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whenimaunicorn · 4 years

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Playing House Part 5.2

Vikings College AU, Dom/sub/Dom, Ivar x Reader, Ubbe x Reader

It’s a broke, submissive college girl’s dream: living for free with your two crushes in exchange for doing all the housework. The Lothbrok boys wanted a “thrall,” and now you’re hoping they’ll notice that you’re game for all kinds of “services.” Ivar seems to know exactly what you’re looking for, but you’ve never met a Dom so mysterious, constantly keeping you off-balance and not sure what to expect next. And then there’s his brother Ubbe, who may not understand the kind of game you’re trying to play here, but makes up for it in raw sexiness and eager desire for you. But will these two strong-willed boys be able to play nice and share you as you live out one of your hottest fantasies with them both?

This fic is so far away from canon that it should be accessible to anyone that can imagine being in college and wanting to be submissive to two hot bros at the same time.

Catch up: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 (you can also find the whole thing on ao3)

A/N: after an embarrassingly long hiatus, I think I’m ready to finish this fic now. I have all the rest of it planned out, I think there will be 3 more chapters. And if I continue my streak of posting the chapters in part 1 and 2 chunks here on Tumblr, then I guess you have a lot to look forward to!

Also, you might want to review the previous section; what’s included below is pretty much all smut straight through. If you need a little seduction to get back in the mood first, the first half of the chapter is here.

Ubbe’s cock feels so good under your hand. How long had you been dreaming about touching it? How many times has he taunted you with the sight of it, letting you know how you had been affecting him on the most primal of levels. You take the time to savor it now, stroking that tantalizingly wide shaft through the thick fabric of his jeans.

“Do you like that?” Ubbe asks you, voice slow and thick. He’s got one hand on the wheel, one hand on the stick, and he keeps his eyes mostly on the road even as you slide and sculpt around the length of him. Ubbe drives like a speed demon, and apparently he can’t take it easy even with a distraction like you and your willing hand in his car. He shifts gears and tilts the wheel in tight, expert little motions, passing another car he deemed to be driving too slow. You know from driving with him in the past that just about everybody on the road qualifies for that judgment.

“I do,” you answer, with what you hope wasn’t too much self-conscious hesitation.

“Yeah?” Ubbe takes his hand off the shifter just long enough to pop open the button at the top of his fly, angling his hips enough to ease the zipper down. “Want to take a closer look?” He keeps his eyes on the road, letting you stare at the perfect profile of his chiseled face.

You never realized before this moment how much lust and hunger could feel similar. The prospect of getting your hands, and probably your mouth if the streets were dark enough, on Ubbe’s cock is actually making your mouth water right now.

Your fingers dance up to the opening in his fly. Ubbe puts his hand back on the shifter and leans his hips a little further, making more room for you. A heavy breath escapes him as your fingertips dive under the fabric.

The noise makes your submissive soul tingle. You’re quite sure Lauren or Sonya wouldn’t stoop to giving a guy road head before he’d even taken them out on a date, when you’d barely even had time to share more than a few breathless kisses yet, but you like feeling a little bit like a whore. If Ubbe wants this right now, why on earth would you withhold it from him?

You slide your fingertips across his lower belly, seeking the waistband of his boxer briefs. You allow yourself to indulge just a little in tracing your fingers along his skin, playing with the trail of hairs that tempt you lower. Ubbe rumbles an appreciative little sound, though you can almost detect a little whine at the end of it. He wants you to get on with it, doesn’t he.

Your fingers slip under the elastic band and feel down along the warmth of his body. The hairs get thicker and thicker as you go, though you can tell Ubbe keeps them cropped fairly short down here. You make contact with the side of his shaft; he’s angled mostly up and a little bit away from you, and you tickle your fingers up and down the edge of it.

“Fuck,” Ubbe whispers through his teeth; then, without looking away from the road: “are you teasing me right now?”

You give him a cute giggle, and a few more light, quick fingertip strokes. “Maybe.”

His brow crinkles, crookedly, and he glances at you like he can’t quite believe what he just heard. “I thought you were a good girl.” Blood rushes to your face. “Or do you want me to treat you like a bad girl, hm?” Watching you out of the corner of his eye, he reaches behind your head, curling his fingers into your hair, close to the scalp just above your neck. He tugs once, and you moan at the tiny pain.

You accept the reprimand, relishing the way he’s taken control of your head, and push your fingers deeper into his pants. You wrap them around the warm velvet iron of his shaft. The contact feels electric against your palm.

He groans, first tightening his grip on your hair, creating a sharp pain, and then releasing it quickly, as if he had only just realized how hard he was pulling. He scratches your scalp in an appreciative caress as you trace your loosely-cupped fist up and down the length of him. “Fuck.”

There is barely any room to work him while still inside his pants. You’re just pondering whether you should take his dick out, and what’s the best route for that, when Ubbe stops the car at a traffic light. The street isn’t busy, but there is another vehicle waiting alongside yours. Still not as much privacy as you would like.

Ubbe’s hand leaves the shifter, returning to the back of your head and pulling you toward him, his mouth meeting yours halfway for a searing kiss that seems to go on and on. He breaks away as decisively as he went in, shifting gears before you’ve even opened your eyes, barely crossing the intersection before he’s shoving the top of his undies down, letting the full length of his cock spring free.

It’s magnificent in the flashing lights of the passing streetlights. The ruddy head of it looks positively swollen with need, and you lean over his hand on the shifter to wrap your lips around its tip. You flit your tongue, tasting the salt of pre-cum. More evidence of how much he’s been longing for you.

A guttural groan comes out of Ubbe’s throat. It sounds both pleasured and exasperated, and after you give him just one more lick, his arm that’s underneath your bent torso is pushing you up and away. He needs to shift the gearstick. You lift your head to see the oncoming red glow of another traffic signal.

Turns out, there are too many traffic stops on the drive home for you to give Ubbe any proper road head. Every time you lean down to run your tongue around that fat, glorious head, you get in no more than a few licks before he needs room to shift gears again. The whole stick shift thing is suddenly feeling a lot less sexy.

Settling back into your seat, you keep your hand wrapped loosely around his shaft, arm snaked under his and giving him plenty of room to change gears. You’re counting down the minutes with lazy strokes and firm squeezes until he pulls into the parking garage attached to your building.

You can’t help but notice that Ivar’s car is in its assigned parking space as Ubbe backs into his own beside it. He must be inside the apartment. It’s impressive, really, how Ubbe is able to reverse the car so competently between the narrow lines while your fist is still gripping his rock-hard erection. As soon as he’s got the car in ‘park,’ he kills the headlights, but does not turn off the engine. He reaches across to pull you in for a kiss, wild and needy. His mouth plays expertly across your own, sucking and nipping until you’re sure your lips will be swollen.

“Fuck, babydoll, you want it bad, don’t you,” Ubbe groans against your cheek. His mouth assaults your neck again, teeth grazing your skin and tugging at your ear. “Such a dirty little girl, grabbing a guy’s cock when he’s just trying to drive her home.” His kiss claims your mouth again before you can answer. You tug harder and he squares his hips toward you. He breaks away after one last a flourish of his tongue and wraps his hand around the back of your neck, pointing your face toward his straining cock. “Let’s see how far can you fit that down your throat.”

Your pussy clenches on nothing and you moan as you bend down to show him. You’re still not sure if Ubbe has any idea about doing BDSM the “right” way like Ivar does, but his frat boy, bad-porn style of dirty talk is working for you anyway. Your head is spinning at the whirlwind this night has turned into, as you suck his cock deep into your mouth. Not in a bad way, though; you’ve built enough of a relationship with Ubbe over the past weeks to know there’s a caring guy behind this disrespectful façade. It’s safe to let this thing get a little wild.

His cock is thick. It’s hard work to suck him down deeper, and the press of his blunt head at the back of your throat bothers you a little as you strive to show Ubbe just how far you can take him. Judging by his noises, you’re doing well, though, and his hands clench and un-clench in your hair as your head bobs up and down. Like he wants to encourage you but he’s holding himself back from choking you on the damn thing. “Fuck, that’s good, oh, take it deep like that.”

Soon instead of pushing you down, his clutching fingers start pulling you up.

“Get up here, straddle me, I want to see you.”

You kick your heels off quick as you can. Ubbe rips at the seat control and lays it back almost flat, giving you just enough space to plant your knees to either side of his hips on the expensive leather and hover your body over his. Your hands land on his shoulders, keeping you balanced while hunched under the roof, and while your faces are almost close enough to kiss again, Ubbe’s eyes are focused lower.

His palms run up your thighs, greedy, still muttering filthy nothings while pushing your skirt up until you remember you’re not wearing anything underneath it. You make a warning noise and he slows down, sliding around to the sides and then exploring the bottom curve of your ass carefully, reawakening the welts Ivar left there without causing any new damage. His gaze comes back to your face, pupils widening, as his hands cover both your cheeks. Reaching that far lifts his upper body closer to yours but still he doesn’t kiss you. Your skirt’s now shoved up high enough that you know your whole pussy would be visible through the front windows, if anyone were to come walking by. He spreads you further, and you wonder if he’s thinking about that too.

Does he want Ivar to catch you? Does he know you’ll be punished? Or does he not want the interruption, is that the reason that Ubbe’s tracing his fingers between your legs out here, and not taking you inside to his more comfortable bed. The questions blur and scatter as his finger slides along the slick he finds between your inner lips.

“Fuck, dirty girl,” he marvels, “you really like getting treated like this. You’re so fucking wet for me.” But he doesn’t plunge his fingers in like you’re expecting, like he did out on the balcony back at the party. Instead his hands slide up your sides, coming to scoop around your breasts, leaving your skirt rucked up high. “I want your tits out.” He pushes the straps of your tank top and bra down your shoulders, far enough to scoop your breasts out into the thin light of the parking garage’s scattered fluorescents. “That’s my beautiful, slutty little girl. Just imagine if someone came by and saw you like this.”

He slaps you across the side of your ass, lightly, but you’re sensitive enough to jump and moan just from that. His eyes follow the bounce of your breasts, hanging out of your shirt above him. Your clothes are still technically on, but they’re not covering anything important, are they.

“I love the idea of someone else seeing what I got to watch last night,” he murmurs, and then his fingertips are sliding between your slick folds again. “Would you come for me right here, with your pussy pointed right out the windshield?”

You moan in agreement, and his fingers find your clit. He keeps on muttering filthy nothings as he traps it with his fingers and squeezes, then rocks in circles that make your toes curl. His other hand squeezes into your thigh, trying to pull you closer. His lips trace the skin of your neck.

“Fuck. I can’t wait anymore.” The growling edge of his voice sounds ragged and you absolutely believe him on that. You’re feeling it too; his fingertip on your clit is amazing but after all the buildup of the past few days you need so much more than just a little teasing. “Will you ride me?”

You look down at his cock, still springing tall and proud from his open jeans, framed by your knees. You want nothing more than to sink right down onto it. “Do you have a condom?” you somehow remember to ask.

Ubbe grins darkly, and with only a little digging produces one from his pocket.

You pluck it from his fingers. “Let me.”

You’re so conscious of his eyes on your body as you sit up and concentrate on tearing the little packet open. Your bare thighs, your pert and exposed nipples, the teasing glimpse of your pussy that’s surely visible to him under the skirt that’s been pushed up to your hipbones.

Ubbe’s looking like a wet dream himself, reclined underneath you with his shirt riding up over cut abs, a light trail of hair leading down from his navel to the base of his straining cock. His pale eyes are rapt and so hungry he’s almost begging.

But only almost. As you roll the slippery latex over his fat head, a predatory spark blooms across his features. His fingers spasm and you know that as soon as you get this condom situated, you’re all his.

He scoops up your ass with both hands, pulling you closer to line yourself up. “You might be Ivar’s in there,” he murmurs, and there’s no trace of unhappiness in the words, “but right now you’re all mine. Show me. Sink yourself right down on it for me.”

So he does know. And, apparently, is entirely cool with the situation. You tease yourself with the tip of him for a moment, gliding it along your inner folds. With his eyes locking onto yours, Ubbe spits into his fingers and reaches out to coat your entrance, a cocky look on his face like he knows exactly how wide he is and how you’re going to need this to take him all the way in. Then he grasps himself at the base and presses in between your slick folds.

The stretch feels amazing as you sink down onto him. His fat cock fills you up and just keeps coming, inch after delicious inch. When your hips come to rest against his you just stay there for a while, reveling in it, gloriously full.

He bumps his hips, just a little, and you shudder. Even a small movement has a huge effect with a cock like his, making you feel tight and delicate above him. “Not too much for you already, am I princess?” he teases.

“Ho—just hold on,” you gasp, holding onto his shoulder and trying to get a grip so you don’t just drool in his face.

But Ubbe doesn’t want to see you get control of yourself. He wants to see you a panting mess. “Like this?” he says, grasping one of your hips in each hand, squeezing hard and pulling you against him even tighter.

“Ah!” you squeal, but maybe the motion feels better, despite the intensity. You rock against him, taking a shuddering breath in, and find that all that stretch melts into pure pleasure when he’s moving inside you.

“Is that how you like it, babygirl.” He turns his hips up to meet yours, matching your rhythm as he stares up at your face. “You’re taking it so good for me.”

His thrusts start to hit harder, and it becomes more difficult to keep up as wave after wave of pleasure rolls through in his wake.

“Fuck, yeah, this tight little thing. I love to feel you ride me.”

You try and rally, forcing your core muscles to keep moving because that’s what Ubbe wants. Even though his sweet impaling is making your legs feel weak.

“That’s it. Stay up just like that.” His hand has found the back of your neck and he’s coaxing you to sit up as straight as you can inside this car, bouncing over him. “You look amazing. Keep your back straight.”

Every demeaning little instruction just makes you wetter, your core burning and stretching around his fat hog with each pornographic phrase that comes out of his mouth.

“God, your pussy’s tight. I want to feel you cum all over my dick.”

He brings his hand between your bodies, finding your clit and batting a rapid, back-and-forth rhythm across it.

“Just stay up—keep sitting up high and pretty for me so I can watch you cum.”

It doesn’t take long, not with the string of filthy words that keep coming out of his mouth, not with his expert finger on your clit and the staccato bounce of his cock buried to the hilt inside you. You press your lips together so that you don’t wail as you come to pieces all around him.

As soon as you gasp in your next breath, Ubbe’s grabbing your hips again, taking over all the movements and not giving you even a moment’s rest after your peak. He fucks up into you, fast and hard and with more force than you thought one could accomplish from the driver’s seat of a tiny sports car. You bury your face in your shoulder to stop from yelping, hands clutching at his shoulders as he groans and drives himself on. “Fuck—yeah. Fuck—yeah.”

He’s hollowing you out. The aftershocks of your orgasm feel like little climaxes of their own, given that Ubbe is still bucking up into you for all that he’s worth. You’re panting, gasping into his ear and you can’t decide if you need him to finish right the fuck now, or if you want this to go on forever.

His whole body strains, and a long, wrecked sound pushes between his teeth and against your ear. He holds you to him tight, shuddering through wave after wave of his evidently spectacular finish. “Oh,” he finally pants, with a concluding-style tone, “fuck. Yeah.” His arms wrap you up tight as his entire body relaxes underneath you. “Wow, Y/N. Just, wow.”

You’re floating. Shimmering high above the clouds, luxurious and electrified both at once. You nuzzle into Ubbe’s neck and he shifts to make room for you there, inviting the post-coital snuggle.

Except, absolutely nothing else about your current position is comfortable. As your consciousness comes back down to earth, your knees are screaming and your ass feels way too conspicuously bare up here in the front seat. The steering wheel is likely not providing it much cover. You shift, and Ubbe nuzzles your cheek before letting you go. He holds the bottom of the condom down as you disengage and swing yourself back as gracefully as you can into the passenger seat.

Ubbe tilts his own seat high enough to be even with yours again. He rolls his face toward you, peaceful and present. As soon as you’ve got your shirt covering your chest again, he’s reaching out to take your hand.

“You’re really ok with this.” It’s not really a question, though he’s looking at you like he wants a response. “Both of us.”

Warmth blooms through your body as you continue to straighten your clothes. “I’m the one that should be surprised, that you’re cool with it.”

Ubbe smiles, a little darkly. “Ivar and I, we’ve got a way that we work things out. When we both want the same thing.” His thumb is playing idly with the side of your finger.

“I think I’m gathering that.”

You’re still settling your skirt back into its correct place when you hear the stairwell door swing open. The sound of Ivar’s crutches on the concrete confirm the nervous thrill that runs through you at the noise; you look down at your fingers entwined between Ubbe’s. Does this count as “his hands on you?” You glance up to meet Ubbe’s eyes nervously. He squeezes once and then lets go with a soft, conspiratory smile.

You smooth your skirt one last time and try not to look too suspicious as Ivar comes past Ubbe’s car on the way to his own.

His face lights up when he catches your eye through the glass. “Y/N, I was hoping you would be back soon!” He nods to his brother. “So kind of Ubbe to drive you home.”

Ubbe nods with a grunt that only sounds a little bit annoyed. There is a bit of smugness to Ivar’s smile.

“Forgot my phone,” Ivar says, holding it up after rummaging through his car. “Let’s go inside, shall we? I was just about to start a movie.”

It’s too difficult to concentrate on the film he wants to show you. You’d rather think about how good it feels to be tucked under Ivar’s arm, snuggled up in the dark, even if it is a little odd that the guy that just fucked your brains out is now the one back in his bed sleeping alone.

Ivar’s fingers are dancing over your limbs, slowly, intermittently, as you pretend you’re paying attention to the movie. There’s nothing urgent about it; his fingertips just seem to like to explore.

He tickles at the base of your hairline, rolls his face into the crook of your neck. How are you supposed to think about anything but that? If he starts kissing you, you’re just going to turn off the movie.

“You’re lucky that you had your clothes back on,” Ivar murmurs in your ear. His fingers keep playing idly with your hair. “I came so close to catching you.”

You emit a sort of small animal noise. You know you didn’t violate any of his instructions today, but you still feel deliciously trapped.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asks, tone even, and a little bit amused.

“Mhm,” you answer in a small voice.

He nips at the edge of your ear. “Did he make you cum?”

Somehow the question sends heat flooding between your legs all over again. You’re not sure if it’s the right answer, but you nod ‘yes.’

Ivar’s fingers dig in for a moment. “Good.” Then they go back to drawing little circles all over your skin. “Tight space in that car,” he murmurs. “Were you riding him?”

Does Ivar like thinking about this as much as you do? Or is all of this some kind of trap. “Uh huh.”

Get up here, on my lap.” He pulls on your leg, setting you up to straddle him. “Let me look at you.”

You spread your legs for the second time tonight, bridging Ivar’s lap and grateful that the couch is soft enough under your overworked knees. Your pussy is already throbbing. Or did it never stop throbbing since Ubbe so thoroughly beat it up?

Ivar looks up at you, perfectly pleased by everything he sees. “Do you know how obvious it is when you’re aroused?”

You try to stop your face from flushing.

“I can tell so easily. Your lips part”—he reaches up, brushing his thumb along your bottom lip, peeling it down a little further—“your lashes get heavy, but your eyes sharpen.” His fingers trail down your collarbone. “Your skin somehow glows.”

He has to be making half of that up, but it sounds good. You put your hands on his shoulders.

“Don’t touch me, touch yourself.”

You bring your hands to your breasts, a little awkward. You wish he would let you admire his body too. Maybe you’ll ask him for that later.

He leans in, saying the next words a little lower. “You like the idea that we are both going to use you now, whenever and however we want.”

His words make you moan in agreement, and you scoop up your tits and nod.

“Our little thrall.” Affection and possessiveness drip in equal measure from his lips. “You wanted it as much as I did. I could tell, when I said it that day. You started to glow then, too.”

His fingers dance over your thighs, but he does not try to push up under your skirt.

“Tell me how much you love to be at our disposal.”

You purr for him, a little embarrassed but more than turned on enough to say some dirty things for him. “I’m all yours.” You rock your hips gently against him, mindful not to put too much pressure on his legs, and “I love letting you… have me, any part of me you want.”

“Whenever I want.”

“Whenever you want.”

“No matter how many times you’ve already come today.”

You definitely feel a flush after that one. Ivar’s hands trace up your waist, then catch at your wrists and push your hands down your body.

“Touch yourself for me now.”

You arch your back and sneak your hand into the waistband of the skirt, happy to ease the ache that’s been growing between your legs. You go right to your favorite spot, closing your eyes and making soft sounds of delight for him.

Ivar’s fingers dig into your thighs. The pain only heightens your excitement. “I almost feel sorry for you. Ubbe’s an animal, you know. Now that you’re ours he’s going to grab you every time he needs to nut and my God, that guy usually whacks it several times a day.” Although you may not be sure what, exactly Ivar gets out of telling you this, the thought is certainly sending your own arousal skyrocketing. “But then, no matter how he uses you, then”—he whacks your bottom swiftly, reactivating the bruises he left there last night—“you will always, always be ready for me.” He grabs at your wrist, making sure you’re still going, still working yourself as eagerly as he wants. “Even right afterwards. Won’t you.”

You hum and nod and press yourself even faster.

“Show me,” he urges, face dark and rapt as he stares up at your writhing passion. “Show me how your body can be so fucked out and still so absolutely ready for me.”

You moan and spread your legs wider, bringing yourself close to the edge but not wanting the moment to be over just yet. You try to keep your eyes open, staring at the way Ivar’s pupils have gone so wide there’s barely any blue, the way he licks his lips as he looks down the line of your body.

One of his hands finally slides underneath your skirt. His fingers climb quickly, his target clear when he runs one fingertip up and down your pussy. His growl is a deeply pleased noise. “So wet. That’s good, you’ll need it.” He presses more firmly; your swollen lips are tender from fitting all of Ubbe in and you jump. Ivar’s other hand is at the small of your back, catching you, holding you down.

Somehow the invasion of that one finger is as powerful to your system as Ubbe’s entire cock. Maybe it’s the way that Ivar’s gorgeous face is smirking up at you, or the sting still echoing through your abused backside, but all he has to do is press that one finger up and into you and suddenly your body is clamping down and spasming an unexpected release all around it.

You moan and writhe and keep working your own clit as the moment stretches on; you hadn’t planned to come so fast but you’re certainly going to make the most out of it. Judging by the praise Ivar’s murmuring up at you as you ride the waves of climax, you’re giving him exactly what he wanted.

When you’ve thoroughly exhausted your second fantastic orgasm of the day, you try and slump comfortably against your lover. “Stay up,” he orders instead. “Keep your back straight, I’m not done looking.”

And so you sit up straight above him, closing your eyes and letting only your head sag a little as you try and catch your breath coming down. Ivar makes it difficult by wiggling that finger inside you several times more, making pleased noises at the way you shudder and struggle to deal with the overstimulation.

“So gorgeous,” he whispers. Then he finally withdraws his finger, and draws you down to snuggle against his chest.

His hands spread wide and happy across your back. “Sorry I came so fast,” you feel compelled to say.

“Are you kidding? What better compliment could there be. You can’t control yourself around me.”

You both smile.

“I know you will always have more for me.” He pulls you down to settle into the couch beside him, grabbing a blanket to spread over the two of you. “I really do want to show you this movie, though.” He lifts the remote and presses rewind. “No more distractions now.”

On to Chapter 6

Taglist is open: @hanhanxx @xxdearlybeloved@littledeadrottinghood @persephone-is-here-omg @rekdreams247 @what-the-heart-desires @inforapound @creepshowzombae @tomarisela @vladsgirlfriend@youbloodymadgenius @walkxthexmoon@funmadnessandbadassvikings @trashqueenbitch @justlovelifeblog @earl-aive @supernaturalvikingwhore @equalstrashflavoredtrash @that-was-not-supposed-to-happen @ceridwenofwales @grungyblonde @pokeasleepingsmaug @hvittysmutanon @honestsycrets @wuxiesalt @thorins-queen-of-erebor @writingfromasgard @tootie-fruity @lordsexmachine @uncomfortable-writers @sadbutatleastsassy @sweatstreatz01 @ritual-unions-gotme

#ivar x reader #ubbe x reader #ivar imagine #ubbe imagine #dom!ivar #playing house fic

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ravenwritesstuff · 5 years

Text

Wandering Hearts (27/?)

Fandom: Frozen AU. Set after shipwreck but before coronation day. 17th Century.

Pairing: Kristanna (Kristoff/Anna)

Rating: M (oh HONEY if you enjoy complaining like - just GO AWAY)

A/N: Having a lot of problems with this sobriety stuff. Not sure what to do. So I just write instead.

Can’t wait to be a tragic ending.

CAUTION GARBAGE FIRE DETECTED

[ part one] [ part two ] [ part three ] [ part four ] [ part five ] [ part six ] [ part seven ] [ part eight ] [ part nine ] [ part ten ] [ part eleven ] [ part twelve ] [ part thirteen ] [ part fourteen ] [ part fifteen ] [ part sixteen ] [ part seventeen ] [ part eighteen ] [ part nineteen ] [ part twenty ] [ part twenty-one ] [ part twenty-one ] [ part twenty-two ] [ part twenty-three ] [ part twenty-four ] [ part twenty-five ] [ part twenty-six ] [ part twenty-seven ] [ part twenty-eight ]

Through her twilight eyes she catches glimpses as she fades in and out of reality. The frosted pines, the faint moonlight on the snow, the sense of motion without autonomy - but she can not decipher it. Her mind is too thick, exhausted and depleted. She has fought all she can.

She thought there would be more pain at the end, is glad there isn't. That is the last thought she has.

….

It is warm. The air sticky, heavy as honey, but not as it had been before. The weight of it is different and she thinks how strange to still feel the weight of something when you are dead. That is, unless…

Her eyes flutter open, uncertainty speeding her heart, and she does not understand what she sees, is put off by the racing pulse she is certain should be stopped.

But it is not.

Nothing is what it should be.

That is clear enough by the fact that everything she sees is green, but not a green she remembers ever seeing. No. She has never seen anything like this shade. Not even in the emeralds in her mother’s springtime tiara. Nothing had ever been this rich, this unapologetically vivid. She blinks against it - mind not comprehending while also racing ahead.

She should not be seeing this.

She should not be seeing at all, and yet -

She bolts upright, head spinning.

Where is she?

Beyond the green the world is filled with mist. The haze billows and obscures her line of vision. She can not see more than a few feet in any direction and what she can see is all strange and green and damp. Dark outcroppings of strange rock jut at frightening angles casting strange shadows at all pitches and places disorienting her further.

Also: she hurts nearly everywhere. The muscles in her shoulders, back, ache as if she has carried a great load. Her legs feel as if they have been bound by great chains. Even her fingers are lead weights at the ends of her hands and no.

No.

She is not dead. She is certain she would not feel this pain if she were, but that is almost more frightening.

If she is not dead then where is she?

The world is cold and dead, winter swallowing it whole, but where she sits now that is anything but that. She is not certain she has ever been somewhere so warm, muggy, and verdant.

She struggles to stand, body protesting, as her mind rushes to reconstruct the last moments she remembers. It is all a blur of passion and pain and him.

“Bjarg!” Her voice grates over dry chords, more a whisper than a shout, but she must find him. If he had been in that clearing as she remembered, changed or not, then he was in danger. “Bjarg!” She knocks the rust off of her voice, her cry growing louder.

She stumbles in the steam, the ground too soft beneath her feet, panic rising in her throat. Where is she? Where is he?

“Bjarg!” She screams into the gray around her and this time there is a response, but not what she expected.

It starts as a rumble, low and rippling through the ground like thunder. Then, as if taking shape from the undulating mist itself, a shadow cuts itself a figure. Though still far she can tell whatever is coming is of immense size. Its steps, though lumbering, bring it towards her quickly and she barely has time to devise a plan. Her eyes dart around and see what she believes to be a large outcropping of dark stone. She dashes and tucks herself as tightly as she can against the hard surface. Her hand goes to her pocket, searching for the cold metal comfort that lives there but finds nothing.

Where was her dagger? She had had it with her, she was certain. She had used it in the clearing, had held it tightly in her hands, would never have dropped it. It is too precious a thing, too necessary a thing to have treated it carelessly. Yet no matter how she digs through her skirts she cannot find it.

The thundering steps are close now. She has no time. The creature will be upon her in moments and she is defenseless other than the hope that she had hidden in time. She stills, pulling back tight and close to the darkest places of her hiding spot and tries to quiet her breath. She hopes that this is enough to remain unnoticed. She hopes he is safe wherever he is. She hopes she will find him soon. She hopes -

Something grates up her back, rough and sharp. She flinches while trying to stay hidden, but as she presses back she realizes that the place where she had been hiding was no longer there! The rock itself has hefted itself from the green and now, on legs before unseen, stands. Her mouth and eyes go wide as she takes it in. The rock, now unfolded, towers over her by more than double. Swaths of moss, green swirled with darker green, hang from it's back and arms.

She must flee before it notices her, but her feet stall.

She does not understand what she is seeing, but somehow she knows this is not the first time she has. She lingers for just one moment too long trying to make sense of all of it when the standing rock turns it head towards her, two round eyes glowing in it's bulbous skull, and then she cannot move quickly enough.

She scrambles back, tripping on skirts, and redoubling her efforts to find her dagger. While the air is not so heavy as it was before she does feel slower, more sluggish than she should be, but whether from internal or external pressures she has no time to decide. All she can do is act.

Her heel catches on something the same moment the one of the creatures releases a grumbling call. She swears the ground beneath her shakes at the sound, that she can feel it vibrate through every fiber of her being, but her ears do not ache from it. It rattles her the same way the church bells do but without the ringing pain. Instead she feels the power of it shake through her, mind clattering to understand the strangeness of it when she trips.

It may have been her skirts, her lack of familiarity with the terrain, the din of vibration shooting through her - she will never know just what. All she remembers is the fall. It reminds her of the first time she ran, the way he found her, the way she collapsed in the wood just to have him lift her. Well - it at least partly reminds her. This time, in most ways, is starkly different.

First the similarities: she lands on her back, body unable to catch itself. The wind is crushed from her lungs. Each fiber of her being screams with the want to give in, to fold in onto itself and was the blow, but unable to do so upon impact. She tries to move but her limbs do not cooperate and suddenly she is back in that snowy clearing, struggling for a dagger, but this time it is not one creature but two descending upon her and there is no snow.

There is no dagger.

That realization sends a fresh spark through her and her body finds itself.

That is Bjarg's dagger. She had made him a promise. She can not lose it, must find it -

Somehow she is standing in the shadow of two monsters now. Their skin is like burned out embers, their eyes blaze as lanterns, and they both reach for her with enormous crystal hands. She darts to the side, adrenaline fueling her steps, and only just misses their slow sweeps. She knows that the dagger will have to wait, first she must find Bjarg and obtain their safety.

She runs.

Through the mist and moss she bolts as quickly as her legs will carry her. She does not know where she is going, has not the faintest clue where she is, but she knows she must move. She must find a hiding place where she can rest and think and plan. She must find Bjarg.

She does not look back, does not trust her feet to carry her without falling if she does, but she knows it takes near ten of her strides to match their one. She knows she cannot out pace them for long. They know this place, she does not. She is at a disadvantage in every way. If only she could find a place to hide - !

But she does not stand a chance.

It takes a moment to understand just what has happened, that she has been caught. Her body rattles with the impact. One moment she is running at full speed and the next - well - she is not.

Between the mist and her speed she does not have time to see the third monster coming until she nearly slams into it.

She stumbles on a breathless shriek.

This creature is even larger than the other two, both broader and of greater height. It is so large she can hardly see up high enough to distinguish it's face. The moss growing from its arms and back is long and thick. It flows around it and appears almost to blend into the verdant ground beneath its enormous feet.

She dodges to the side, attempting to pick up speed, but it is too late.

A hand, made of jagged crystals, snatches her up as easily as she would grab a flower. Her feet are swept off the ground as the fingers tighten around her hips and chest, trapping her arms against her side. She kicks her legs frantically, lungs burning with panic as she tries to find her voice. Her scream comes out pinched and weak, the hand holding her squeezing just enough to make breathing a challenge.

“Bjarg!” It comes on a gasp, an invocation - a prayer - nothing but false hope with breath as it escapes her lips.

The monster draws her close to its enormous face, nearly the height of her entire body, and squints its burning eyes at her. She can smell its breath at this distance: rain and earth and embers. It is an oddly pleasant scent for such an odious creature and she strains away as much as she is able.

“Release me!” She aims for imperious but fails, air too thin.

The stony face cracks into a facsimile of a smile. The hand not holding her reaches up to touch her head and she does her best to flinch out to the way but cannot avoid the jagged edge as it pets her hair. The monster makes a knowing growl in the back of its throat. The sound shakes through her and it feels familiar.

She does not know why it feels familiar.

There are flashes of white, mountains of impossible snow, laughter - ! and then nothing.

She shakes her head, certain these thoughts are momentary insanity at best. Loss of air is making her see things that were never there and yet… she is not as afraid as she should be. She finds herself relaxing in the monster’s clutches, muscles unwinding in some implicit understanding that it would not harm her. It is an unexpected reaction, mind scrambling while her body calms and she cannot make sense of it.

“Come,” says the monster, deep voice quaking through her as it holds her tight in its immense, jagged hands.

She doesn’t suppose she have much of a choice.

…

They do not travel far.

It may just be because the monster’s steps are so large but it and the smaller two that had chased her all venture together to the unknown destination. The mist from the geysers are thinner up high, and while she cannot see the ground beneath them she is able to take in what is above for the first time.

There is no sky as she had originally assumed, but instead there is only a large pitch of luminous crystals. They grow from the rockface ceiling like strange stars, clustered, bright, and glowing. This is where their light comes from, not the sun, and she thinks of the crystals in the bag at their home. She thinks of the crystal hands that hold her. She thinks she remembers something about all of this, but her mind is dark. She comes up with nothing.

She has surrendered her struggles at the moment. She knows she cannot break free and saves what little energy she had left to gather her thoughts and observe these creatures. The three of them are not as alike as she first thought. Though they do bear similarities of coloring and feature the details of them as much different. From their gait to the set of their glowing eyes there is something unique in each of them.

And though if they had wanted to they would have by now, she wonders which one will kill her first. Perhaps they are just taking her to a sacred place where they can dismember and devour her in their stony jaws. She knows she must stay keen, look for any chance of escape. If her captor even loosens his hold for a moment she could escape and run. Their impressive size and strength is inarguable but they are slow. If she can just get free, can get the element of surprise -

They pass under a glowing arch of pure crystal, the sharp edges grazing the strange grass-like hair sprouting from her carrier’s head, and it holds her in rapture. She thinks for a moment it looks like an oversized tiara, unrefined and inelegant. She remembers her tiara, Elsa’s, and how they were always shown them but never worn for there were never any occasions. The doors were closed. Always closed.

Wherever they are now there does not seem to be door at all. Just mist and crystal and stone and moss and heat. The last time she was this warm was when she was in the caves with Bjarg and they were worse for drink. She blames the mist and the nerves. This is nothing like where they had been before. Her mind is playing tricks.

They stop and so do her thoughts.

She is shocked when her captor lowers his massive crystal hand to the ground and opens it. She staggers out, entire body numb, legs nearly collapsing beneath her. Still she runs. She falls. She struggles up to try to run again, but her numb limbs hardly work. She trips on the smallest irregularity only to haul herself up an inch at a time and try once more.

What she wouldn’t give to have her full strength at this moment, or some sort of working knowledge of her misty surroundings. The creatures must be laughing at her, if they even did laugh, and her pathetic attempts. She pulls herself up again after another fall, entire body prickling back to life, and it hurts to stand. It hurts to move. It just hurts - but she doesn’t stop. She struggles but realizes that the monsters are not in pursuit. Perhaps it is because her attempts are so futile. Perhaps because she is running into some insane trap exactly as they wanted her.

She looks back over her shoulder.

They are not moving.

Her steps slow.

The largest one, the one who carried her lifts a massive, shining hand and points ahead of them. She thinks at first to run in any direction other than it points, but what good will that do? If they had wanted to kill her - they would have. She remembers the figurine from Bjarg’s chest, small and worn, and she thinks perhaps this is why these creatures are familiar. Looking at them through the mists without the blind panic of pursuit she can see that if you stripped away the moss that they are one in the same.

Trolls.

She had read of them in the palace, had heard stories, but never considered the possibility… her hand goes to the strange white streak in her hair.

I dreamt a troll kissed me.

Had she?

Had they?

The idea had always been outrageous. He had confirmed it.

A troll would not leave a mark such a this.

And it the possibility of his actually knowing this one way or the other suddenly is more and more plausible.

They will do you no harm for you are part of me.

The idea that they may not wish her any ill also grows as an idea from that phrase. Perhaps this is the truth. Perhaps this is what she should expect. Perhaps -

Her attention turns from the trolls to where they pointed. She is still staggering forward, each pained step taking her where these fabled creatures intend her to go. She does not fight it now, knows there is little use in attempting an alternative. It is not surrender so much as it is going along with the moment, letting it sweep her along so she can develop her best chance of success. If she has learned anything from her time in this bleak world it is that timing is everything.

She moves forward, each step pained and prickling as her limbs awaken, and her heart pounds a staccato rhythm. Though unfettered she can sense she is not free. Wherever she walks now is a place that she knows there is no threat. If these are the same creatures as the figure in their home then she is safe, but she still does not know exactly what that means.

Safe is a term with an ever changing definition in her world.

Still she steps forward.

Her feet sink into deep moss, cushioning the sound, and all she can hear are the geysers spouting their steam, her own breathing. What is she doing? Why is she here? It is too late for those questions so she ignores them. All she has in the present, it is all she has ever had.

Maybe today the doors will open.

Maybe today the questions will be answered.

Maybe today.

Not today.

Never today.

But maybe…

She keeps going.

The trolls fade in the mist.

She is glad she hadn’t grabbed her cloak or mittens, sweat gathering at her hairline and she keeps moving. The world is warm and alive here, wherever here is.

Then again, just as the creature had come, another form starts to take shape in the mist. This figure is of smaller proportion. She squints in attempts to distinguish anything, batting her hand in front of her face in hopes of seeing something - anything. Just as the prickling in her body eases, she does.

It is a small shape, nothing like had come to her before. Still she is instinctively on guard. She knows that good and evil is not determined by size or shape. Just because the trolls did not finish her does not mean another will not. She slows her approach, giving herself time to adjust if needed.

As she draws nearer she can tell it is a woman, a human woman, and Anna does not understand. She steps closer, geysers pulsing and steaming around her as she approaches, and she does not know exactly what is expected of her but the creatures have made it clear that she is to draw near.

It is another human, or something close to it. Their hair hangs to her knees, deep red, and matted beyond repair. It wears the same moss as the monsters but on a much smaller scale and she can assume from the cut that a woman wears it.

As she draws nearer she can hear the plaintive coo escaping the woman's throat though she can not yet see her face. She is swaying, body curling in on itself as she moves like a leaf in the wind and Anna's heart aches. She may not know this woman, but she knows this feeling. She knows just what move in the heart of a woman to make these sounds, this posture, and she breaks in it.

Is this why the creatures brought her here? To be with this woman, lost and alone as she is?

She is close now, unable to escape, but still she hesitates.

There are moments that define you, rob you of who you are and instead tell you just what you are made of, and it is a place she knows well. She had been here too many times before and in recognition she take a moment. She does not know if she wants this. She doesn’t know exactly what she is wanting, what she sees, but here she is. She is here and she cannot change this.

For the first time in what feels like days: she stops.

Anna stops and just stands in this strange, swirling world. She does not understand it. She does not know know what to do, but understand that any attempt to control it will not improve her situation. She understands that she has to take action to move forward, but something deep within her quakes at the idea.

This is different, not just the place where she stands but everything around her.

She has been trained for a palace, been introduced in full force to this strange world where the rules are unknown to her, but she thinks she understands just enough to know that this next step is a place where she must tread lightly.

The trolls did not bring her to this mystery woman on accident.

She must accept that, still…

She does not allow herself to over consider her situation. If she does she will be stuck the way she had been in the palace, in the strange home she had created with Bjarg. Waiting has never done her a single favor.

On a shuddering breath she reaches out a trembling hand trusting that whatever she discovers here is what she needs.

The figure snaps around at her touch and screams.

Anna stumbles back, blinking.

In all she had considered she had never expected this.

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#wandering hearts #frozen #kristanna #kristoff #anna #disney #fanfiction #trash author #biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

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clumsyphilip · 7 years

Text

Feels Like War - Chapter 1

Though it hasn’t always been this way, Dan and Phil can’t stand each other, and the only way they can deal with it is through copious amounts of hate sex

Word Count (this chapter): 1.9k [probably shorter than future chapters will be, but it’s just an intro really]

Warnings (this chapter): smut, lots of swearing

(A/N: In a nutshell this is set like in the present reality rather than being AU, other than the fact that Dan and Phil hate each other, also the video Phil’s watching is here).

Teeth gritted and knuckles turning white, Phil stares silently at his laptop watching the newest video in his subscriptions. He didn’t even know that Dan and Anthony had filmed a video together until it appeared on his screen whilst he was just trying to unwind.

Not that Dan really tells him anything, but he can’t help but feel irritated.

His eyes are trained on Dan the entire time, watching as he flirts with Anthony and then acts like he doesn’t even know what he’s doing. It slowly angers Phil more and more until he’s seething and having to take deep breaths to stop himself from throwing his laptop across the room. The moment he sees Dan ask Anthony if they should kiss he slams the lid shut and pushes the laptop off of himself, standing up quickly. His hands bunch into fists, leaving nail indents in his palms as he begins to pace.

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” Phil repeats to himself in a mocking voice to supposedly mirror Dan, pacing faster as he replays the scene in his head. “Shall we kiss now?”

He moves his hands up to pull at his hair, trying to calm himself with deep breaths and soothing thoughts but it doesn’t work and he just tugs harder.

Maybe there was a time when he’d be jealous rather than angry, jealous that Dan showed someone else the kind of attention he used to reserve for Phil, but now all he feels is a burning heat all over his skin from watching Dan pretend that he’s so innocent and relatable. He wonders why no one else sees through it.

He hears footsteps at the entrance of the room and whips his head round, eyes meeting Dan’s instantly as he takes a few paces forward so that they’re stood facing each other, just a few inches apart.

“This can’t be good.” Dan smirks, taking a step back from Phil and crossing his arms against his chest. “Well?”

“I saw Anthony’s video, would’ve been good if it weren’t for you being so fucking fake the whole way through it.” Phil spits.

Dan rolls his eyes and steps around Phil, beginning to lift things off of the sofa and the floor and then put them back again.

“Yeah yeah whatever, have you seen my other earring?” He asks. Phil ignores him, continuing on his own rant.

“As if you haven’t done the whole relatable ‘laugh at my pain’ shit to death.” He says, moving into the centre of the room, eyes following Dan the entire time.

“Mmhmm.” Dan hums, only feeding into Phil’s anger more as he wonders why he doesn’t shout or throw something at him or just something. He seems totally unfazed by Phil and it’s driving him insane. He could at least defend himself.

“And acting like you don’t know what a fucking flirt you’re being with everyone you ever make a video with.”

“Oh?” Dan smiles as he stops what he’s doing to face Phil again. He steps towards him and places a hand on his cheek gently, tapping it twice before Phil slaps it away and pins it to his side. “Temper temper, it’s not my fault you still get jealous.”

“Hilarious.” He hisses, tightening the grip that he has on Dan’s wrist, making Dan squirm uncomfortably.

“You harbouring a crush on me from eight years ago isn’t really my top concern, so forgive me if I don’t care too much about your little hissy fit.” Dan drawls, meeting Phil’s eyes as he sighs loudly. Suddenly, he yanks his wrist out of Phil’s hand and turns to walk out of the room, giving Phil the finger as he does.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Howell.” Phil calls after him. “I’d move out and leave you in a heartbeat if it wouldn’t destroy my career.”

He hears footsteps thundering back towards him and smiles sweetly as Dan rounds the corner back into the living room, getting as close to Phil as he can without touching him.

“Listen to me.” He whispers, breath hitting Phil’s face as he does. “I don’t like being stuck with you either and it’s not my fucking fault that we built our brand together, but we did. So whilst we figure out how to get out of this living hell you might as well stop being a prick all the time and make this as bearable as it can be. Okay?”

Phil pushes Dan’s chest roughly, knocking him back onto the sofa and following him so that he towers above, looking down on Dan angrily.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do, and for once can you drop the innocent act? It’s really starting to grate on me.” Phil says lowly, leaning down to Dan’s face. “If you want to act like a slut around anyone who looks at you then whatever, but don’t shove it in my face.”

“Don’t shove it in your face?” Dan spits through gritted teeth, pushing himself up so that his face is just centimetres from Phil’s, feeling the heat that radiates off him as he stares at Dan. “How about this?”

He lifts a hand to slap Phil away but Phil catches it just before it hits him, no one moves or says anything for a moment, and before either has time to process what’s happening their lips meet angrily, crashing together in a mess of tongue and teeth. Phil growls and releases Dan’s hand so that he can grab a fistful of his hair and pull on it roughly.

Dan hisses in pain and pulls his head back, breaking his lips away from Phil’s and gasping as he feels Phil’s mouth on his neck. Phil kisses gently just for moment before biting down and sucking on Dan’s skin, pulling back quickly when he hears a moan.

He grabs Dan’s arms and yanks him up so that he’s standing before spinning him round and bending him over the arm of the sofa, returning his hand to Dan’s hair to pull his head up, leaning down to his ear. He licks over the shell of Dan’s ear before nibbling lightly, gripping his hair as hard as he can.

“So.” Phil whispers, catching the edge of Dan’s ear with his teeth as he does. “Maybe you want to take this chance to take back one of the things you said earlier?”

“Fuck off.” Dan gasps as Phil licks over his ear again. He can feel his heart slamming against his ribcage and Phil’s semi against his arse and he tries to keep at least some of his composure when Phil moves back down to his neck, sucking another mark into the skin harshly. His back goes cold briefly as Phil moves away and pulls his own and Dan’s t shirts over their heads. He moves his hands down Dan’s sides and then drags his fingernails against the skin, leaving red trails along his back.

“I won’t fuck off.” Phil mumbles into Dan’s back, pressing kisses down his spine. “But I’ll fuck you.”

Dan moans as Phil tugs his jeans and his boxers down in one go, lips still making their way down his back before they stop suddenly. He’s about to whine when he notices Phil stand up, but instead cries out in pain as Phil suddenly shoves a finger into him, moving it quickly.

“Ever heard of lube? Or a warning?” He breathes, pressing his face down into the sofa cushion and biting it to try and stop himself giving Phil the satisfaction of hearing him moan again. The pain begins to ease slightly, but then the movement stops and Phil’s leaning down to his ear again.

“I’ll stop then.” He murmurs, holding completely still. Though he tries, Dan can’t stop himself pushing back onto Phil’s finger and he mentally curses himself when he hears Phil laugh. “That’s what I thought.”

Soon enough, another finger is pushing its way into Dan’s hole and scissoring with the other, stretching him open roughly. Phil stands straight once again and increases the speed of his fingers, fucking them into Dan and watching as his mouth drops open.

“Did you want to kiss Anthony? Want to fuck him?” Phil asks. Dan’s head snaps round, though he can’t quite meet Phil’s eyes.

“So what if I did?” He challenges. Phil only growls and shoves another finger into Dan, watching him wince as he’s stretched even further. “Fuck, fuck. No I didn’t, it was just a fucking joke.”

Phil slows down slightly in response, humming as he unbuttons his jeans with his free hand and begins to push them down, letting them pool at his ankles.

“Good.” He spits in his palm and rubs it over his dick, trying to make sure it won’t be completely dry as he repeats the action a few times.

Dan reaches an arm round for Phil, trying to grip his waist and force him to hurry up. Phil grabs his hand and pushes it down, lining up his tip at Dan’s entrance, stopping to say one more thing.

“I’m the one in control here.”

With that, he shoves into Dan roughly, both of them moaning at the pain of it being nearly dry. Phil holds onto Dan’s hips tightly, the pressure around him almost painful and almost just too fucking much, he stays still for a moment to let them both adjust.

But seconds later, he’s pulling his hips away before snapping them back, pushing into Dan as hard as he can and relishing in the noises that Dan’s making. Dan’s teeth are gritted and he times his heavy breaths with the movements of Phil’s hips, trying to ignore some of the pain that he feels.

Phil lets go of his hips and he slips for a moment just as Phil thrusts into him, his mouth drops and he moans loudly as the new angle leads to Phil hitting just the right spot.

“Shit.” He groans as Phil grips him once again, keeping him in place so that he can hit the right place again and again and again as his thrusts pick up speed.

“You really are a fucking slut, aren’t you?” Phil mutters deeply, grunting slightly with the force that he pushes into Dan with. “Just desperate. I wish they knew. I wish they all knew that Dan Howell is nothing more than a slut constantly begging to be fucked. I wonder what they’d think of you then.”

“And I wish they knew what a pathetic little prick you are. Waiting around to fuck the first person that walks through the door.” Dan replies, gasping between muffled words as his face is pushed further and further into the cushions.

“I hate you.”

“Me too.” Dan whines as Phil finally wraps a hand around his cock and pulls roughly, just a few strokes being enough to send him over the edge as he feels himself tighten around Phil and his cum leak onto his own stomach.

It’s enough to finish Phil too, leaning down and biting Dan’s shoulder as hard as he can as he cums inside of him, tasting blood.

He licks over the marks that he leaves before pulling out of Dan quickly and slapping his arse, pulling up his trousers so that he can walk out of the room and leave Dan looking like he does. Still bent over the sofa, still biting the cushions, still completely speechless.

Phil begins to walk out of the the room before he pokes his head back round the door frame.

“Oh, and Dan?” He says, waiting for Dan to turn around and face him so that he can see him smile. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you right back.” Dan spits.

--------

(Next chapter)

A/N: hi me again so i know i upload on fridays but i SO just wanted to write this, but you can expect the next chapter to be up on friday like normal!

really hoped you enjoyed this and if you did please let me know so that i know whether to actually write the rest lol, thank you for reading!

#phan #phanfic #phanfiction #phan smut #top!phil #bottom!dan

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hprarepairnet · 7 years

Text

silverskin

pairing: cormac mclaggen x pansy parkinson

setting: modern, non-magical, the cutting edge au; also, a spiritual continuation of the ice, ice, baby series

word count: 3,749

alternate link: ao3

get to know our members challenge: favorite rare-pairs | (3/5) - andrea

Goalies have a short shelf life, is the thing.

Everyone’s always surprised when they find out that Cormac went to college.

Six semesters at Minnesota, two trips to the Frozen Four, and a solid enough GPA that he hadn’t even been that embarrassed when he was the only dude in his poetry seminar to nut up and declare for English Lit. But then he’d been drafted into the actual motherfucking NHL on a steady diet of Jane Eyre and Madame Bovary, and he’d barely had to make a choice. School was school, and he was okay at it, of course he was, he knew how to focus and he knew how to get shit done and he knew how to parse out the overarching narrative themes of a good gothic romance.

But hockey—hockey was everything.

And he fucking hates calling himself a drop-out, because that makes it sound like he’d quit, or something, and it wasn’t…he isn’t a quitter. He’s not. He commits to shit. That’s his trademark. He’d picked up a hockey stick when he was four years old, and he’d basically never put it down again. His loud roar of triumph after stopping the final puck in a championship shootout had resulted in a sick as hell nickname and an even sicker tattoo permanently inked across most of his upper body. He’d fallen in love with the smartest girl in the world when he was nineteen and too dumb to see all the ways she wasn’t going to love him back, and he’d been carrying around the admittedly pitiful remnants of that particular torch ever fucking since. He’s stubborn. He’s determined. He doesn’t fucking quit.

Which is why hockey—

Hockey was everything.

Hockey was forever.

Forever, it turns out, is approximately three and a half years.

Malfoy solemnly squints as he snaps his fingers next to Cormac’s ear.

“My peripheral vision’s gone, not my hearing,” Cormac says darkly, draining his pint of weak-ass Canadian beer. “You unbelievable fucking dick.”

Across the table, Potter winces, and then waves at the bartender for another round of drinks. “Nothing they can do about it?” he asks, because Potter’s a pretty solid dude, even if his taste in boyfriends is fucking horrifying. “There’s no, like, surgery, or anything?”

“Nah,” Cormac replies, directing a sleazy, mostly automatic grin at the waitress who delivers their tray of Jäger bombs. “Puck hit me at—uh, at a bad angle. One in a million, the doctor said. I’m done, man.”

Malfoy hiccups. “Okay, but, like, can you still skate? Or are you. Y’know. Broken. Permanently.”

Cormac drops his shot glass, watches the Jäger splash out and the Red Bull gently fizz, and he doesn’t really know how to respond. A fuck-ton of guys have it way worse than him, have ruptured Achilles and splintered orbital sockets and totally debilitating concussion symptoms that’ll never quite go away. But he’s only twenty-four. He’d wanted to keep hockey. He’d wanted to hold hockey’s hand and buy it a dozen red roses and take it home to meet his fucking mom during the off-season. Hockey just hadn’t wanted to stick around. Hockey hadn’t wanted him back.

“Yeah, I can still skate,” he says, wiping his hand over his mouth. “Why?”

Blaise Zabini is a retired ex-figure skater with two gold medals and the blankest, most dead-eyed serial killer shark stare that Cormac’s ever seen.

He sizes Cormac up like he’s a particularly questionable side of beef—and somehow, it makes sense to think of Zabini as a butcher with, like, unlimited access to a lot of sharp knives and bloody meat hooks and industrial cleaning supplies—but it only takes Zabini three or four minutes to finally crack a microscopic smile and turn his attention back to his Arnold Palmer.

“Good shoulders,” Zabini says, apropos of fucking nothing. “You’ll do.”

Cormac doesn’t go after girls like Hermione Granger anymore.

Girls with edges.

He picks up girls who are stacked and blonde and uncomplicated. Girls who laugh at his jokes and who smile at the appletinis he buys them and who don’t mind being fucked from behind because stacked and blonde and uncomplicated is actually really, really, really not his type, but the alternative isn’t an option, seriously, he’s not cut out for that level of self-flagellating masochistic bullshit.

And then he’s stepping inside the enormous private rink Zabini brings him to, gaping at the gorgeously polished cedar beams crisscrossing the ceiling, and he sees—he sees—

Pansy Parkinson is her name.

She swishes across the ice with the kind of grace that can only be taught—can only be bought—swift and serpentine and so, so sure, and Cormac’s hockey gear abruptly feels cumbersome and oddly heavy as he watches her move. Watches her glide.

He notices the rest of her in fragments.

Slight, small build. Slender arms, long legs, narrow waist. Glossy black hair, blunt-cut bangs and a sparkly purple headband. High cheekbones and ivory skin and scarlet lips. Emerald green leotard with a keyhole cutout between the wings of her collarbones, shimmery beige tights and boring white skates.

She comes to a halt next to where he’s standing with Zabini, icing them both pretty thoroughly, and, god, she barely even looks at Cormac, just props her hands on her hips and frowns at Zabini and jerks her chin towards Cormac before asking, in a tone that’s flat with derision—

“Who the fuck is he?”

She’s not even pleasant, Cormac thinks, helplessly dismayed by how much he already knows he doesn’t give a shit.

His palms are sweaty.

His mouth is dry.

His stomach is sinking.

He’s been here before.

Pansy Parkinson is not the smartest girl in the world.

She’s arrogant and she’s whiny and she’s entitled and she’s focused. She’s militant about being up before the sun rises, and she’s scathingly critical of everything from the calluses on his fingers to the lingering traces of middle-class Boston in his accent, and she’s unfailingly strict in her interpretation of her nutrition plan. She eats steel-cut oats steeped in flavorless raw almond milk for breakfast, piles leafy greens and grilled chicken and soft-boiled eggs onto her plate for lunch, and carefully weighs out her portion of whole-wheat pasta every night after they’ve studied the film Zabini seems to arbitrarily fucking choose for them.

She’s determined.

She’s competitive.

She’s carefully composed and hilariously self-absorbed and intensely, frustratingly enigmatic.

She listens to shitty pop music during their morning runs, and she flips through dog-eared back-issues of Vogue when they take their water breaks, and she carries herself like she’s simultaneously afraid of her own shadow and confident in her ability to take both him and Zabini in a fucking fist fight. She’s fascinating, and she’s clever, and she’s honestly kind of mean. She spends their first week together speaking very, very slowly, almost exclusively in monosyllables, and asking him if he’s absolutely certain he doesn’t need to keep wearing his hockey helmet.

“You’re lucky I’m not that sensitive,” Cormac tells her, twisting the cap off a bottle of lemon-lime Gatorade. He’s lying. He’s really fucking sensitive. He still cries every time he reads Emma. “Could give a guy a complex.”

“I doubt you need any help with that,” Pansy retorts sweetly.

She’s not wrong.

Skating to music is harder than Cormac thought it would be.

He’s been doing yoga and ballet and, like, jazzercise with Pansy every day, training his muscles to twitch and flex and stretch in ways they never really have before—but finding rhythm on the ice, in sleek black skates with unreliable laces and rickety little blades; it’s fucking rough.

“Jesus Christ,” Pansy hisses, shoving him backwards after he’s messed up some needlessly complicated footwork sequence for the fifth time in one day. “Count out loud if you have to, but get your shit together before you break your fucking ankle.”

“I’m a hockey player,” Cormac argues, annoyed by the defensive slant of his own posture. “There’s a learning curve, princess, we didn’t all grow up doing—whatever the fuck this—tap dancing Charlie Chaplin on ice bullshit is.”

“Yeah, well, there isn’t a learning curve at the Olympics,” she replies, coolly. “Which is where we’re going. Maybe. If you stop skating like a drunk toddler with an eye patch on.”

Cormac grits his teeth, unable to come up with a response that isn’t dumb and petulant and embarrassing, and the smirk that Pansy levels him with is as unimpressed as it is a challenge.

It’s then, though, that he registers a low-simmering onslaught of something—excitement and adrenaline and energy, cratering in his veins and punching at his sternum and reminding him, with vivid, vicious clarity, of suiting up before a game and reading the angle of a puck just right and winning. Being tackled into the boards by his team, by his brothers, after he’s managed another shutout. He’s fucking missed it. Missed this. And he doesn’t have a team anymore, but he does have Pansy. A partner. His partner.

“Again,” Cormac eventually says, holding Pansy’s gaze for a second too long. “Let’s do it again.”

A month into training, Cormac’s dick gets involved.

Zabini’s there, ostensibly to teach Cormac how to propel Pansy into some kind of spinning twirling death-defying lift that, yeah, okay, looks hella fucking rad on grainy Soviet-era film, but—gravity? Gravity’s a thing. Cormac went to college. He knows his shit.

“How,” Cormac starts, scratching at the back of neck.

Zabini gestures absently to Pansy’s thighs, not even bothering to look up from his phone. “Just pick her up.”

Cormac tilts his head to the side. “Uh. Just—where, exactly, am I touching her?” He clears his throat. Adds, again, deliberately plaintive, “Exactly?”

Pansy huffs, and then sighs, and then reaches for Cormac’s wrists, dragging his hands to the space between her thighs. And he just—

He freezes, thumbs and forefingers framing the cradle of her…pelvis? He doesn’t think it’s her pelvis. He’s, like, eighty percent sure, actually, that it isn’t.

But his brain’s not quite firing on all cylinders, and his chest is rippling tight and tense and hot like he’s been crosschecked into a fucking bonfire, and his hands look so fucking big like this, fingers long and thick, palms broad and callused, and she’s tiny, of course she’s tiny, he’s been aware of that—painfully, viscerally aware—since that very first day, that very first moment, except the way his gut is clenching and his skin is tingling and his pulse is racing—it’s new, and it’s familiar, and he aches with how badly he wants to move his hands. A little farther up. A little farther in. He wants to trace the center seam of her leggings with his fingernail, wants to tease her, get her wet, make her gasp, wants to flick his tongue out and swipe his fingers down and press an open-mouthed kiss to the mound of her cunt, grip her hips and hold her—

“—hold her up, man,” Zabini is drawling, sounding bored. “Gotta get used to her sense of balance.”

Cormac blinks.

He’s half-hard in his Under Armour, and it’s as jarring as it is mortifying to realize that touching Pansy like this—learning her body, memorizing the shape of it and the bend of it and the strength of it—this is his fucking job now. He’s here to win. To skate. To take ballet lessons and pack on a lot of unnecessary muscle and grope Pansy fucking Parkinson in exchange for an Olympic gold medal. Nothing else.

Still.

He glances up.

He meets Pansy’s eyes.

He doesn’t think he’s imagining the faint hint of pink that’s blossoming across her cheeks.

It gets worse, after that.

They suck at Worlds.

They suck hard.

Cormac trips over the fucking snaggletooth murder traps on the fronts of his skates, skids into the boards while the crescendo of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony echoes around the rafters of the rink, and he hasn’t eaten ice like that since he was twelve, training with Zabini notwithstanding, and he’s taken aback, almost, by how fucking infuriating it is.

To work and sweat and bleed and still not be good enough.

Somewhere, Hermione Granger is writing her fucking dissertation on emotional manipulation and fucking laughing at him.

Again.

But Pansy’s a professional, of course, and so she skates on, footwork beautiful and timing impeccable, but there’s a rigidity to her movements, a stiffness in her spine and a wariness clouding her jumps, that doesn’t translate well. And Cormac heaves himself up, hurries to join her, tries to get the counts right in his head, but he’s not used to this, still doesn’t hear the nuances of the music quite like he should, and he’s a visible half-beat behind her for the rest of their long program.

Pansy doesn’t look at him afterwards.

She lifts her chin, clutches his hand, pastes a smile on her face, graciously accepts the scattered flowers and the slightly subdued applause; but her lower lip is trembling, and her eyes are suspiciously glassy underneath the false lashes and the metric fuck-ton of glitter, and Cormac feels guilt, gross and thick and vaguely acidic, begin to eat at his insides. It’s shitty. He’s shitty.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out when they get back to their dressing room.

Pansy yanks at the laces of her skates. “For what?”

Cormac hesitates. “For, uh, fucking that up? Like, the whole thing?”

She shrugs. Fiddles with the zipper on her Team USA jacket. Still doesn’t look at him. “It happens,” she says, shortly.

“Well, yeah,” he replies, tugging at the over-starched cuffs of his shirt. It’s an ugly fucking shirt, interlocking shades of grey superimposed by a ragged slash of purposely illegible graffiti. “But, like. I’m still—I’m sorry, I guess, that you’ll have to. You know. Find someone else to skate with.”

Pansy goes dangerously still, a travel pack of cucumber-scented exfoliating wipes crinkling between her fingertips. “Excuse me?”

“Uh,” he hedges, licking his lips, “I’m sorry? I just—this shit was a lot easier during practice, you know, and I’m really…there’s still a few months left before San Jose, you could probably find another dude to—”

“What the fuck?” she interrupts. “What are you talking about?”

“I—I’m just—isn’t that how this goes?” Cormac asks, cracking his knuckles. His forehead is itchy where his sweat’s dried, caking the thin layer of bronze powder the makeup artist had dusted all over his face. “You got rid of…your other partners, the ones before me, and I don’t really expect—I mean—I’m not even a figure skater, you know? You don’t have to. Keep me around, or whatever. It’s okay.”

“Right,” she exhales, and that’s—that’s anger, he can hear it now. Anger and consternation and just the tiniest bit of fear. She’s finally looking at him. “I’m only going to say this once.”

“Uh.”

“You are not expendable,” Pansy snaps, enunciating each word so, so clearly, so crisply, like she’s convinced that if she doesn’t—convinced that if she slurs, or if she stumbles, or if she stutters—he might not get it. It makes her sound frantic. It makes her sound fierce. And he wonders at that, at her, just for a second; has to, absolutely, because she’s the most rigidly self-contained person he’s ever met, and this is unprecedented. This is. This is. “One subpar performance isn’t—it happens, you know that, but you—you’re not going anywhere, you’re not—you’re not temporary. Okay?”

Cormac swallows. He feels a little wrung out, like his skin’s stretched too thin and his bones are too spongey. Like—he’s exposed. Nerves raw, tonsils scratchy. It isn’t bad. Not really. He thinks he could get used to it, actually, if she needed him to. Asked him to.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

On New Year’s Eve, they’re sitting cross-legged on his living room floor, three iPods and Zabini’s laptop and a wine-stained yellow legal pad spread out between them. Cormac’s never really had strong opinions about classical music before, but they’ve been arguing about this shit for three and a half hours, and he has a fucking headache. He deserves a drink. He deserves a Stanley Cup.

“I’ve got it,” he says, popping the cork on a bottle of Bollinger. “Def Leppard.”

Pansy chews on the inside of her mouth. “I know you think you’re joking, but that’s actually—that might not be a bad idea.”

Cormac skips the crystal stemware and grabs two custom black beer steins emblazoned with his old jersey number. “What, asking the Olympic Committee to install a stripper pole on the ice?”

“No, I meant—going rogue, with the music and the costumes and the—the routine, maybe, your technique is garbage, but—wait, what are you doing? What is that?”

“Champagne,” he says, holding out a mug for her.

She doesn’t take it. “I don’t drink.”

He rears back. “What? How do you live?”

“With excellent liver function and a spotless criminal record,” she simpers.

He pauses. “You read my Wikipedia page,” he says, kind of accusingly.

“You punched a math major.”

Cormac makes sure to gulp down most of his champagne before he deigns to answer.

Midnight comes and goes.

They give up on making a decision about the music for their short program, and Cormac turns on a holiday marathon of Love It or List It. Pansy scrunches her toes into the carpet, toys with the hem of her tank top, gradually shifts closer and closer and closer; and the minutes seem to grind to a slick, syrupy halt as the weight of this—the expectation—suddenly becomes realer. More tangible.

It’s not a surprise when their lips finally brush.

It is a surprise, though, that Pansy’s so tentative about it.

So uncertain.

She has her eyes squeezed shut, and her hands bunched into fists around the fabric of his henley, and the movement of her mouth against his is mechanical, slow and soft and wet, yeah, but almost like those are things that she’s mentally checking off a list. Commonly Accepted Attributes of a First Kiss. Lean in. Arch up. Meld. Melt. Tease. Her tongue flicks out, just once, and she tastes cold and tart, like lemon water and peppermint, and Cormac groans, threading his fingers through the ends of her hair, cupping the nape of her neck and tilting her head a little farther back and—she relaxes, slightly.

“Yeah?” he breathes.

Her nails scrape against his skin. “Yeah.”

Twenty minutes later, they’re upstairs.

Pansy’s naked, sitting on the end of his bed with her knees pressed together and her face flushed a seriously satisfying shade of pink. And Cormac’s trying to get his own clothes off, really, he is, but she’s leaning back on her elbows, right, and her tits are small, obviously, she’s small, but they’re round and firm and perfect and the movement sort of thrusts them forward, drawing his attention to the tight peachy-beige buds of her nipples, and they’re—she’s—distracting. He’s distracted.

“Jesus Christ, are you going to fuck me or not?” she demands.

Cormac yanks his boxers off so fast that his cock slaps against his lower abdomen. “Don’t worry,” he assures her when her eyebrows fly up, “it’ll fit.”

Pansy’s jaw goes slack, and then she’s snorting out a laugh that’s deep and throaty and remarkably genuine, actually, nothing at all like the audibly artificial giggling she’d done at their last presser. And Cormac—he doesn’t care, he decides, that this laugh had come at his expense. He doesn’t. He’d say awful, humiliating, utterly moronic shit for the rest of his life, probably, if it would get her to laugh like that again. Which is a problem. Definitely. That he’ll totally address. At some point. Definitely. In the far, far, far off future.

“Who have you been sleeping with?” she asks, sounding mystified.

“No one, lately,” he replies, maybe a little too honestly, before pushing her backwards, dragging his hands from her shoulders to her waist to her hips.

Her lashes flutter as she clamps her bottom lip between her teeth. “Oh,” she says, but then she’s flashing him a smile, small and subtle and pleased, and her knees are falling open, and she’s repeating, much more quietly, much more intimately—

“Oh.”

They’re waiting to board their charter to South Korea when she grabs his wrist.

“Cormac.”

“Hmm?” he answers, scowling at an email from Malfoy that contains an inexplicably snide lol and absolutely nothing else. “What?”

Pansy glances over at him, crossing and uncrossing her legs. She’s wearing leggings and an oversized cashmere sweater and fluffy brown Uggs with the tops folded down. She looks fucking ridiculous.

“So…are you…are we…?” she asks, sounding—not indifferent, exactly, but maybe like she’s trying incredibly hard to pretend that she is. “All in?”

And Cormac—

Cormac forgets, sometimes, that other people have feelings, too. Feelings like he does. He shies away from words like “inadequate” and “unremarkable”, hasn’t ever let himself go there, even in his own head, because that’s a slippery fucking slope and he’s a big believer in faking shit until he doesn’t have to anymore. Until he’s tricked himself into thinking that it’s real.

He’s never had to do that with Pansy.

Not once.

And he doesn’t want her to have to do that, either. Second-guess herself, or him, or his place in her life. She’d told him he wasn’t temporary, wasn’t expendable, and she’d meant it, she’d made sure that he knew she meant it, and all he’d done in return was give her orgasms. He could do better. He would do better. He’d get her a gold medal and he’d curate her fucking library and he’d teach her how to play hockey. He’d love her, eventually. He would.

For now, though, he just twists his wrist around, slides his hand up, presses the flat of his palm to the flat of Pansy’s, and he—he marvels for a second. At how tiny she is compared to him. How fragile, and how not fragile, and how much of a fundamental fucking contradiction she’s been all along.

He then laces their fingers together, and he feels her brief tremor of surprise. Feels how she stills, and how she steadies, and how she settles.

“All in,” he promises.

#pansy x cormac #cormac x pansy #cormac mclaggen #pansy parkinson #hprarepairnet #gtk #andrea #drabble #slytherdornet

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