Guardian of the Garden f!Eden/f!Player, read on ao3 here Living with Eden is strange—it’s a rough life, in a rough cabin, with a rough woman, but you like it, you think. It’s hard to think clearly here. Which is a fact that should bother you, but somehow it doesn’t. Time moves slowly out in the forest, and perhaps it’s the endless routine of physical labor, but you don’t miss the town much anymore, if at all. There wasn’t really anything all that good about living there anyway. And here, you have Eden.
Eden, who is tall and strong, and wrapped around you like the best coat you could never afford in town. The two of you are naked, drying off from the bath in front of the fire, and Eden’s modest breasts are pressed into your back, your legs settled between hers, as you stare into the flickering flames.
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Petal?” It slips out before you can stop it. You really didn’t mean to compare Eden to the anti-heroine from your favorite videogame, but the comparison has been stuck in your head since you first saw her, stalking out of the twilight and telling you not to move. Eden turns to you, lifting her head from where it had been pillowed on top of your shoulder, and you squeak and cover your mouth. “Sorry! I didn’t mean—”
She cuts you off. “What.” Her low contralto rumbles through your back where you are pressed against her, and you squirm until she drops a heavy hand on your waist. “Explain yourself.”
“I—” you pause and her hand clenches on your hip in warning. She has very large hands. “You’re just so tall, and strong—and—and pretty!” Eden stills, and for a moment you worry that you said something wrong. You bite your lip, and hope that she doesn’t make you take back your words. Eden doesn’t like compliments, you know, but you can’t help giving them to her—she deserves all of them, for taking such good care of you. You reach up and tug at your collar.
Eden’s other hand, the one currently not squeezing a new purple mark onto your waist, comes up and gently pulls your hand away from the black leather.
“Mmm.” The noise is contemplative. “I suppose I’ll let it slide.” Her hand relaxes, and slips off your waist, drawing lower and lower over your stomach until it settles between your legs. If you could move, your legs would have splayed out, wide and wanton, as she begins to work her fingers against your aching clit.
You turn to Eden, and lift one of her apple-sized breasts into your mouth, closing your lips around it and scraping along it with your teeth.
“Just remember—if you need a garden,” she grinds herself along your leg, and you twitch forward into her calloused fingers, “the only flower you need is here.” She drags a hand along your clit, the roughness sending sparks along your spine and a rippling flutter through the muscles of your inner thighs. “And this is the only Petal you need.”
You wince. Eden’s dirty talk has never been great—but she must have noticed your expression, because suddenly Eden’s hand tightens around your throat.
And you remember how dangerous picking apples can be.