#classified;

[irishais]

(anon sex cont) Not a lot of time before the hot water wants out, and I wouldn't want you to get cold, so I can't say I'd be slow or gentle about it. I can say I wouldn't keep you waiting, and I can say I'd be sure to get my teeth against the newly clean skin at your shoulder, your ear, the base of your throat, just to kiss over the sting again.

tell my muse how you would fuck them;

[irishais]

18, Xu n locke

18. coming untouched

They are at a gallery, a fancy function where Locke wears a bespoke suit and leaves the bow tie undone, where Xu’s gown costs more than most people’s rent and leaves rather little to the imagination, all white silk and flowing like air.

She wears expensive well, even with all of her tattoos on display, back covered in cherry blossoms and a scrap of a Shakespearean sonnet that disappears around her waist. Hell, she’s better than all of the art in this place put together. 

He watches her from across the room, trying to get the schmoozing part of the event over with as quickly as possible, so they can go home, change into something comfy, eat Chinese takeout straight from the container. Her phone is in hand, and it gives Locke an idea. 

[text]: hey baby

[text]: u look pretty

[text]: the dude next to you looks like a penguin. maybe he is the penguin who knows. ask him if he knows batman. 

[text: heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey

[text]: i’m gonna start singing

[text]: u did that thing with ur hips like five times in the last 20 seconds.

[text]: ur ass is distracting

[text]: giving u 10 mins before we go bang in the bathroom

He hits send on the very last one, smiles privately, swipes a free glass of champagne and toasts her with it when she looks down, reads it (with a very impressive poker face), and shoots a glance back across to him

[text]: These are very important people.

[text]: I need to go talk to the mayor before I bow out.

[text]: Fifteen. Or give me a good enough reason to leave. 

Locke’s snort is audible, his thumb already sliding across the screen. It’s a good enough reason, especially considering he takes five minutes to type it all out, spelled correctly and everything. 

A proposal, a hotel room. Mostly involving a good long period of her legs over his shoulders. 

She reads it. She shifts, silk train of her gown giving away the motion with a gentle flutter. It’s impressive that she manages not to bite her lip, just types out two words that pop up on his screen: keep going. 

So he does. Step by step, inch by imaginary inch. Every message he sends, she reads, and by the ninth one, she’s tucking her hair behind her ears, squeezing her phone perhaps a little too tightly. 

and? 

Man, he’s getting good at this, detailing exactly how he envisions her, the sounds she makes, those quiet desperate noises, because Xu is, hands down, the quietest woman he’s ever slept with. The way her fingers will curl into the bedsheets, the way her toes feel along his back. 

The arch of her back, the arc of her breasts, the line he’ll track with his mouth between them, the way she feels when he slips into her. 

There are appropriate times and places for boners, but one of those is not during a very expensive gallery exhibit, texting dirty things to his girlfriend. Luckily, he doesn’t require a potted plant for cover. 

She might, though; he can see it from here, the way her breath hitches just a little bit, smothered in a fake cough. The way she has to excuse herself, when he says that he likes the way she begs, comes undone, breathes his name. 

Her face is flushed, when she finally breaks away from the important people, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, and he thinks she’s just turned on, until they get home and she drags him into the bedroom, and she’s drenched. He’s seen her this way enough times to know exactly what happened, and, yeah, as he runs his hands up her thighs, beneath the excess of white silk skirt, Locke is a little cocky, terribly pleased with himself. 

“Fifteen minutes,” he chuckles, lifting the dress up over her head and ditching it in a very expensive heap onto the floor. “I think that’s a new record, yeah?” 

[irishais]

#43 for nerds

43. honeymoon

The airport has lost her luggage, every Siren’s on the way to the hotel has been closed or too crowded, and by the time they get to the honeymoon suite, ridiculous, lavish, way more money than they should have probably spent on this, Xu really wants nothing more  than to take a shower, brush her teeth, and go to bed. 

Zed is doing his best to make light of the situation-- it isn’t really a big deal, it isn’t like she can’t afford more clothes, but still. This was supposed to be the one trip where everything went perfectly, because even if she had gotten her tiny beach wedding, the honeymoon had been a “spare no expense” endeavor. 

She drinks the champagne that is no substitute for coffee, and flops on the end of the very large bed, toeing off her shoes. If nothing else, Xu supposes, at least they succeeded in getting married. That’s probably what really counts. 

“Look at this view,” Zed calls, somewhere else in the massive suite, and Xu sighs, stands, takes her champagne flute with her. 

“I’m really tired--” she begins, stepping out on the balcony, not really in the mood for a running commentary of every inch of the view in question. Also, it’s cold. Who allowed it to be cold in Costa? 

“C’mere, baby.” Zed reaches for her, wraps his arms around her. Warm, comfortable. Very tall, but no one was perfect. She traces the line of one of his fingers, taking a little comfort in the cool unfamiliarity of the platinum band on his ring finger. “It’ll be better in the morning; it’s not like they could’ve dropped it out of the plane.” 

“I know, it’s just--” 

All those fancy, expensive lingerie sets, an impromptu decision last week when she’d stopped by a boutique in Dollet. Lost. Probably rifled through by pervy airline employees. 

Xu stares at the endless expanse of sea, and turns him toward the door. 

“Never mind. Let’s go in for a while. It’s too cold out here.” 

Tomorrow will be better, tch. Always so optimistic. 

He grabs her butt on the way in, and Xu yelps, laughs, feels better for it and drains the last of her champagne. Forget it, stupid expensive underwear didn’t matter. He clearly liked her enough to marry her, after all, and he’d seen her in some truly unfortunate moments. 

“I had all these sexy things to show you,” she sighs, tugging him down for a kiss. 

“So, show ‘em to me later.” Ever, ever the optimist. He scoops her up, blows a raspberry into the arc of her throat. The bed is enormous, way too big for her and Zed even has room to spare. They find themselves somewhere in the left third of it by the time he gets around to undressing her. 

“These are pretty,” he comments solemnly, letting her underwear dangle from one finger. “Might have to borrow them.” 

She sticks out her tongue, he responds with a waggle of his eyebrows, kisses her palm, tugs her dress up over her head. 

“Dork.” 

“Hot stuff.” 

It isn’t sexy, it isn’t dramatic and different and momentous. It isn’t rough. It just... is, it’s lovemaking, a strange and rare thing between them, the kind of sex that movies try to emulate. Lingering kisses and touches that electrify, Zed so familiar with her body that every stroke of his fingers makes her skin sing, her back arch, the perfect sheets with their heart made of rose petals wrinkling beneath her grip. 

He uses one of those petals to run across her waist, and the sensation is electrifying, has Xu gasping with every pass it makes. He bedecks her with them, lays them across her body, the scent of roses filling the air, the petals sliding and soft. 

Beautiful, he calls her, says a dozen things, a stream of affection falling from his mouth as he parts her legs a little farther, settles himself between them, pushes into her slowly, so slowly. 

She catches a glimpse of her ring as her fingers curl back around his neck, legs coming into place around his waist. Her husband. What a curious concept. 

“I love you,” she breathes against his jaw, and he holds her fast.

[irishais]

62. Quistis/Xu (hah. Did I pick it because it rhymes? Maybe.)

62. name kink/pet names 

“Instructor.” 

She’s doing it again, that thing where she sprawls across the bed, cocksure curve of her lips-- how is she so pretty like that? Not pretty, beautifully lethal-- it’s no wonder Xu has the highest kill-count in Garden, she can bring anyone to their knees just with a look. 

“Yes?” 

Quistis has to commend herself, it comes out a little exasperated, even with a stunningly attractive naked woman in her bed. 

Xu drapes herself back across the pillows, so much more skilled at this seduction thing that Quistis can ever hope to be-- practically all she has to do is crook her finger, and laptop and boots and whip and uniform tie are left in a scattered line leading right to the bed. 

Xu tastes like smoke, coffee, vanilla. 

“I really had nothing after that, I just like you in that uniform,” Xu laughs in her ear-- she’s admittedly not so good at the roleplay thing, and they’ve tried, but it usually ends like this, in giggling. “It’s very sexy. Instructor Trepe.” 

Quistis likes the way it sounds-- likes the way it makes something warm blossom in her chest. Almasy makes it sound like an insult, everyone else makes it sound impersonal, curiously undeserving. 

She shucks the jacket of said uniform, sleeveless black sheath dress so much more comfortable now that Balamb’s hit the upper eighties and won’t go back to normal temperatures until late September. Quistis feels Xu fiddling with the zipper even before she’s fully laid back down. 

“God, you’re so needy.” 

“But I missed you.” 

“So, so needy.” 

Still, she lets Xu undo the zipper, lets her tug the dress over Quistis’ head, lets her pull out the hair clip and run her fingers through the cascade of blonde locks. 

“Tell me what you want,” Xu says after a while, after Quistis has gotten comfortable, dozing with her head against Xu’s chest. Xu’s playing with her hair; left like that long enough, Quistis would have passed right out and been perfectly content. “Let me take care of you.” 

It’s strangely generous, this offer-- Xu doesn’t take care of anyone, and Quistis has no end of small satisfaction that she seems to be the singular recipient of such affection. 

“I don’t know. It’s been a long day-- I’m too tired to be creative.” 

Xu kisses her temple, lets one hand draw down the line of Quistis’ body. Too tired usually means lazy sex, means just what Xu is doing, sliding her fingers between Quistis’ legs and beneath the waistband of sensible white underwear turned faintly pink, having forgotten her uniform tie was mixed in with a bag of laundry last week. 

It’s nice, the slow ministrations, the way her breath hitches just a little, feels herself relaxing beneath Xu’s skilled hand. 

“Instructor...” It’s a breath against the shell of Quistis’ ear, and for some reason, she reacts to it, pushes a bit harder against Xu’s hand. She’s worked her ass off for that title, worked until she thought she would drop dead of the efforts-- maybe it’s not so surprising that hearing Xu say it turns her on. 

Pride? Quistis would never know how to define it, not in a million years-- Xu’s been the only person she’s ever slept with, and that only started six months ago. She’s still figuring things out. 

“Say it again,” Quistis murmurs, turning her head slightly toward Xu and feeling faintly embarrassed by the request. “Please?” 

“Of course, Instructor.” Xu’s hand never slows, just matches the roll and fall of Quistis’ hips, and she would swear that Xu spells it out against her clit, i-n-s-t-r-u-c-t-o-r-t-r-e-p-e.

[irishais]

39, losers.

39. getting caught

She is on her knees in the train car, ordered down there, head bobbing between Nick’s legs, and that’s probably what gives them away, because Hyne alone knows that he’s been utterly silent, only the way his hands tighten in her hair and the occasional sharp inhalation giving away how hard he is in Xu’s mouth. 

Her collar is slim white leather, and it is the first time he’s ever put it on her in public, a subtle fashion accessory beneath the secondhand tartan scarf she’s wrapped around her throat. 

She draws him deep into her mouth, runs her nails across him, unabashed in her lavish attention-- he hadn’t believed her when she’d told him she’d never done this before, long ago in her tiny student apartment, still awkward around one another, still shy about getting naked with the lights on, much less blowing him in private. Much, much less doing so in a third-class train compartment. 

They are just lucky that he comes in her mouth before the sharp knock on the door; she swallows sharply, reflexively, makes up a frantic lie before they’re thrown off in the middle of nowhere-- “Oh, there’s my contact, thank god--” 

It is a terrible lie; she is a terrible liar. 

They get a very stern warning about “family environments” and “indecency laws,” and Xu’s cheeks are scarlet by the time the train employee is done lambasting them, tongue still salty, lips swollen-- all she can do is nod and look at the ugly gray carpet of the carriage floor. 

At least they don’t get thrown out at the next stop. She is mortified, doesn’t speak to him for at least twenty minutes, sits a foot away from him on the bench seat. 

He makes it up to her later, when the lights are out and they discover that the curtains can actually be drawn closed-- and there’s a quirk of Nick’s lips that implies he might have been privy to this information four hours ago. 

Jerk. 

[irishais]

7, xu/quistis

7. barely legal

Quistis turns eighteen, and this whole goddamned thing is her idea. 

Xu is three years a SeeD by this point, twenty-one (legally able to drink in Deling, as Quistis likes to tease her on a regular basis), and she’s four drinks from sober. 

“You know,” she says conversationally, popping the cork from another bottle of champagne, disgustingly expensive, ordered from room service and fucking delicious, “I could get arrested for this. The champagne.” 

Quistis holds out her glass, lets Xu top it off with pink bubbly, beams around its rim. 

“You could’ve gotten arrested for at least seven other things today.” She is relaxed, hair loose around her face, and it’s nice to see Quistis in something not her hard-earned SeeD Instructor’s uniform. It’s too harsh, too proper-- it doesn’t suit her, and yet it does. 

Xu leans across the bed, impulsive in her kiss. They keep it private at Garden, practically secret. Someone’s glass tilts, spills champagne on the blanket, the second gets fumbled to the edge of an end table, drops. They don’t notice, and it is only when Xu’s shirt has been rucked up around her ribs and her hand is sliding up Quistis’ thigh that blonde yanks away from brunette, breathing hard. 

They’ve never...

Xu draws her hand back, rests it safely on a knee. 

“Sorry,” she exhales, “sorry.” 

“No, don’t be-- Here.” Quistis reaches up to her nose, takes off her glasses, folds them and sets them more carefully than the glasses. “I didn’t want to break these.” 

It is not what Xu thought she would say. For a moment, she does nothing at all, not sure what Quistis is aiming for, because Quistis has always been the one calling the shots. Her fingers dance lightly, drumming against Quistis’ leg. 

Quistis is beautiful, and Xu thinks that she’ll be in love with her until she dies. She thinks, sometimes, that she’s dreaming this, that she’ll wake up and Quistis will be aloof again, rather than the one who initiated the first kiss, who would find Xu sometimes and drop herself in Xu’s lap. 

It’s been so frustrating. 

“Quis--” 

“Hey-- come here.” 

Xu is tugged, pulled forward, and the kiss is tentative this time, delicate, Quistis’ full, soft lips like the touch of butterflies against Xu’s temple, along her cheek, and her tongue is subtle, hesitant. 

Xu opens her mouth against Quistis’, lets herself be rolled onto her back, lets... lets Quistis draw back briefly to assess the location of the buttons on Xu’s blouse, pulling them neatly from their holes. 

“Are you--” 

“Shh.” 

It’s almost a command, and Xu obeys it, leaning back, eyes closing, feeling the shift of fabric against her skin, the cool air conditioning of the room. Quistis kisses, slow, tentative touches, follows the line straight down Xu’s throat to the valley between her breasts. Her fingers are long, elegant-- pianists’ hands, artists’ hands, and they cup Xu’s breasts, squeeze through soft lace. 

She exhales, and it’s slow, shaky. Quistis kisses her. 

Quistis kisses her, kisses her. 

Expensive champagne goes flat, clothing gets pushed around, removed, stripped with strange precision, SeeDs in everything right down to this. Quistis kisses her, kisses her, slips her elegant fingers between Xu’s thighs-- oh god, she wants this, she wants this, but Xu reaches, stops her, draws back her hand. 

“No,” she breathes. “It’s your birthday.” 

Quistis Trepe is eighteen, and on her back, she is the most gorgeous thing Xu has ever laid eyes on, chest heaving, nipples pink and taut and running her tongue across one, Xu is rewarded with a sharp gasp, something two syllables short of begging. 

She is meticulous with her hands, her tongue, the first time Quistis has ever been bare beneath her skin-- down to bras before, stopping before anything could ever go too far, leaving Xu to lock herself in her dorm in frustration, her own hand no substitute for what she thinks Quistis’ touch would do to her. 

Fingers wind themselves in Xu’s hair, and it is only then that she realizes how far down Quistis’ body she’s gone, running her tongue along the sharp line of one hip, tugging at warm skin with her teeth. Quistis will be marked before she leaves here, if Xu has anything to say about it. 

“Happy birthday, love,” she breathes into the soft down of blonde hair, nosing against it, hauling one long, long leg over her shoulder. Quistis Trepe turns eighteen moaning Xu’s name bucking against Xu’s mouth, tight around Xu’s fingers, three pushed deep into her and her hand drenched, and it is, perhaps, the best celebration Xu has ever attended. 

[irishais]

Á

Á :Is your muse loud in bed?

Nope! Xu is actually very quiet about 90% of the time; it’s bred mostly of growing up in Garden with its paper-thin walls. If she’s loud, she’s having a really good time.