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witchfall · 2 years

Text

blaze in the dark [e]

Rated: Explicit.

Words: 2,469.

Read it on AO3.

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She holds his face between her hands, her cheeks pink with life, mouth trembling with something. Her eyes shine with unshed tears. And she says...

"Please make me yours again."

[Directly post main story quest. Martin and Alice grapple with what they could have lost. Endgame spoilers within.]

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Martin closes Alice's door behind him. He hears it click. He waits, palms behind him on the wood.

Waits.

He grits his teeth.

Alice turns back toward him. Her golden hair cascades over her shoulder and down her back like molten metal. She’s all creamy legs, mottled with bruises hidden at the hems.

"Martin?"

She stands away from him, arms wrapped around her middle as if she fears what may come next.

And maybe she should. A fire, fueled by a thousand different things, roars through his body. He thinks of her face, lifeless and drawn. The magic of her had fled from her eyes; her beauty had turned cold and empty as she marched toward them, arm outstretched to squeeze the life out of each of them, one by one.

His fists clench. He had not feared for his life, then, for he knew there would be only two outcomes: she would defeat the darkness inside her or she would not. In the latter, he would be dead in all ways that matter. In the former...

He stands here now, consumed by knowing what he almost lost.

His voice shakes. "Come here."

He's barely gotten the words out before she's suddenly there, wrapping her arms around his chest, sinking into his space. Her lilac and soap scent crashes like a wave, followed closely by the smell of antiseptic.

His arms turn to vices around her. He buries his face in the curve of her neck, mouth against her skin. His head spins, already dizzy from the softness of her. From how badly he needs her in his hands.

"I thought of you," she says, breathless. "Right before it happened, when that thing was rushing at me...all I could think of was you."

His fingers brush her hair aside from her shoulder before resting on the back of her neck. He noses her collar as far out of the way as he can, to press a kiss right where-

He feels her wince.

"Let's take these clothes off," he says. "I want to see you."

He wants to count every bruise and cut and scrape. Keep a tally. And then keep her in her bed – their bed – until he can be sure she knows him. Sure he's not dreaming. Sure he can survive a parting as banal as the morning routine.

Her palms settle on his chest. "I'm okay," she pleads. "It doesn't hurt. Simone took care of it."

"I just want to see." His voice is more even than he expects. "I'm not leaving your bed tonight. Not for anything."

Her breath quickens so subtly he wouldn't have heard it if he wasn't right here, bundling her in his arms. As answer, her hands move to unbutton her shirt and unstrap her harness, her tie long since abandoned at Simone's clinic. He unsnaps his gauntlets and separates from her for just long enough to deposit them carefully on the floor behind him. He takes off the old apron and accouterments while he's at it, feeling 50 pounds lighter as he does.

He turns back to her as her harness clatters to the floor. As her breasts spill from the button-up, now less than half done.

He tried. He wants someone to know it. He tried to hold back. He meant it, what he said, because he only says what he means. He wanted to see her, wanted to know what parts of her he could lovingly touch, what parts of her still brought her pain.

But then she holds his face between her hands, her cheeks pink with life, mouth trembling with something. Her eyes shine with unshed tears. And she says...

"Please make me yours again."

He pulls her in by the collar for a kiss so hard their teeth clash.

She laughs at first, perhaps in shock, but it melts into a moan as his hands slide into her undone shirt and down her arms to remove the garment entirely. His fingers ghost over her skin, afraid to press on any bruises, but he kisses the column of her neck and licks the bowl of her collarbones just to hear the high pitched sound she makes when he does it.

"Lay on the bed for me," he whispers.

"Only if you take your clothes off."

"One thing at a time, love."

She turns on her heel and he follows, hands on her waist, unwilling to let her out of arm's reach. The moment she does as he asks, he kneels down to undo her boots, forehead pressing into her shin. This must be what religious men feel like, he thinks. Driven to dutiful rapture by the simple act of undressing your beloved with care.

The shoes, then the stockings – slow, with a trail of kisses, as he knows she likes – then her shorts. She is bare before him save her underthings, hands fluttering over her chest, knees curling in, unsure what to do with his attention.

He suddenly has a keen understanding of why she winced earlier.

Bandages scatter her torso. A particularly nasty gash is covered by a rectangle of perfect white gauze beneath her sternum. Bruises speckle her ribs, reminiscent of fingerprints. Just above her heart is a bruise the size of someone's fist. Smaller scratches that didn't need coverings criss cross her arms. The bottom of her chin has a scrape from a fall, as does her knees and palms.

He feels a shameful rush of possessiveness. That anyone else would touch her like this and leave hateful marks on her skin.

"I promise I feel okay," she whispers. "It looks worse than it is."

His hands rest on her thighs. His thumbs caress the skin there, just on the inside of her legs. No bruises there – he is sure of it – but she still takes in a sharp breath at the touch. Her eyes flutter closed.

"I'm going to count them," he says. His heart pounds in his ears. Part of him just wants to be inside her already, buried to the hilt to be where he belongs, but he will do this duty first. "I want to know what's there and make sure nothing gets worse."

"Your clothes are still on," she groans.

Her smile is gentle; she's joking, but he isn't.

"Soon, love. Be patient for me."

A command he will have a hard time following, the way she stretches her arms above her head with a sigh, showcasing the whole silken length of her.

"You're doing that on purpose," he says.

"Is it working?"

He smiles. "Be still, would you?"

She complies quietly -- something that turns the fire in his gut even hotter, even if his intentions are truly honorable. He will never tire of how pliant she is as he examines her. She is a diamond formed under pressure – harder than anything else and most precious.

"Eight spots in front. Two in the back." His face is flush for a thousand reasons, but one of them is pride and another is frustration. "You don't know how to turn tail from a fight, do you?"

Laying on her stomach, she grins back at him over her shoulder, sheepish. "...it doesn't occur to me, usually, no."

He sighs, blood thrumming. "You're going to be the death of me."

He leaves her laying on her stomach, her arms folded under her head, while he removes his clothes with shaking hands. He's begun to lose the plot. All he can think of is touching her. Making her his. Never letting her out of his sight again, not even if the world was ending. Maybe never letting her wear clothes again at this rate.

"Finally," she sighs when she hears his trousers hit the floor. His hard member twitches in response. "I thought you would never join me."

He climbs onto the bed, straddling her, and silences her with open-mouthed kisses to the base of her spine. He presses kisses up the column of her, undoing her bra with a quick tussle of fingers. He brushes her hair back over her shoulder and he kisses and sucks at the nape of her neck, one palm lingering on her waist.

She melts into wordless moans at that. Good, he thinks. Good. Feel every part of me. Know it was made for you.

He lays on his side and pulls her with him until her back is flush with his chest. Her bra is discarded somewhere; he doesn't remember where he throws it, because it doesn't register once he has a handful of her breast (careful to avoid her injury). Her head falls back into his shoulder. Her keening sounds drive all thoughts out of his head except mine.

"I love you," he whispers. "More than anything."

She grinds purposefully back into his hard length, still confined to his undershorts, making him grunt. Her little minx hand reaches for him, palming him through the fabric.

He's not one to lose any challenge. He yanks down her underwear and she wriggles her hips to help him, kicking her legs out to free herself--

--allowing his fingers to slip inside unimpeded. Right into her slick, wet heat.

She gives a contented gasp. Her hand on his length stutters before seizing him with greater intent.

He mouths her neck, grazing her skin with his teeth, hissing as her hand works him. He doesn't want to give her any more bruises, but half of him does want to give her a love bite – a sign she's his, loved and cherished above anything. His fingers slide in and out, stretching her.

He curls his fingers upward, just to relish in the way it makes her keen and buck against him. “Gods,” she breathes, “I love you.”

“Go slow,” he warns. “Be careful of your injuries.”

"Martin." Her voice is low and a little frustrated. "I want all of you. Please."

It’s not like he’s in a state of mind to refuse a request like that. Not when he needs to lose himself in her.

“Come here,” he whispers against her skin. “Roll into me.”

After he peels off his own underwear in record time, he carefully spins her around to face him, bearing her weight with his arm beneath her to ensure they don’t jostle her injuries. He hikes her leg up over his hip, her arms folded up between them, palms against his chest. His length brushes tantalizingly against her sex. A whimper slips between her teeth.

“I’ve got you,” he says, right before he captures her mouth with his own.

With one hand on her bottom and the other arm cradling her head, he slides into her with no resistance. Her mouth opens, moaning into him, and he slips his tongue inside her, too.

All silken and hot and perfect and his…

She gasps against him and sighs, high-pitched, as he begins to rock inside of her slowly. Her hips roll in turn – at first out of rhythm, quickly matching him.

"You feel so good," he says against her mouth. She always does. Hot and deliciously tight.

“More,” she begs.

His concern for her comfort is no match for the burn of his need for her; he pulls her in closer and picks up the pace, relishing in the way her moans heighten. He captures her lips between his teeth as he pounds into her. She cries out into his mouth with every thrust, driving him harder to chase those sounds. Relentless.

"Need you..." she breathes. Her body shakes as he slams home again. "Wanted it, ah, just like this..."

His hand tangles in her hair. “Alice…”

The feel of her is too much. The heat of her breath, the sweet things she is saying, the way she feels around him. Heat coils in his abdomen, higher and higher each time their bodies come together.

"All yours, all...a-ah!" Her words slip away. He, too, is reduced to a grunting growl as she comes around him. He holds her tightly to him, one arm around her neck, the other her waist, as her body convulses with pleasure, even as his rhythm falls apart.

"Don't stop!" she cries as he reaches his own peak. "I want you, ahhh, inside..."

“Gods, Alice–”

His vision goes white as finishes inside of her. His hips roll and stutter until he is utterly spent, his eyes watering from the intensity of it.

For a moment, neither can move. They breathe hard, breath fanning each other's faces. He’s almost afraid to move. He could ruin it.

Then she says: "You're good at that. All of…all that."

And he can't help but laugh.

Her body melts against him at the sound. He rolls and pulls her on top, entangling their legs together.

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Are you hurting anywhere?”

“Nope.” She nuzzles under his chin. “I...feel more like myself, actually.”

Her melancholy tone makes his heart pang.

He rubs circles into her back, slow and sure. He puts everything he can into his actions, but he knows sometimes words are necessary – and he wants her to be sure of him, of what he would do for her. He's not alone in the darkness and neither is she.

“Where you go, I go,” he says softly. “It doesn't matter where. It never will.”

She burrows her face further in his chest. “Oh...Martin…”

His throat tightens, unexpectedly. He holds her hand against his heart. “Just don't go without me.”

He was abandoned once. He isn't sure he would survive the second time. Not if it's her, the brightest light he’s ever met. The spell that changed his world.

“How did I find you?” She kisses his sternum. “How did I get so lucky?”

“Only if you can tell me first.”

“Ugh,” she says, right before she rumbles in laughter. It’s followed swiftly by: “Ow. Laughing hurts. Apparently.”

He rolls her over gently onto the bed, separating from her only to fetch a warm cloth from her washroom. He gently washes her up while she tells him of the things she saw in places man shouldn’t go – another kind of decompression from the horrors she had to witness. He checks all of her injuries again, kissing the open bruises. And then they entangle their limbs together, her back to his chest, before they fall asleep.

One day, he thinks, this will be forever.

The certainty of it is heavy as the ring he made sitting on his desk at home. Frightening. Bold. Sudden as an amnesiac walking into your town – and just as beautiful.

#rune factory 5 #rf5 martin #rune factory martin #i want that twunk obliterated #kathryn writes

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