"Absolute Terror Field" - Evangelion Wiki // End of Evangelion (1997, dir. Hideaki Anno) // Project Hail Mary - Andy Weir // Project Hail Mary (2026, dir. Phil Lord, Christopher Miller) // Neon Genesis Evangelion (1995-1996, dir. Hideaki Anno) Episode 4: "Hedgehog's Dilemma" // "気持ち悪い" - Wiktionary // "Kimochi Warui" - evamonkey.com
I cannot recommend bringing your heritage and culture into how you view media enough.
It is important to consider the culture of the person who created the piece, absolutely; but the different perspectives offered by the viewers is fascinating in and of itself and does not always detract from the message.
As an example, when I was younger, I watched Schindler's List. This movie is famously shot in black and white except for one section, concerning a little girl in a red coat. The camera follows her until her eventual death.
I am Turtle Island Indigenous and I was always taught that the only color spirits could see was red, because it is the color of life and blood.
So the second the girl in the red jacket came on screen, something inside me chilled with fear.
The only color in the movie was that red. At some point, I, the viewer, had died.
I remember sobbing at the sight of the burning human piles that were shown, convinced I was buried in there somewhere. The reason I had only seen red on the girl was that my death was recent. I was the ash in the air mistaken for snow. I had died before her and had followed her, helplessly, until she followed me.
The message I got for that was maybe not what the creator had intended: that there was no "being clever enough" or "good enough" or "kind enough" that would shield or protect you from such a massive tidal wave of evil.
You are not exempt from tragedy, that red jacket whispered. You are not special.
When I told some of my white friends about my experience with viewing Schindler's List, some were shocked and the rest just out-and-out mocked me for my "media illiteracy".
"it was just a filming trick to make you feel something," I remember one saying, which terrified me. How had he not felt anything even before she showed up?
However, when I repeated my viewing to a college class, they were fascinated. The implications of what I had seen and felt made the film all the more terrifying and solemn. It encouraged a lot of people to try to ask themselves what media meant from a cultural perspective, where they hadn't done that before.
The resulting “nanopasta” can then be spun into a tiny mat about 2 centimetres across. While it isn’t intended as food, Clancy says that it should be safe to eat, but is reticent to talk about having tried it. “It’s an ethical quandary to talk about scientific self-experimentation,” he says. “But, hypothetically, one might expect it to be chewier than you’d expect.”
baseball interviewers will ask "how do you throw the ball so good" and Mariners players will casually drop that they have a headmate who plays the game for them
in which Ashton is a wanted criminal, and you’re his safe haven — in more ways than one.
a/n: trying something new with this one! heavy content warnings and a fresh new trope. surely this is what the fans wanna see :)
huge love and hugs to my bby @undersugarnights — who is largely the reason why this fic exists. my motivation and favorite brainstormer. thanks for your endless amounts of patience with me <3 couldn’t have done it without u! xoxo
CONTENT WARNINGS: smut!!!! dirty talk/pet names (ashton calls you pigeon), fingering, KNIFE/BLOODPLAY, (subsequently) mentions of blood/minor injury, unprotected pnv, creampie, porn with a decent amount of plot, straight up fiiiilthy shit.
wordcount: ~7.2k
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THE RETURN OF ROBIN HOOD:
LOCAL BANKS TO INCREASE SECURITY FOLLOWING A FOURTH SMALL SCALE ROBBERY IN UNDER A MONTH. SUSPECT IS STILL AT LARGE.
“Fuckin’ hell.”
You toss the TV remote between your palms as the headline that you’d just damned scrolled across the screen. Nothing about these headlines and their fanfare surprised you anymore. In fact, you thought they could’ve been a little more creative.
A huff escapes your lips as the news anchor bores you half to death, rambling on about how local bank owners should take note of the descriptors that characterize this wanted and dangerous criminal.
The suspect is said to only strike when disguised. But not in anything ridiculous like a chicken costume or a pair of fishnet tights. The disguise in question was actually rather tasteful, and enough of a signature to keep them from being mistaken for anyone else.
Your eyes hung low, unamused as the police sketch graced the screen— an image of what was believed to be the suspect, up close and personal.
Shaggy black curls that spilled out of a tied-up black bandana, with another identical one covering the lower half of his face. Deeply set, almost dead looking eyes that the police took the liberty of drawing with the least amount of character imaginable. You wince at the inaccuracies, the TV remote now resting on your chest as you watched the rest of the story unfold.
You imagined it was hard to get a good idea of what this man could possibly look like after following his every move through grainy security cameras. But you hadn’t the mind to empathize with those pig bastards, nor step into their shoes. The pit in your stomach was never the result of feeling bad for a cop.
Bang bang bang.
The storm door of your grandfather’s wooden cabin rattled violently, right up until your hand was resting on the door knob.
When you swing it open, that knot that formed in your stomach suddenly dissolves.
“Robin Hood? Really?”
Tired, yet somehow still vibrant green eyes shoot you a lazy glance, the cool night breeze blowing wind through floppy black curls, “It’s better than the Bandana Bandit. Left a note this time and everythin’. What am I without a signature?”
He asks you the question as if you were stupid— his body slumped lazily against the door frame with a black fabric bag slung over his shoulder.
“A guy in green tights that rides around on a horse?”
“Yeah, and fuckin’ kills rich dickheads to give their fortunes to the less fortunate. Duh.”
You cross your arms, ignoring his snark, and take a moment to admire just how rugged he looked in the moonlight. Leather jacket taut against his broad shoulders, dark wash jeans wrinkled, and stained with motor oil. It took longer than you planned to really take him all in.
“Just gonna stand there, Pigeon? Or are you gonna let me inside?”
Your head cocks to the side, gaze steady and searing, “Why do they always sketch your eyes to look so…lifeless?”
He chuckles, body language stiff, and still leaning towards wanting to be inside already, “Each city draws me differently, sugar. That’s just the way it is.”
“Well, I think that’s silly. Your eyes are practically disco balls right now,” you comment, slowly backing up to gesture for him to follow.
“You flatter me, Pidgey,” he brings his fingers up to point at himself, “But these bad boys are too tired and have seen way too much shit to be shimmering like you say.”
You don’t even get the chance to process his presence before his hands are on you and truthfully, you never really do.
You’d known Ashton since high school. Forgetting about him for a while, then reconnecting with him after swiping right on him on a dating app. A random night where you felt like maybe a little company would do you better than being locked up in an outdated cabin in the woods.
Unfortunately, that same ‘random night’ ended with six nails in your tire, and a trip to the ER due to a blood pressure spike that felt like you were having a heart attack. After all was said and done, you prayed to whatever God there was that you were never in another situation that forced you to see Ashton again.
But the cycle kept repeating.
Despite the initial messy run-in —in which he likely needed a new identity afterwards— he never seemed satisfied by the risky life he lived. Whether it was sticking up corrupt pharmaceutical companies and stripping them of everything they’re worth, or going on month-long bank-robbing sprees to donate the earnings ever so graciously to charity, he was always back for more.
He lived for the thrill of the chase. He lived for the danger. He was simply insatiable.
And so, rather than attempting to talk sense into a man who juggled with hand guns and tossed money out of the car window for pure enjoyment, you simply promised to just— be there.
No matter what or when, you somehow always were.
When he needed another getaway driver, or to sharpen up his knife collection, you were his golden girl. Though you hadn’t much experience in a life led by crime, you picked up a thing or two in your time. You weren’t oblivious, and you certainly weren’t stupid.
If Ashton ever needed a place to crash, be it a day or a month, your door was always open. You just wished his choice of career wasn’t so… fickle when it came to that sort of thing. Housing a vigilante who you may or may not have had the hugest crush in the world on seemed to be doing numbers to alter your brain chemistry.
“Pigeon, you with me?”
You were so lost in your own train of thought that you’d completely forgotten where your mind actually was. Ashton’s hands were planted on your hips, the black cloth bag once draped over his shoulder was now spilling out on the floor. Stacks of one hundred dollar bills graced your carpet like land mines as Ashton walked you backwards towards the wall.
“Would you laugh at me if I said I kinda’ missed you and your dumb face?”
Ashton’s mouth slides into a devilish smirk, his nose barely grazing yours just as your back hits the wall with a thud.
“You know I’ll always come back.”
His words shoot down your spine like a bolt of lightning. Sincerity was rare, coming from him— which is why you just assumed there was nothing behind those words at all.
“Yeah,” you chuckle, throat dry, “only when you need somethin’.”
“Thought that was part of the deal.”
Before you get the chance to reply, Ashton’s lips come crashing into yours. He sucks in a deep breath when the two of you collide, his hands unsure of where to rest as he tastes you for the first time in quite a while.
Your body goes limp in his arms as he holds you— he’s practically the only thing keeping you upright at this point. You feel as though you have no choice but to lace your hand through his thick curls, tugging ever so gently at the roots that were scribbled messily on your TV screen in charcoal just minutes ago.
It was true that Ashton came to you only when he needed something, but you weren’t as bothered by it as you make it out to be. You enjoy hearing his stories, knowing that he’ll always end up back here eventually, and wishing him nothing but the best in his endeavors.
When you don’t hear from him, you don’t really panic. You know that he’s out there somewhere, that signature midnight blue Corvette revving as he splits down backroads like a banshee.
“You seem distracted tonight.”
His gravelly voice breaks the spell. Ashton was looking at you now, his eyes searing bullet holes into your cheeks.
“Hm? No, I’m not, I just— a lot on my mind I guess.”
“That sounds a lot like a distraction to me. What’s bothering you?”
It truly was harder to focus on just one part of his face the closer he neared, but not because of his intimidating stare or the smell of cigarettes that clung to his jacket like it were made to be that way. You weren’t scared of him, and that was partially the reason why he kept you around.
The weight of his body leaned up against yours was the only thing you were feeling right now.
“Nothin’ bothering me. Just— happy you’re here, is all. Happy you’re not dead.”
Ashton hums in delight, viridian eyes flicking to gold for nearly a second as he finishes your sentence.
“Yet.”
A broad hand cups your chin, giving your cheeks a gentle squeeze. The eye contact makes you want to crawl out of your skin— you hated your body for being so reactive.
“Right. Not dead yet. and hopefully not soon, asshole.”
“You never know.”
Your head was begging you to shut him up with a kiss. The loosely titled “partner in crime facade” had finally faded— as you were now entranced by his grip on your face and the feeling of his knee wedged between your legs. Ashton stares at you for a moment, before dipping down to nip at your neck.
You wished for a warning, yet had no complaints as a moan flew past your lips. Your hand clutched the nape of his neck for dear life as he suckled at your skin, already feeling the desperate shock waves shooting right down to your core.
“Ash, fuck,” you whine, your hand now tucked into the collar of his jacket, the leather cool against your knuckles.
“Whatdaya’ need, Pigeon?”
You stammer; speechless, almost dizzy. His hand was pressed against your hip, fingertips digging into the soft flesh exposed above your sweatpants. The scent of his cologne was almost intoxicating, momentarily bringing you back to the night you met him. You shake yourself out of it, drawing your eyes back into his.
“You.” Your answer was simple.
“Mmmh,” Ashton hums, low and gravelly, reaching up again to hold your chin, “you need me? To what? Scratch your back? Change the smoke detector batteries?…Or fuck you ‘til you’re drunk off my cock?
Despite the lump in your throat, you scoff, “Don’t flatter yourself, Robin.”
Ashton’s eyes narrow, his face nearing closer and his lips ghosting yours. Your breath hitches as the hand that once cupped your face was quickly shoved into your panties.
You gasp, his slender fingertip showing all of your cards as it laps up the arousal between your folds with one swipe. He pulls it out of your pants, and holds it in front between your faces.
The juices dribbling down his fingertips mocked you.
“Yeah. Okay.”
The hazel in his eyes is mostly swallowed by the sheer size of his pupils, dark and hungry as he studies the slickness that coats his fingers. Slowly, he moves them apart, eyes glinting in satisfaction as the sticky arousal shines in the light.
When his eyes meet yours again, they burn through you like lasers, and he brings his fingers up to his mouth. Wrapping his plush lips around his digits, he lets out a pleased moan at the taste of you, eyes fluttering shut with bliss.
“Can’t play coy with me when I’ve got you wet like this, Pigeon.”
Without much of a thought, or any semblance of a word, you pull him back into you, the taste of your own pitiful excuses lingering on his tongue as he swipes it across your teeth.
You hum into his mouth, your body rolling, aching, to be closer to him. His hand slides back down into your sweats with no questions asked, his fingers continuing their slow drawl and pulling moans out of you like they were mining for gold.
“We have a lot of fun together, don’t we?” Ashton coos, the words jumbling together into one long sound as his fingers remained relentless.
“Y— fuck, we do.”
“Mhmm. Like that first time I called you up, just days after the night we met again, when I needed my getaway driver…”
Your brain short circuits— the combination of Ashton’s low voice vibrating against your lips and digits chipping away at your patience against your clit was getting to be too much. You couldn’t help but sigh and melt into the wall when he speaks.
“…We had so much fun that day, Pidgey. You were nervous as all hell, shakin’ like a damn’ baby deer. First day jitters, maybe. I still couldn’t tell ‘ya.”
“Ashton,” your voice is weak when you warn him, but your threat was empty, and the menacing smile that slid across his face told you he knew that.
“Shh, baby, I’m talking,” he tuts, leaning closer until his lips brush the shell of your ear. His fingers keeping steady between your legs, now pumping in and out at a maddening pace.
“God, I fucked you senseless that day. ‘Surprised you knew your left from right after that. Remember how you rode me then? How tight this pretty little pussy squeezed me, and milked me dry… Do you remember what happened next?”
You whine in protest, body jolting each time his long fingers reach that sweet spot, “Oh fuck you— you’re doing t-this on purpose.”
“C’mon. Tell me what happened. Tell me how good I fucked you.”
Your mind is suddenly transported back to that day. The second time you were ever an accessory to one of Ashton’s heists. Adrenaline was high, nerves were pumping. And the only thing the two of you could think about during your stakeout— was each other.
You’d gotten past the formalities quickly. Getting to know each other on a deeper level had flown completely out of the window as your hands were like moths to a flame, tracing and memorizing each and every dip and curve of one another. You remember exactly how his signature leather jacket felt pressing against your bare chest, how cool it was to the contrast of that hot summer day. He had gotten you so riled up that you’d felt as though you had no other choice but to let him take you in the driver’s seat.
In front of a bank. In broad daylight. Right before he went in and threatened every soul in Willow Creek Credit Union with their life.
Back to reality, your body shuddered as you were now dangerously close to your orgasm spilling over the edge. His fingers worked tirelessly, his snarky face remaining as he continued.
“I left you filled— to the fuckin’ brim. And you just sat there n’ watched me rob a god damn bank with my cum dripping down your legs. Your eyes were practically beggin’ me t’ fuck you, Pidgey. Can’t get that picture outta’ my head…”
“Ashton, please.”
Less of a warning, more so begging this time, you moan his name like a song.
You remember exactly what was running through your mind that day, too— how desperate you felt clawing over the center console as he kissed you goodbye. How weak your knees were, and how they buckled as you slid over into the driver’s seat after he’d left you spent and empty. The feeling of his hot cum dripping down your thighs towards your knees as you watched through the windshield with your hands clutching the steering wheel. You wondered how on Earth you’d pull yourself out of your Ashton-induced haze, and sober up enough to be a successful first time getaway driver.
You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, orgasm teetering on the edge. Your back stung against the chipped paint on the wall as Ashton made it a point to moan, yet again, into your ear.
“Nice and wet for me. Just how I like it. You wanna get fucked, don’t you?”
“I’m so fuckin’ close, Ash, please. Please don’t stop.”
“What was that bank called again, sugar? The one I fucked you out in front of?”
“Agh, fuck—” you hiss, your body stiffening as you just about reach your peak with your nails practically digging holes into his flesh, “I—I can’t— fuck, Ash!”
“Ahh, I’m sure you remember. Just don’t got the strength t’ tell me now,” Ashton chuckles, a grunt soon followed, “Baby’s first stickup, how could she forget?”
Your eyes were screwed shut, though you could hear his cheeky smile. It was just enough to send you over the edge. Stars flooded the backs of your eyelids as you suddenly went limp in his broad arms.
Of course, he was right there to catch you.
“Atta girl. You sure know how to make a man work for it,” Ashton puffs, scratching the back of his neck with a free hand as you both attempt to collect your breath. The throbbing between your thighs was inescapable— you were nowhere near satisfied yet.
“It’s one of my specialities,” you say, breathing in sharply when Ashton’s hands travel to cup your face and catch you completely off guard with their tenderness.
“Special Agent Sexy,” he snarls, fucking up the moment like always, top lip curled like an old timey mobster. A face that made you want to tense up and run off like a threatened cat.
“Aaand you ruined it. Buh-bye.”
You feel him harumph as you spin away from him, beelining towards the kitchen to make the two of you something to drink. His hands hit his sides loudly, dramatically, almost intentionally annoyingly.
“You used to be fun. What happened to that?”
Ashton knew how to push your buttons. But when to push them? That was left up for debate. He always seemed to catch you at the worst moments, especially after he made you cum.
“Life got tough, and far too real. You should know.”
Ashton starts to speak again, but his words are cut short by the whirring of a 10 year old coffee machine. He smacks his teeth in frustration, loud enough to still hear him while in the kitchen.
“Y’know, one of these days I’m gonna get ya’ a new Keurig. Your shit’s so old. My coffee always ends up tasting like the bottom of a boot.”
“It’s not my fault you take your coffee with no cream or sugar,” you defend your decrepit Keurig, patting the top of it as it chugged along and dripped noticeably burnt coffee into a mug.
“Black coffee’s an acquired taste, Pidgey. Nobody on this planet wants to drink seven sugar cubes and a half gallon of creamer besides you.”
You roll your eyes; if liking your coffee light and sweet was a crime, you’d be doing 40 to life.
Ashton always seemed to nitpick the parts of you that never really mattered to anyone else. Hell, they never really mattered to you, either. But you supposed that getting in the mix with a devilishly good looking, unbelievably smart vigilante douchebag would call for some psychoanalysis here and there.
You feel his body nearing after he’d taken off his jacket, black cowboy boots tapping on the tiles while you wince to yourself at the fact that he hadn’t taken them off and left them at the door. His coffee was left at the side of the machine, the handle out-turned and ready for him to grab. Yours was just about finished sputtering into your favorite red mug.
“Ignoring me?” his voice from behind spooks you.
You shake your head, soft laughter barely leaving your throat while your eyes stay trained on those last few drops of coffee. But he got the memo, sliding beside you to lean onto the counter with his elbow. You can’t help but glare at him, that smug smile painted back onto his face.
“Where’s the button that makes you less insufferable?” you ask.
Teasing. Not really.
“Gotta find it,” he shrugs, taking his coffee in one of his hands and gesturing down to his belt with the other, “be my guest.”
“God, you’re annoying.”
“And you fuckin’ love it.”
Silence encompassed the kitchen as Ashton’s words reverberated against your skull. It was like he shouted them out into a long hallway, and your brain was the wall they bounced off of before they fluttered into the abyss.
Hearing Ashton use the word love made your stomach hurt. You didn’t even think a man of his nature and demeanor could even comprehend the weight it held.
Did you love Ashton? No, you didn’t think so. You didn’t think he was around enough to fall to the point of no return. He was, in turn, around enough to fuck you to the point where your legs trembled for days. Enough of a reminder of him to keep his essence burnished onto your mind.
Surely your feelings—or feelings in general—were just as confusing for him as they were for you. The both of you had chosen your own paths to isolation, with each other as your safe haven. The only real difference being that Ashton had a distraction. A life led solely by heart-crushing and thrill-seeking; not to mention the fact that the two of you were nowhere near exclusive.
You, on the other hand, chose to be stuck in a dilapidated family heirloom that you unconditionally adored. Though you loved the peace and quiet of your grandpa’s cabin, it left far too much time for you to sit and think.
You’re caught off guard by the feeling of a broad arm snaking around your waist from behind, the scent of cigarettes and woodsy cologne wrapping around you like a vine.
“Why’re you so spaced out? Did’ja cum too hard or somethin’?”
Ashton buries his face into your neck and you groan in turn, just the thought of him saying something so crude making you annoyed. You lay your palm flat against his forehead and push him away.
“First you bully my poor old Keurig and insult the taste of my coffee, now you’re all up on me like a cat in heat— make up your mind, dude.”
Your tone isn’t serious in the slightest, but your grip on that coffee mug after feeling the presence of the hard on in Ashton’s jeans was.
“Mmmh, not feeling good. ‘Think I’m sick.”
“Yeah, sick in the head.”
“Once again, no fun.” Ashton’s words thrum against your earlobe as he leaves a gentle kiss in their wake. You want to feign annoyance, tell him that his coffee will grow cold and end up tasting more like mud than the sole of his old cowboy boot. But you remain motionless, letting Ashton’s subdued breathing and occasional neck kisses put you in a trance.
Despite your own body betraying you, with Ashton’s hands already sliding down past your waist to your hips as he plants a wet, open mouthed kiss on your jaw, you clear your throat.
“Oh sure, says the guy who threatens people for pure enjoyment’s sake. Sounds like loads of fun. I’m sure you’re a catch at parties.”
Ashton’s mind was clearly elsewhere; his hands were massaging soothing circles against your hips, up towards the small of your back as you spoke, your words leaving your mouth and bouncing off of his head like it were made of rubber.
“There are other ways to have fun.” His retort was simple. An obvious attempt at shutting you up.
You couldn’t help but melt even further into his palms, letting them work their way towards the band of your sweats. He was still kissing you, despite his inability to ever let you get the last word in.
“What, like fucking other girls?”
And suddenly, everything stopped.
The breathing, the humming, the mindless traipsing of hands; it all came to rest. You breathe out shakily, as if doing anything more would crack the wall of tension that somehow materialized in a matter of moments. Ashton’s body tautened behind your shoulder, the swell of his chest pressing into your back.
You hear his dark chuckle, the sound as riveting as it is infuriating. Then you feel the flex of his muscles, the way his hold on you tightens, and the telltale flick of a blade.
Cool metal kisses the bottom of your throat, sharp enough to have you drawing in a shallow breath. Panic pricks your skin, but the sickening thrill that runs through you is almost more horrifying.
“Nuh-uh, pidgey,” he tuts, warm breath caressing the shell of your ear. “Better watch that mouth. Bad girls get their throats slit.”
You’re still paralyzed, the sting of Ashton’s pocket blade being something that you were more familiar with than you’d like to admit. A smile spreads across your face as his other bicep, sans weapon, tightens around your waist. He had you in a death lock, another move of his you were well acquainted with.
“Yeah?” you challenge Ashton’s empty threat, adrenaline rushing through your veins as the knife remains deathly still, “and good girls get eaten out, I hope.”
When Ashton’s body moves to pull you closer, enough to give you a jolt, a cold flash of fear washes over your spine; a stark contrast to the flash of heat and pressure between your thighs. He somehow always knew what worked for you.
Fear and arousal? Hand in hand.
“Oh baby,” he draws out the pet name, letting it linger on his tongue, heavy and sweet like honey, “good girls get fucking devoured.”
You giggle, almost too sweetly for the severity of the situation, and Ashton is as receptive as ever. His pulse was beating out through his skin, you could feel its gentle rhythm tapping against his wrist, against your shoulder.
“Mmmh,” a sound other than laughter finally leaves you, toying with him, “what else?”
“They get spoiled. Rotten. Treated so damn’ good that they forget who they are n’ where they came from.”
You open your mouth, a witty reply sitting at the edge of your tongue, yet all bets are off when the knife suddenly slips down.
“And, if they’re lucky…” he begins, that sudden movement seeming less accidental now, “they get fucked ‘till they can’t move for days. You won’t be able to breathe without remembering how deep inside I was.”
His words echo in your mind and you shudder, the promise he makes feeling heavy on your chest. Almost as heavy as the weight of his arm holding you still with the sharpest, most prized knife in his collection.
In that moment, in some extremely morbid and fucked up way, you felt special.
“Big talk,” you mask your sudden stomach ache with bravado, feeling microscopic beneath his hold, “you’re still all bark and no bite, Robin Hood.”
“You really think so? I’ve got a fuckin’ blade to your jugular and you’re calling my bluff. You are— unbelievable.”
Ashton’s grip tightens; it's slight, but noticeable. You feel the pressure on your abdomen becoming more prominent when he presses down, swirls of arousal coming to fruition with the mere sound of his voice. It was embarrassing, to say the least.
“C’mon Pigeon, haven’t I taught you anything? Show me how to get yourself out of a mess like this.”
With his instruction, you close your eyes. Ashton had taught you how to disarm someone— but it was months ago, and duly proceeded with some of the steamiest shower sex you’d ever had.
“Get out? Of this?” you laugh, his hold on you unwavering, “No shot. Not in hell.”
“Just try it. Promise I’ll be careful,” he murmurs into your hair, placing a kiss atop your head as he lifts his pinky from the knife, “Pinky swear.”
With a sigh, and not much sense left, you start off slow. Your hands grab onto his bicep, making sure not to tug on him too abruptly as to not slice your neck open. Ashton’s stance is strong, natural confidence and pure lust keeping him planted on his feet.
“Use that pretty head,” he encourages you, his soft voice an oxymoron in itself.
“M’tryin’.”
Everything else after that moment was a blur. Once you managed to spin yourself around, keeping your arteries intact and leaving Ashton momentarily stunted, you were suddenly, somehow, right back where you started. A blade pressed to your neck once again.
Only this time, you were facing him, your fronts pressed together and all of the air knocked out of your lungs.
“What the hell, Ash?!” you squeal, breathlessly, damning yourself for sounding so weak.
“I said I’d be careful, not go easy.”
A sly smile appears on his face, and you wanted nothing more than to slap it right off. The countertop dug into your back as he chuckled condescendingly, this new position much more uncomfortable than the last.
You huff out a frustrated breath. There has to be a way out of this, some kind of trick you can pull that would be enough to catch him off guard. His eyes burn into yours, and you bite the inside of your cheek.
Your hands shoot out to grip the knife handle, using the momentum to push it out of his grip with your knuckle. It’s not ideal, definitely not any kind of move he’s taught you before, but the absurdity of it seems to catch him off guard.
His grip falters, and for a second you feel the blade loosen enough for you to swoop in and take. You try to do just that, but Ashton is quicker— so much quicker. He catches the blade between his fingers, a small hiss leaving his lips as he pulls his hand and holds it away from you.
That’s when you see the bright bead of fresh blood, dropping down his hand, down his wrist, until it hits the floor with a plop.
“Ash, holy shit I—I’m so—“
Your words are caught off by him gripping your chin, tight enough to command. He studies his bloodied hand, the same one that still clutches the knife. He lets go of your face, switching the blade to the other hand.
Then, he reaches out again, bloodied thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He lets out a growl, something primal and lustful that has you growing dizzy in seconds.
“You did always look like a fucking dream in red.”
When Ashton leans in for a kiss, it isn’t rough and sloppy like you expect. His lips press against yours deliberately, tongue licking into your mouth and attempting to savor the taste of you. You hum into him, the knife still present in his hand yet discarded at his side.
“Ash,” you mumble, knocking noses with him, “D’ya want a bandaid or somethin?”
“Mmh, no,” he replies, barely audibly, wrapping both arms around your waist and rolling his pelvis into your hips. His pace is intoxicating, kissing you like you were the last person on Earth and the taste of your tongue was the only thing keeping him alive.
The kiss grows more primal, and raw, Ashton dipping you backwards and overtaking your body as the blade of the knife is now pressed against your back, aligned with your spine. You gasp at the prick of cool metal through your tee.
“Take this fuckin’ shirt off before I shred it up.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” you breathe, pulling away to look down at the cracked college graphic screen printed on the shirt, “I’m tired of seeing this shit in the laundry, anyway.”
Without hesitating, you feel the tug of fabric against your front, and hear the sound of tearing cotton. The shirt falls off of your shoulders, landing on the floor with a soft fwup.
Ashton takes a moment to admire your bare top half, his breathing shallow and wanton. He discards the knife on the counter behind you, letting you prop yourself against the lip of it with your hands.
“Like what you see?” you muse, his eyes leaving smoke in their burning trail.
“More than like,” he swallows, taking that injured hand and raising it between your bodies. He hesitates, glancing down at the dried blood trail down to his forearm, before reaching out to you with a still bloodied palm and wrapping his fingers around your neck.
You sigh into his hold, his index finger and thumb pressed against the pressure points that make you just the right amount of lightheaded. That smile on his face never faltered— he loved seeing you this way.
Helpless, wanting, bloodied.
“Wanna’ fuckin’ ruin you, Pigeon. Mark you up n’ let everyone know you’re mine.”
You stay back and let his eyes continue to roam, his body language a tell-tale sign that the sight of his own blood smeared across your neck and chest was getting him more worked up than you’d ever seen before. His eyes darkened, that familiar sage green flicking emerald.
His hand anoints your chest with the last of the fresh blood and suddenly, you were the only two people on Earth. There was something eerily intimate about this; you wished you’d had more of the mental capacity to explore this new outlandish and primal feeling, but the situation at hand left no room for you to even breathe. Ashton’s lips were on you again, this time with his thumbs looped onto the band of your sweatpants in an attempt to rip them off of you.
Your fingers flew to his belt, undoing it sloppily and with enough fervor and greed to fuel a jet engine. A sigh barely escapes your lips and tangles with his as he manages to step you out of your sweats and leave you completely bare.
“No panties…‘figures.”
“You always preach easy access,” you giggle, lacing your fingertips through the clipped curls at the base of his neck, “‘thought I was doing us both a favor.”
Ashton’s next movements are hasty— he’s lifting you, practically tossing you to sit on the countertop and instructing you with his eyes to wrap your legs around his waist. He shimmies out of his jeans, kicking them off to the side and reaching down to peel the shirt off of his slick torso. When he takes a breath in, it’s sharp, almost pained, the fabric of his tee coming into contact with his fresh wound and painting one of his signature white tees crimson.
You watch his every move with glassy eyes, eyelashes fluttering as you observe the way he deals with the pain. He is so laser focused on you; not wanting to make you wait any longer for what he’d promised you just minutes ago. His lips curl in concentration as he reaches down to pull his cock up and out of his briefs.
“Jesus.” You couldn’t help but let the expletive slip, surely Ashton didn’t mind.
He glances up at you, amused, still in a daze after the stare he was holding to your bare tits. “Tell me how ‘ya really feel,” he jokes.
“Hmm. Pretty,” you hum, the compliment mindless, reaching down between your bodies to give his cock a gentle and encouraging stroke. You feel it strain between your palm and fingers, the tip already glistening with pre-cum before he even got the chance to feel you wrapped around him.
Ashton may tease you for your responsiveness, and how the simplest thing could get you going, but he sure as hell was guilty of the same.
“I’m pretty? S’that what you’re sayin’?” Ashton's bottom lip catches between his teeth, a sweetness in his eyes that never usually comes around, unless for a moment like this. He takes his cock from your hand, his fingertips brushing against yours and motioning for them to be elsewhere. You sigh as he lines himself up with your entrance, gaze unwavering, staring you down and effectively nailing you to the marble.
“Yeh,” your voice is clipped, breathless, halted by the sensation that’s yet to come, “Think you’re real’ pretty, baby. My pretty, pretty boy.”
With that, Ashton is sinking into you. You let out a loud mewl as he dips in, immediately pulling out only to plunge himself right back, to the hilt. The sensation is overwhelming— you’re digging your nails into his back and squeezing his hips with your calves tight enough to keep him still for a moment.
Ashton leans forward with a licentious grunt, knocking his forehead against yours, his cock buried the deepest it can be with the only thing not shared between you was the timing at which you were breathing. Sage green irises rapidly searched for yours, non-injured palm taking your face in a fistful to squeeze.
“Fuck me, I’d be your pretty boy any day of the week, Pidgey girl.”
His lips slam into yours, and his hips pick up slack. He’s fucking into you hard, fast, wrecklessly. The same way he chose to go about his every day. To navigate this thing he calls life.
The sounds of your arousal echo against his front, ricocheting across the kitchen; though your moans harmonizing with Ashton’s were just too loud for you to notice.
“Oh my God,” Ashton mutters, cock throbbing, hips spasming. Your eyes are pinched shut to chase your own high, clenching your pussy around him just enough for him to notice.
“Ashton—” you bumble, your words practically unintelligible, “fuck me, Ashton. Feels so fuckin’ good, baby. Harder, please—”
As his dick continuously bucks to hit that sweet spot that drove you up the wall, his hands kept you stable by the backs of your thighs. The blood on his palm had since dried, the look in his eyes searing bullet holes into yours as he fucked you senseless. You toss your head back, writhing in pleasure, your nails clawing into his back deep enough to leave gashes and scars.
“I’m so close, Ash, please—” you moan, your head tossed back, “help me out here, baby, fuck!”
With a groan of acknowledgement and a particularly rough thrust, Ashton’s sliding his hand between your bodies to attach his index finger to your clit. He rubs in quick circles, faster, faster, faster until the pace of it lines up just right with the rhythm of his hips.
He lets out another moan, his face buried into your neck, lips just barely brushing against your earlobe before he speaks:
“Cum again for me, Pidgey. Cum all over this fuckin’ cock like a good girl, yeah? Fuck baby— whose pussy is this?”
And just like that, you were coming again, at the hands of a man that cut you out of your shirt with a pocket knife and knocked on your door with a bag full of blood money slung over his shoulder. You collapse onto him, the residual aftershocks occasionally jolting your body as the last of your orgasm is spent at the expense of Ashton’s fingertips.
He finishes in tandem, cock twitching as he leaves you full, and jaded. He takes a moment before sliding out of you, your face coming to a pinch as the sensation of his cum dribbling out of you hits faster than you expected.
“Shit,” Ashton finally utters, his forehead slick with sweat, curls rearranged to his forehead haplessly. He guides you to stand back onto the kitchen floor, keeping his arm out in the event that your legs were too trembly to hold you upright.
“Shit, indeed,” you chuckle, the air in your lungs but a memory as you lace your arms around his neck. Ashton’s still gazing down at you, at your bruised up, bloodstained neck and chest, at the way your hips and thighs were flushed scarlet due to the sheer force of his grip.
“Did a number on ya’ didn’t I?” Ashton comments, overly self aware yet somehow still tender as he swipes a rogue lock of hair away from your face. The two of you standing naked and entangled in this kitchen happened more often than one would think.
“People are gonna think you tried to murder me in here,” you tease languidly, interrupted by him stealing one last peck from your lips.
“I’ll tell ‘em you fucked me, fled, n’ left me in my underwear. Would probably end up with me gettin’ arrested and you on the news as some sorta hero.”
“As if I would even dream of ratting you out.”
You scoff at the accusation, the ever present wetness between your thighs getting harder to ignore. You shift uncomfortably, and Ashton notices, reaching behind you to swipe a dishcloth from the counter. He extends it to you, the faintest of smiles present on his face.
“You’re right, I shouldn’t be throwin’ out accusations like that,” he chuckles, finding his underwear in the haphazard pile of discarded clothes and stepping into them, leaving you still indecent and leaned up against the counter. He offers you his bloodsoaked shirt without question,
Silence passes over you and Ashton, but it isn’t tense, nor uncomfortable. It’s a knowing silence, one that’s complimented by the way you’re untroubled by the amount of blood that had dripped all over your sweats after he sliced his hand open with a switchblade.
He was half dressed, as were you, simply coexisting in the bloody afterglow.
“Y’know, I’ve got a suitcase full’a money in the trunk,” Ashton blurts. You were now sitting on the counter, watching him as he finished his coffee that had since, undoubtedly, turned cold.
“Yeah?” you quiz, eyebrows raising in intrigue.
“Mhm. Wanna count it with me? Maybe if you’re good, I’ll fuck ya’ on it. Wolf of Wallstreet style.” His eyebrows waggle, and you just roll your eyes; you couldn’t bear to gaze lovingly at that mess of black curls and terribly timed jokes any longer.
“I genuinely hope I never see you again, sometimes.”
“Yeah, okay. Imagine if Bonnie said that to Clyde?”
“She’d have been a smart lady,” you chuckle, hopping off the counter and stepping closer.
Ashton’s hand finds your hip instantly, the other still holding his mug. He gazes down at you with a placid smile and right then, everything was right in the world.
“She’d have been smart for it, sure. Not t’ mention they’da both made it out alive. But— where’s the fun in that?”
You shoot him a crooked smile; one that screams what you’re feeling without needing to say a word.
“Oh, so now the deputy sheriff of the fun police cares about fun, huh?”
His lips purse, agitated, yet bewitched by the way you just so effortlessly put him in his place. You plan to retort, but are interrupted by Ashton scooping you into his arms and putting you back into a headlock.
How? You hadn’t a clue.
“You’re under arrest, sweet cheeks, for a crime only punishable by letting me hit it from the back. On a pile of money. That you also gotta’ count.”
With not an ounce left of care in the world, you fall back against him, looking up at him from being backed against his broad chest, “In your goddamn dreams, Robin Hood.”
Synopsis: A woman with a broken spirit flees her village, hoping for a new and better beginning elsewhere but a storm catches up to her and she begins regretting her life, feeling death creeping upon her — the last thing she sees is a big white shadow calling out to her.
There's always been a distance between me and the rest of them — people so small-minded, so cruel in their uniformity.
They've always recoiled from what they couldn't understand: an independent spirit unwilling to kneel to their collective will.
I refused to bend, to lose myself in their rabble.
Their disapproval was nothing new — loud, predictable, almost comforting in its consistency. But even I didn't expect the mob.
An organized one, no less.
They surrounded my home like a pack of feral dogs, their faces twisted with ignorance and rage.
Daft, primitive people.
All because I dared to think differently. Because I chose my own path and refused to trade my celibacy for a man triple my age who believed he could simply claim me.
The very thought of it still makes my stomach turn.
Thirty of them came that night. They set my house ablaze, tore through my stores, stole whatever they could carry. Their shouts echoed through the smoke — savage, senseless.
But I was ready. I'd always known this day would come. My bag had been packed for months, one foot already pointed toward the horizon.
And as the flames devoured everything I'd built, I realized leaving was the most sincere freedom I'd ever known.
My village laid cradled in the hollow between two snowy mountain peaks — a place so remote it felt more like exile than a home. When the mob came, I had no choice but to climb.
There was nowhere else to go.
I wore five layers of clothing, the weight of snowshoes on my feet, and ice axes in my hands — my life lines for scaling the frozen terrain ahead.
Everything I owned, everything I was, pressed into a single pack against my back.
Imagine that.
A whole life reduced to one bag.
And so I climbed. Up into the white void, into a storm that swallowed sound and sky alike. Rash, reckless - I'd bolted without a plan, without a map, without a prayer for mercy from the mountain.
Now here I was.
Freezing on an endless sheet of snow as the blizzard howled around me.
I crouched beside a wall of ice, hugging my knees tight, trying to hold my body together, trying to keep myself awake. My fingers had gone stiff long ago, the numbness creeping higher with every heartbeat. Frostbite.
I wondered if I would lose anything - toes, fingers, pieces of myself.
The wind tore at me, flinging shards of snow and ice like a thousand tiny knives. My breath came in ragged bursts, hot puffs of air against trembling palms that gave no real warmth.
Looking at my own shaking, failing body, I felt the first sob break loose. My spirit cracked, and the adrenaline that had carried me this far drained away.
I was going to die here. On this damned mountain.
So this is how I end.
My sobs became rivers. All my life's frustrations, all my quiet rage poured out into the snow. I screamed into the white world until my throat burned, cursing it for murdering me this way.
But even as I screamed, my eyes kept searching.
Searching the blank horizon for a flicker of hope, a shadow, a shape, a hand.
Anyone.
Please.
The only answer was another cruel gust of wind.
And then, as though that had been the mountain's final word, something in me went still. My body stopped shaking. My heart slowed, each beat weaker, more sluggish.
One last breath fogged in the air. My eyelids lowered. My head tipped forward
What a small, quiet waste of a life.
.
.
.
.
.
Different pov
Damned weather. It always chooses the worst time to turn savage.
The sky had cracked open again, spitting another storm just as I was returning from the far ridges.
I had only a few miles left before reaching my cave when a sound cut through the blizzard - sharp and raw. A scream.
It tore straight through the wind, the kind that doesn't just echo, but hurts.
Someone was in pain.
I ran.
The snow was deep, fresh, swallowing my steps as I pushed through it. The scent of life - faint but unmistakable - drifted toward me through the icy air. I followed it, heart pounding hard enough to match the storm's rumble.
By the time I reached the source, the wind was howling like a living thing. Everything was white.
The ice wall ahead shimmered like glass, throwing my distorted reflection back at me - something half-beast, half-shadow.
I turned in circles, scanning the ground, the drifts, the silence between gusts. The scent was strong here. Too strong. It shouldn't end here unless -
No. Please, no.
A growl escaped my throat, anger and dread twisting in my chest. I had been too slow. I struck the snow with my foot, frustration rumbling up through me.
And that's when I saw it.
The shift of a boulder. Only... it wasn't a boulder.
It was a body.
I lunged forward, clearing the snow with both hands. Pale skin. Small frame. Human.
A woman.
She wasn't moving. Her lips were blue, her chest still. So fragile she looked carved from the mountain itself.
"Fuck," I hissed through my teeth, the word foreign but familiar on my tongue.
I dropped to my knees beside her and pressed my hands against her chest, forcing air into her lungs the way I'd once seen done long ago.
Once. To someone else who didn't make it.
"Breathe," I pleaded, "please... breathe." Each press grew more desperate, my breath clouding the air between us.
Back to protagonist
A sudden gasp tore through the silence — air, sharp and burning, flooded my lungs.
I was alive.
My chest heaved, the sound of my own breathing loud and wild in the storm's muffled world. My heart lurched back into rhythm; my limbs trembled as life crawled painfully beneath my cold skin.
Light. Too much light. Everything was white.
My eyes darted, struggling to focus, until the blur in front of me took shape — a face.
Not human, ..not entirely.
Broad, strong features carved with an almost tragic beauty; skin pale with a faint shimmer, as though the frost itself had shaped him. His eyes — deep, glacier-blue — searched mine with a look I didn't expect from something so formidable.
Real, human fear.
"Who... who are you?" my voice was a ghost of a sound, "Am I dreaming?"
Before he could answer, his large hands tightened gently around my shoulders, steadying me as the cold tore through me again.
"I'm cold..." I whispered, my teeth chattering so hard I could barely shape the words. My body was failing again; my eyelids grew heavy, fighting to stay open.
"Fuck," he muttered softly, the word strangely tender in his rough voice.
In one swift motion, his arm slipped around my waist, the other beneath my thighs. I felt the effortless strength of him as he lifted me — my limp form pressed close to the heat of his chest.
The world tilted, swaying.
I barely noticed him fastening something. Hooks, straps, the cold bite of metal against my coat. My arms fell uselessly around him as he secured me beneath his own, my cheek against his chest, hearing the steady thunder of his heart.
He said something, his voice deep and urgent but the words were swallowed by the wind. I only caught fragments, pieces of warmth and promise.
Then suddenly, movement.
He leapt, impossibly high, the air slicing past us as claws sank into ice with a guttural scrape. We were climbing-up, up, toward some unseen refuge above the storm.
"Don't worry," he murmured, the sound vibrating against my ear. "You'll be warm soon. I won't let you die."
His words lingered like a spell, wrapping around me as my consciousness slipped again. The heat of his body bled into mine, chasing the cold from my bones. My eyes fluttered shut.
And for the first time in a long while, I didn't fight sleep.
I awoke to a loud thump. I sprung up violently, a blanket falling off my chest.
I almost had a panic attack before realizing I'm not cold anymore. The room illuminated by the fire crackling next to the bed I've found myself laying in.
The bed was impossibly soft, a cocoon of warmth compared to the cold world I'd left behind. It was also vast — built for someone far taller, far broader than I could ever be.
As I looked at the blanket which slipped off my chest, I noticed I wasn't wearing my clothes.
I was wearing a sweater I didn't recognize — soft, warm, and far too large for me. It hung off my shoulders like a nightgown, swallowing me whole.
I pushed myself upright, crossing my legs slowly, the blanket falling into my lap as my eyes wandered.
The room was... beautiful.
Not in a way I expected, but in a way that felt alive —warm, quiet, deliberate. Dark wooden floors gleamed faintly in the firelight. A low stone table sat in the center of a thick brown rug, its edges soft and inviting, the flames from the hearth painting everything in amber hues.
To my left, a small nightstand held a few potted plants. Green, fragile things that seemed almost impossible this high above the world.
The walls curved around me in smooth circles of stone. Even the window, set directly beside the bed, was round, carved into the mountain itself.
When I leaned closer, pressing a hand to the cool edge of the frame, the truth settled over me.
We were inside the mountain.
No, not just inside it — cradled by it.
I inched forward until my face hovered near the glass. The storm still raged beyond, a furious blur of white and shadow. I gasped softly at the sight, feeling both protected and impossibly small.
Then, a sound.
A sharp, metallic clatter from beyond the doorway.
I flinched, twisting toward the noise. Another glow flickered in the adjoining room, warmer, steadier than the firelight here. And then, the scent reached me: rich, savory and mouthwatering.
Someone was cooking.
My stomach answered before my mind could.
Hunger guided me more than reason. I slid off the bed, the bottom of the sweater slipping past my knees as I set my bare feet onto the carpet.
I took a step — just a step — before the world tilted.
My knees gave out with an oomph, and I caught myself against the bedframe, my breath ragged, my limbs trembling.
I'd forgotten how weak I still was.
The sound of footsteps filled the space immediately — heavy and drawing closer. Each step reverberated through the floor, steady as a heartbeat.
And suddenly, I wasn't sure if I wanted to hide... or to be found.
"Are you all right?!", a familiar voice asked, mere inches in front of me as a huge hand settled into the mattress next to mine.
I looked up, only to see the same handsome face which had saved my life. He had beautifully piercing blue eyes and white hair.
He lifted a hand to my waist and hoisted me gently onto the mattress. I froze, unable to look away.
He was enormous, so impossibly strong, yet the way he held me made me feel weightless, like I was nothing more than a feather. His hands... they were warm and impossibly big, curling around me with careful precision.
I found myself staring at them for too long before looking back up into his eyes.
"Ah," he sighed softly, breaking his gaze from mine, “I knew it would be... overwhelming."
He let go, and I found myself wishing he hadn't. He had leaned down to meet my eyes, cradling me in a way that made the space between us feel charged and impossibly small.
"Yes, I am a yeti," he began, his voice low, measured, "I know it must be confusing... frightening—"
"No." My words stumbled out, my eyes still lost in his. I couldn't tear my gaze away. "I know what a yeti is, what one looks like. I... I'm not afraid of you."
His expression softened, a small, shy smile brushing his lips, "Well... uh, then. I am Migoi. This is my home I brought you to."
"My name is [Y/N]. Thank you... for saving my life", I smiled kindly at him.
Heat crept into his cheeks. He straightened abruptly and stepped back, avoiding my eyes as though my presence had suddenly become impossible to ignore.
The air between us shifted; my scent seemed to overwhelm him, drawing his attention in a way that made my heart flutter.
"I... uh," he stammered, glancing at my bare legs before letting his gaze travel back up, "I made some soup... to warm you up. If you'd like."
"Oh, thank you! I'm starv-" , before I could finish, he scurried back into the other room, leaving me blinking after him.
Did I say something wrong?
A few moments passed before he came back into the room with two bowls of steamy soup which smelled divine. He settled them on opposing ends of the small stone coffee table in front of the fire place.
Then he came over, wrapped me with the blanket and relocated me next to the table, with a bowl of warm soup in front of me.
He made sure I was all tight and warm, before he sat opposite me, "Eat."
"Right. Thank you again.", I mumbled softly as I took a spoon into my hand
He started eating, his bowl already half empty as I took the first spoonful to my mouth.
"Mmmm. This is divine", I sort of screamed enthusiastically. I started gulping the soup down as he chuckled.
We ate in silence, next to the crackling of the fire.
When I finished, he had been done long ago, I looked outside — the snowstorm had turned into a blizzard.
"I cannot explain how utterly grateful I am that you found me."
He just smiled endearingly and shook his head softly.
"Why were you up here anyway?"
It wasn't a judgy or descending tone, he was just genuinely curious.
"I-", is all I said before my lip started to quiver gently. “I was trying to-", I bit my lip, my head falling in surrender.
A gentle hand embraced my shoulder, squeezing in a reassuring way, "I don't have to know. It's okay."
I looked up at his kind eyes and smiled softly.
I mouthed a ‘thank you’ and took out my hand to squeeze his arm back in the same manner.
That's when a sudden wave of warmth and excitement spread throughout my body.
He seemed to have felt it too. His eyes lingered a bit too long at my small hand before he pulled his back suddenly.
"I think you should get some sleep, your body fought vicariously for its life today - it needs rest. You need rest.”
"Ah, yes, you're right”, I said, my eyes avoiding his intense gaze.
Before I knew it, I was getting picked up again.
I yelped.
He chuckled.
It was a deep timbre sort of laugh and since I was pressed to his chest, I felt every taught muscle under his shirt and all that fur.
He was very muscular. Yowza.
My eyes flicked up, and I found him watching me. A heat bloomed across my cheeks. I couldn't help it.
He had caught me staring. Not at his face... but at his chest.
Panic and embarrassment collided, and I pressed my hands to my face, hiding the blush that betrayed me. My heart hammered, and I could feel his gaze still lingering, sharp yet unjudging, making me burn even more.
A snortle was all I heard as he continued to the bed.
He settled me down, tucked me in.
He went to toss a few pieces of wood into the fire before turning back around, "Good night."
A kind smile stretched across his face as he looked at my silhouette, ridiculously out of place on his big bed.
His stare lingered, making me blush further and cover my cheeks with the duvet. He noticed and immediately turned for the door.
"Wait- where are you going to sleep?", I asked concerned. He's a big fella and I took up probably the only bed fit for his built in a thousand mile radius.
And just as if he had read my thoughts, "Don't worry about it. The couch fits me too."
"But I-", I felt bad.
He smiled at me, soft, warm, utterly disarming, and my chest tightened. "If you want," he said, voice low and teasing, "I could... join you on the bed."
I gasped, heat flooding my face like fire. My cheeks burned so fiercely I was certain they'd betrayed me, and for a moment, I was frozen in place, unable to look anywhere but him.
He laughed then, rich and teasing, and it made something flutter deep inside me.
"Like I said," he murmured, giving me a wink that made my stomach lurch, "don't worry about it." And just like that, he turned, slipping out of the room and closing the door behind him with the softest click.
I sank back against the mattress, every nerve still humming. Sleep was impossible. My mind refused to rest, replaying the memory of his taut muscles which had held mine full of mischief, warmth, and something else I couldn't name.
.
.
I woke to the sting of cold and the relentless hammer of hail against the window. The room was icy, the duvet doing little more than mocking me.
My body shivered violently, every limb heavy and numb, as if the cold itself had settled inside my bones.
The fire had died.
So had the warmth.
I curled into myself, desperate, futile, trying to will heat back into my frozen fingers and toes. My breaths came in short, frantic gasps. I couldn't stay here. I had to find him.
I had to find Migoi.
Carefully, I inched toward the edge of the mattress.
Each movement felt monumental, my muscles stiff, my skin prickling with frostbite's icy fingers. I could barely feel my fingertips, but I forced myself to reach out.
‘I need to start the fire’, I thought, though the words sounded hollow even in my own mind. I slipped off the bed with a soft thump, leaving the blanket behind, abandoning whatever meager protection it had offered.
It was an immediate regret.
I pressed myself together, knees to chest, arms wrapped around my torso. Any warmth I had left, I clutched to myself as if it could keep the cold from consuming me. My head fell forward, heavy on my knees. Exhaustion pulled at me like a tide, and I felt the edge of sleep beginning to claim me again.
Then — thudding.
A door opening.
Shouts. And then... warmth.
Strong, encompassing warmth wrapped around me before I even had a chance to understand. My body went slack, melting into it, releasing months of fear, frost, and loneliness. The heat seeped in, chasing the cold from my limbs, my chest, my heart.
Mmm... it was so impossibly warm.
My eyes fluttered closed, surrendering to the comforting embrace, and for the first time since the storm began, I felt safe. Truly, completely, safe.
The next time I opened them, I was greeted with such warmth that could probably only be found on a hot summer's day.
The fire was burning again and the room had that familiar orange hue once more. I was laying on my side, facing the window. The storm still raged beyond but I felt so safe and warm in here.
I crunched myself up into a ball, pulling the duvet closer to my body. That's when something tightened around my waist. I froze.
My hand traveled to the source, it was soft and most definitely an arm. A big arm. A big soft, warm arm.
I turned my head back. It was the same handsome face which had saved me before.
I gasped softly, pushing myself away out of instinct.
But he pressed me closer to his warmth. His arm tight around my waist, his palm resting in the middle of my chest.
He almost knocked the air out of my lungs. My eyes were glued to the window as my hands held his.
What was happening right now?
"Mmm", a soft hum was heard above my head as he nuzzled his face into my hair. Then his hand slowly pressed closer, his thumb grazing my breast slowly and tenderly.
I whimpered. I knew how I felt about this now. About him. But he's asleep.
I gripped his arm tighter. He's making me hot inside. I struggled under his tender touch, trying to keep myself from going mad.
That's when something hard pressed against my ass.
I knew exactly what it was and it was huge.
I moaned as it pressed against my clothed back. My legs immediately started rubbing against each other. I gasped as his other hand slithered underneath my torso and replaced the one on my chest, which then traveled to my abdomen, pushing my ass back onto his groin.
A moan was all that left my mouth as I felt its length and girth. My hands held onto his as he pushed and caressed.
Suddenly, the pressing ceased. His hold loosening as his hands froze.
"I am so sorry", his hands retrieving and I could feel his chest leaving my back.
I grabbed his hands, halting him in his actions, "No, don't leave."
He froze but his hands remained half retreated as I held them. "I know how I feel, I'm not afraid" said, pulling his hands back where they were, pressing myself closer to him.
A groan was all I heard before his hands gripped me tightly again. "You should be. Us males are very obsessive", he said as his lower hand slowly bunched up my sweater which hung between my legs.
He leaned his head over mine, "If you're certain of-
"I am certain", my voice pitched and agitated as I rubbed my ass against his groin.
A loud growl passed my ears, "Mine."
His hand slipped behind me, pushing his pants down and sliding his cock between my legs. I whimpered as it slipped past my thighs.
Oh gods.
His hand then slid back onto my abdomen. "Please just-", was all I got to say before one of his thick digits plunged deep into my pussy.
"Mmmm", was the only reply I could offer as my body twisted because of him.
He starts pumping his finger. In and out.
Ridiculously slow.
I moan with each pump, and soft groans could be heard behind me as his hips start moving.
He's sliding his cock back and forth, using my thighs for his pleasure. It went from slow and soft to hard and fast before I knew it.
All that could be heard throughout the room was the sound of skin smacking skin.
He added another finger inside me and just stayed like that as he wrecked me into oblivion. His groans and whimpers were adorable. It made me feel loved as he panted next to my ear, his other hand under my ribs, palm playing with my breast as he stabilized himself.
Pre cum leaked onto my skin and I could feel myself close, an orgasm nearing its end. I squeezed his cock with my hand, loving the texture, helping him finish as well.
He started staggering, his hips erratically pressing up against my ass. When he added a third finger is when I lost it and came all over his palm and cock.
He came as well, sperm spurting right into the duvet and pooling on the mattress.
I let go of his girth, the sticky substance tangled between my fingers. I grabbed his hand which fingers were still inside me with my sticky palm and caressed it softly.
He is mine and I am his.
But without a break, he pulled his hips back, his cock disappearing as well.
I thought it was over until he started shoving the tip of his cock past my entrance.
"Ahh," was all I could utter as his three fingers slipped out of me. They then helped his cock enter me. He pushed his cock into me with his hands and hips.
I was a writhing, moaning mess as he filled me and stretched me out. I clawed at his arm, trying to relieve some of the pressure.
"Just a little more", he grunted as he pushed another couple of inches inside me.
He was huge in both length, girth and texture. After one more help of the hand, he bottomed out. His soft, wooly shaft pressing into me.
"Are you okay, my love?", he panted out.
"I am amazing", I whispered back, "You are amazing."
He grunted as he heard those words, his cock twitching inside me as he started to shove his cock in and out.
It was an overbearing sensual feeling - having something so huge and textured beat inside me and stretch my walls with each push. I swear I could hear my heart beat within my walls.
He growled in my ear suddenly and changed his rhythm to godlike - inhumanly fast and hard.
I could only scream his name into the pillow beneath my head as he made love to me. He wasn't quiet either - his moaning and grunting parallel to mine.
Then, as he slowly curved my back, so his cock could slide in even more, he panted out a warning. "I don't think I can stop, love", he bit my earlobe softly, "but if you need me to I will."
I try to answer him but his love making is rendering me incapable of forming a coherent sentence. Only moans and gibberish come out.
He laughs softly. And it was such a hearty sexy laugh too. Then he halts his hips, his cock sliding halfway out so I can answer him.
I blush at his gentle treatment, "You make me feel alive," I look back at him with a crazy ass smile, "I want you to make love to me. So make love to me."
His eyes turn crazy and he slams his cock back in fully, "Your wish is my command, princess.”
I slump my head back onto the pillow, as I feel his cock pulse inside me again. I've never felt so good and so on fire at the same time.
He softly treads his arms to my thighs, kissing my back tenderly as he presses me close to him, turning me face down as he mounts me.
My legs rest around his huge thighs, ass against his abdomen, arms spread around the pillow under my head as he presses himself closer, flush against my back. His huge soft arms intertwined around my torso.
He plants a soft kiss to my nape, the calm before the storm as he starts pounding into me. The sound of skin smacking skin louder than the crackling of wood in the fire.
I moan and whimper into the pillow, as he's imprinting himself inside of me. In this position I can feel every vein and bump as he slides in and out.
I scream when I feel his cock stretch me out even more. Weird. Maybe it's just because my walls are sensitive as hell right now.
Then it comes again, his cock swells even more, my walls trying to keep up. "What is happening?!", I scream out as I twist my head to the side.
He keeps humping me, grunting as his cock swells up even more,"It's the way yeti males breed their partners."
He hisses as his cock barely slides out, much thicker than before, "If it's overwhelming, I'll stop."
I moan, the words that came out of his mouth only further pushing the want for him to continue. So, I push myself back onto his thick cock, barely..
"Does that answer your problem?", I hum as I feel his cock fully thrust inside me again.
He growls, grinding himself harshly against me as he pushes me back onto the pillow, his hold on my torso tightening.
He bites my earlobe again, "Yes, it does."
His cock swells up one last time, plugging me as he tries to slide out unsuccessfully. His cock twitching aggressively as he grumbles above me, grinding himself against my ass.
One of my hands slides down to hold onto his arm, as he starts filling my womb with his load. I whimper into my pillow as his sperm is hot and his tip is poking my womb.
His breeding is fast and aggressive, like there's no end to his load. His blazingly hot sperm spurting into me in aggressive gusts. Sticky string after a sticky string.
I whimper, spreading my legs further apart around his thighs, hoping for any kind of relief as he inseminates me.
His hands release their hold on my torso, traveling to my hips, sensing what I am trying to do as he spills into me. He spreads my thighs so I actually feel comfortable and lowers my belly between his thighs, arching my back so I can take more.
I moan as he hunches back over me, his hands sliding up my arms until he finds my palms beneath my pillow, intertwining them.
"Just a bit more, love, I promise", he says next to my ear, his head resting on my shoulder.
I hum out a response which came off more as a cry than anything. He grunts back as he finishes, his cock stuck inside me.
One last spurt of cum which makes me writhe a bit, before he says, "I am sorry love, but I have to stay inside you."
I turn my head to the side, huff out a breathy moan, feeling his cock limp inside me, but still swollen up and showing no signs of decreasing.
"I'm just tired", I say squeezing his hands which were tangled with mine.
He chuckled softly, then turned us on our sides again, this time so I was facing the fire crackling within the stone walls, and covered us properly with the duvet.
He arched my back so my belly could hang loose, and bent my legs with his. He then slipped his right hand beneath my top thigh and softly, by just a little bit, lifted it and relieved a bit of the pressure inside my abdomen.
His left hand slipped under my ribcage and lovingly made its way under my breasts, his thumb caressing the skin there.
I've never felt this loved.
"I'll always take care of you and worship you. Even as years go by, I'll love you the same. You're my spark", he says as he kisses my cheek.
I feel a tear make its way down onto the pillow, the other one he kisses away. "I love you, too", is all I can say in the moment as my voice had already given out moment ago.
"I love you", he says lovingly in my ear, still holding my leg, making me realize how funny a thing distance is.
The love of my love had always been a mere climb away. I laugh to myself softly, as my eyes close, exhaustion kicking in as I lay in his warm embrace.
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