holding his hand out to Janus, helping him stand. “Follow me.”

The touch lasted moments at most, but burned with an intensity that would never fade, and the death god found himself wanting to keep holding that hand and never let go. However, Roman did let go, turning away quickly, his expression unreadable, and stepping off the grass.

Without another word, Janus followed Roman into town. The silence between them wasn’t quite cold, exactly – it could never be cold, not with Roman – but it certainly wasn’t comparable to the moment of warmth that had preceded it. The wind nipped at any patch of exposed skin, like ice-cold teeth that refused to be ignored. Janus wondered if Roman felt them, too, or if his burning skin shielded him from such things.

He didn’t know how long they’d been walking – it could’ve been seconds, minutes, maybe even hours, though probably not – but he knew when they’d reached their destination, as Roman stopped in his tracks, his hands stuffed in his pockets, right in the middle of the street. Janus was almost distracted enough (by his hair, his warmth, his skin) to bump into him. Almost.

The body was fresh, about an hour old, at most, probably even less. It was propped up against a front door, slumped over and covered in stab wounds, and Janus had half a mind to move it, to save the family that slumbered in the quaint, little house from having to deal with such a terrible start to their day. But blood had already slipped through the crack under the door – wet and still glistening in the moonlight – so their morning would likely be ruined either way.

“The killer’s still awake,” Roman said, barely above a whisper. “I can hear him cleaning up, just a few houses down.”

Janus listened: footsteps, breathing, an erratic heartbeat, the sounds of water sloshing and spilling over. Laughter – quiet and breathy, yet smug and self-satisfied.

The death god scowled, his nose wrinkling. Those were the worst kinds of humans.

“Where’s the ghost?” Roman asked eventually, glancing around. “I can’t see them.”

“Hiding.”

Janus looked up and down the empty street – once, twice, thrice. There was no sign of the spirit, only a general feeling that they were somewhere nearby, but as far away as possible: watching, listening, waiting. He sighed, pulling off his right glove, folding it carefully, and sliding it into his pocket, before kneeling down beside the corpse and pressing his thumb into the centre of its forehead, just above the nose. Roman watched him silently, peering over his shoulder, his previous disgust almost overtaken by a warm curiosity.

After a moment or two, Janus’s connection with the ghost strengthened, like there was an invisible string connecting them. It only took a few tugs, and then they were yanked from their hiding spot, reappearing beside their body with a gasp.

He stood up, taking a step back and pausing for a second to put his glove back on, before turning back to the ghost,

They were just as blood-stained as their corpse – wide-eyed and terrified – standing as far away from Janus as they could. Their hands were in fists as they clutched at their clothes, and they kept glancing at Roman with confused recognition.

That made sense – Roman spent a lot of time here, after all.

“You’re… not human, are you?” The ghost asked softly, not accusatory, just questioning, their voice crackling.

Roman smiled slightly, a little embarrassed. “Not, I’m not,” He admitted, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m… also the reason why your soul stuck around longer than usual. Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” They reassured him gently. “And your name isn’t Philip, is it?”

Roman shook his head.

“May I ask what it is?”

There was a beat, and then, instead of simply answering, the fire god let his glamour disappear, like a layer of wax melting away. His skin glowed – literally glowed – like a burning ember plucked straight from a fireplace. His hair seemed to move and sway in the wind, a living flame. It was impossible to take your eyes off of him; everything about him drew people in – both humans and gods alike – he was mesmerizingly gorgeous, like molten bronze and gold, and even Janus froze in place watching him.

The human’s eyes had widened, the whites more visible than anything else.

“Oh,” They whispered.

Roman smiled, still a little sheepish, but as bright as the sun. He bowed his head for a moment, before straightening up, glancing at Janus out of the corner of his eye.

Janus coughed, clearing his throat. He held out his hand to the ghost.

“Come with me.”

The spirit froze, their eyes darting between the two gods, half-terrified and half-questioning. Roman nodded, supportive, and they sighed.

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” They asked weakly, half-joking and trying to smile, but looking like they wanted to cry.

Janus didn’t respond, he just waited.

After another moment or two of hesitation, they took his hand, quietly disappearing from sight and settling in Janus’s chest. For almost a minute afterwards, it was still, quiet, the silence only punctuated by the fire-like crackling that burst from the fire-god’s skin.

And then the calm was broken by Roman reaching out and resting his hand on Janus’s shoulder, sending a spark of warmth through his shirt and across his whole body, like he was setting his skin ablaze, melting his heart. Janus turned immediately, and they made eye contact. Roman looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t.

No words were exchanged, they just… felt.

Felt what? They weren’t sure (or, at least, Janus wasn’t sure). But it was good, nice, and unlike any other experience Janus had ever had with any other god.

The moment was then suddenly interrupted by another front door swinging open with a deafening creak, and a human – a young woman in her early twenties – stepped out. Somehow, the first thing she spotted was the mangled corpse, and she inhaled sharply, not quite screaming (but only just), her bag slipping from her shoulder and landing on the ground with a thump. Then, her eyes landed on the two frozen gods, her attention immediately drawn to Roman, who winced almost imperceptibly.

“Oh,” She squeaked, before falling to her knees in a deep bow, rapidly apologising for interruption and begging for their forgiveness.

It was awkward, to say the least.

Roman reacted more visibly to this, his face scrunching up uncomfortably, looking unsure of what to say, his hand falling from Janus’s shoulder. Janus was also at a loss for words, and gave the fire god a sympathetic look. He wanted to say something – to either Roman or the girl – but this wasn’t exactly his speciality.

Then, the earth began to creep up his shoes, tugging at the hems of his trouser legs, reminding him of his duty to bring the hundreds of souls swimming in his chest back to the underworld (today had been a busy day, he was full). And he sighed, turning apologetically to Roman, who shot him a small, understanding smile, before sinking out and becoming one with the dirt, his vision going black.

***

Two weeks had passed since their last interaction, and when Janus realised that another soul had passed, awaiting him, and that he would be returning to that very same town, he’d felt not quite excited, exactly, but it was definitely positive, and definitely attributed to the fact that he’d get to see Roman again. He’d never admit that to himself, though, and certainly not to anyone else.

But when he’d appeared just outside town, he was immediately overwhelmed by a feeling of pure misery that didn’t belong to him – thick and suffocating, like the air was packed with pudding – and the sounds of sobs that rippled through the clearing, all centred around one figure who knelt in the middle, in front of the ashen remains of a bonfire.

As Janus approached Roman, he could tell that the fire god had noticed him, but he didn’t look up, staring straight ahead, smoke-coloured tear tracks running down his face, his hands in fists at his sides.

Janus sat down beside him, crossing his legs, not saying anything, waiting for Roman to speak up.

After a few minutes, he did.

“They slit his throat,” He said, barely above a murmur. “And then threw him into the bonfire. The burns finished him off. I fini-”

“No,” Janus interrupted him firmly. “You didn’t do anything.”

Roman was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t save him; I could have saved him. If only I’d noticed,” He sniffled, wiping the tears off his cheek and rubbing his eyes. “He was my friend, you know. One of the few people I really got along with in this town.”

“I’m sorry,” Janus apologised, sincere.

“You didn’t do anything. You’re just here to… collect him.”

That was true, but, right now, comforting Roman was more important to him. The ghost could wait another few minutes, at least.

“They thought he was the one killing everybody,” Roman continued, shaking his head and letting out a short, bitter laugh. “They were wrong, accusing him without evidence. The killer’s still out there, and he’ll kill again. They’re no better than he is.”

He glanced up at the death god, and, for a moment, looking at Roman’s tear-stained face and red eyes, Janus felt like there was a hand clamped around his heart, squeezing tight. For a moment, he considered killing – destroying – all those at fault for this, but he knew it wouldn’t help.

“They… the woman we saw last time, she told everyone about us,” Roman said, looking down at his lap, his hair flopping in front of his eyes. “They know that I’ve been visiting, and they thought… they thought that I’d want this. They… they think I’m going to reward them for sacrificing him in my name.”

His expression was still miserable, but, right now, he looked more… tired, than anything else.

“Are you?” Janus asked.

Roman gave him an incredulous look.

“Of course, not!” He exclaimed. “Why would I? I don’t- I didn’t want them to do this! They’re… they’re just as bad as the murderer, taking pleasure in such horrifying things.” He paused for a moment. “Why- why would they do this?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why are the humans like this?” Roman continued, and Janus didn’t have the answer to that question, either. “They can be so good – so sweet, so selfless, so loving – but… but they can be so bad, too: so horrible and full of hate.”

“They aren’t like us,” Janus said, in an attempt to comfort him.

Roman looked back up at him, head tilted slightly to one side, his brow pinched together.

“Aren’t they?” He said softly, placing his hand on Janus’s knee and distracting the death god so much that he almost didn’t hear the next words. “They’re just like us, but powerless against the world around them, and so they take it out on one another. I don’t understand them, I don’t think I’ll ever truly understand them. I can’t… we can’t.”

Janus didn’t know what to say to that.

There was silence between them for some time afterwards – it could have spanned seconds, minutes, or even hours, neither could tell – and, while Roman’s sadness still hadn’t dissipated, there was something warm (almost comfortable) about it.

“May I take him, now?” Janus asked gently.

Roman gave him a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Of course.”

Janus carefully removed his bright yellow gloves, folding them and placing them on the ground between them. He then leant forward, burying his hands in the ashen remains, coating them, feeling the bones beneath his fingertips. A second passed, maybe even two, and then the ghost appeared – a young man, his skin the colour of glistening silver, his hair as black as the night sky behind him. He looked confused, at first, and then a fleeting moment of terror crossed his face, before he noticed the gods beside him – in particular, Roman – and his expression melted into one of sympathy.

“Oh, Phil- Roman. Roman,” The ghost correct himself, kneeling down in front of them. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” Roman asked incredulously. “You’re the one who just- who just-”

“I know,” The young man said softly. “But, are you okay?”

Roman hesitated.

He sighed. “Not really.”

The spirit gave a small, sad smile. “I’m sorry,” He apologised.

“Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault.”

“I know, but I’m still sorry.”

There was a beat.

“You’re too kind to me, Jacob, you know that, right? One of the sweetest humans I’ve ever met. It’s more than I deserve; I’ve been deceiving you about my identity since our first encounter.”

“It’s okay, I understand,” Jacob reassured him. He looked like he wanted to place his hand on Roman’s shoulder, to comfort him, but he couldn’t. “And, surely, that cannot be true. You’ve met many humans throughout your lifetime, numerous great heroes and saviours.”

“And few stood out as much as you.”

Jacob smiled. “Thank you.” He said, before turning to Janus, looking nervous, but not quite as fearful as most felt around the death god. “And I suppose you’re here to collect me?”

Janus nodded.

“Any final words?” He asked, surprising himself in the process. He didn’t usually ask that, but, right now, it felt right.

Jacob turned to Roman. “Thank you,” He repeated. “For being my friend.”

And then he took Janus’s hand.

His soul lingered for another moment or two, frozen in place, before it fell forward, colliding with Janus, slipping through his skin, and settling in his chest.

There was silence, and then Roman took a deep, shaky breath. Janus turned to him, instinctively opening his arms. Roman fell into them immediately, wrapping his arms around the death god’s neck and burying his face in his chest. There was a moment of hesitation, and then Janus place one hand on Roman’s wait, using the other to reassuringly rub circles on his back, feeling the fire god shake and sob against him.

It was impossible to tell how much time they spent like that – Janus would keep holding Roman forever, if he could, though the fact that he was crying wasn’t ideal – but, eventually, Roman pulled back.

He stared up at Janus, still oh-so close to him, their legs pressed together, his hands on Janus’s shoulders, Janus’s hands on Roman’s waist.

“Thank you,” He whispered.

And then, he leant forward, pressing a soft kiss to Janus’s cheek. It was warm, hot, scalding, and if Janus’s hadn’t known better, he’d have thought that Roman was burning a mark into his skin. It didn’t hurt, though, it couldn’t hurt – if he was human, perhaps it would have, but he was a god, and Roman would never hurt him.

Then, Roman pulled back, staring into Janus’s eyes for another moment or two, before disappearing into thin air, leaving Janus feeling empty, yet significantly warmer than before, and wondering what, exactly, the kiss had meant.

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