#elemental x reader

"Don't." Is all you warn.

Does she take it? Of course not. The woman you call ex finds herself in front of you. Those darling eyes batting thick lashes. Doe eyes. With tender, sly hands brushed to your arms.

"Don't what? Don't tempt you?"

You can only bite on your lip. Her manicured nail circles her mark. She stares at it through a slithered, proud gaze. You're not pushing her away. You're not telling her to stop.

"Did you see me?" She muses. Not that voice. Like a foolish sailor, you draw to her siren-like call. "Back in the cafe. Did you see me? Feel me?"

Here you go again. Stumbled back into the sofa in her office. A familiar weight in your lap. Your hands brace on her hips. Instinct. You inhale that floral scent. She doesn't exactly give you much choice with petal-soft lips cascading down your throat. You feel her smile against your skin at the groan you vibrate.

She is a woman of logic. But all that fades when she's in your lap. All that fades when her skin's flushed to yours. Shirt bunched up around her tits you've missed so much. Skirt crinkled around her thighs as she rocks her hips into yours.

You have to gulp down a desperate noise. Being so consumed by her pretty pink and squelching walls is devastating. Blissful. "Shit, Lisse. . ." you shouldn't be saying her name. You should be telling her no.

But with the way her breasts press up into you? How she grips on your shoulders and tilts her head to see you better? Not to mention the frequent bounce she rhythms into. Clenched around your cock. There's that perfect ring of cream at your base again. Another thing you've missed.

"Miss you too baby. . ." She's whining. Your sweet girl is whining for you again. You simply have to wrap your hand around her waist and help her out.

All while you stare up into her flushed face. Her crinkles brows. Such sweet moans. She brings her gaze to you. Smiles a loopy smile as she rocks her hips so fluidly into yours. Slathers your throbbing cock in her wet slick. Aphrodisiac. Damn her nature elemental self.

"Seems like he missed me too?" She croons, breathless, hitching on your cock as she speaks about 'him'. "He's all throbby baby. That for me? Yeah?"

Fucking brat. Your fingers find her jaw. Squish on her soft cheeks as you circle your hips — then thrust. Shallow and hard up into all her sweetspots you still have memorised. You can only grin when she crumbles. Tosses her head back and whines.

When she's here in your lap, she's not the Rose of Thorns, she's not the leader of a renowned mercenary syndicate. She's yours. Even without the label.

And oh - does she know it. She sings your name so prettily. In a way that makes you want to take her back. For now you'll settle for ramming up into her gummy walls. Tapping on her clit and enjoying the way she scratches on your shoulders.

"Pretty pussy seems to have missed me too. Look how she's clenching." You parrot her words. Mock her whines with your own voice box.

Heated skin-slapping fills the office. She's close. You can feel it. She does too. So she throws her arms round your neck and hovers her face over yours. Feathers her swollen lips in kisses to yours. She synches your movements. Whines for you. Spills for you.

"C-Cum - cum with me -" such beautiful pleas. What needy kisses. "Cum with me baby, please, please need it."

Who are you to refuse? She's so pretty when you stuff her full. So stunning as she squirts round your dick. Suck it in so much you'd think she's trying to keep you in forever. You wouldn't be surprised.

Sticky slick spills from her fluttered hole. You groan and rub your still hard dick up into her slit. Catching her clit with the way you psuedo-fuck her folds. She tips her head back and squirms.

So you hold tight. Squeeze on her hips and force her to hold on for the ride. She's a woman of logic, she's an indulger. And you know her well for it.

"Don't run now pretty girl." With a tooth grin you kiss around her perky tits and groan as she grinds down in return. "Wanted this cock so bad again huh? Not letting you go any time soon. Not again."

She'll stare at you through loopy eyes and glossy gazes. Bring her plush lips to yours in needy kisses.

Where's her logic now? Seems she's only thinking with her pussy.

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Ember Lumen

She likes you a lot, even if you're not fire, but she doesn't know how to deal with these feelings. They kind of just come out

She wants to control it better, because she sees how it affects her surroundings, but it's just so unbearable for her. But she'll do it... For you

If you're not fire, she hides you from her parents- Mainly her dad, especially if you're water

There's something about you that makes ember feel special. She adores you and can't imagine her life without you

She's scared that one day her temper is going to cause you to run away though

Thankfully, you never do, but the fear still lives inside her

She'll do anything to keep you by her side. Even if it means lying to her father. Trust, she doesn't want to, but she doesn't know how her father will react to her seeing someone

Wade Ripple

He's very understanding and calm, even when you have outbursts

Doesn't matter what element you are, when he likes you, he likes you a lot

You feel first, but he feel harder... So much harder

He's obsessed with you and hates being way from you

He knows he has to have a life outside of you, but he can't help the way he feels. It's just so much- He becomes overwhelmed with emotions

He's very understanding and is a good listener. Anytime you have a problem, you can always talk to him. He tries to give you the best advice he can, even if you might not like it

He's very keen on making you happy. He loves to see you smile and the light in your eyes- It just, dare I say, spark something in him

The bloom that Aspen had dropped for you that first night fed on lust, just the same as them. Small and dainty, with a single stem, you’d brought it home and put it in water, charmed by the gesture. You hadn’t thought much of it for a few days. Hadn’t done more than give it a few glances, thoughts drifting to Aspen’s rumbling voice and slick tongues. It looked normal enough, but after a few days you’d noticed that it was still fresh, and after a week that it had grown.

Nervous, and wondering if you were going to have to tend to some kind of child-like Ent creature, you’d brought it back to Aspen a day later, but the sight of the thriving blossom had only made them laugh.

“This was meant to be a gift only. A reminder.” Aspen had bent, their branches creaking, threads of lichen getting caught on your shoulder as they prodded the petals. The bloom hadn’t moved, hadn’t grown or opened beady little eyes, but then Aspen had tilted their head to rest upon yours. A leaf sprouted along the stem when Aspen touched you, quickly followed by another bud. The motion had left you both enraptured, wide eyed and silent until it stopped growing. “As long as you desire me," Aspen had murmured, lowering their voice as their wooden mouth brushed your ear, "I believe it will remain fresh. Indeed, it may well grow larger.”

“Will it be sentient?”

“I know not,” they’d confessed, truthful. You hadn’t missed the teasing glint in the depths of their dark eyes though. “But I doubt it. Many of my blooms have dropped here through the years, but none have lingered for long.” Aspen had plucked the bloom out of your fingers and then had tucked it behind your ear. It had sprouted more leaves, had grown a small offshoot, but a day after you’d gone back home, it had… If not exactly withered, had returned to its original state. And then every time you’d been in the same room as the bloom, every time you’d even felt a hint of arousal, the flower had perked back up, had flourished like it had roots and the perfect soil. Until midwinter.

Aspen, for all intents and purposes, hibernated during the coldest months of the year. There had been little reason to try and stay awake when humans stopped coming to Makeout Point before you, but even with your presence and touch bolstering them, Aspen had begun to grow drowsy. Three days before midwinter, they’d barely been able to speak past cracking yawns, the moss and lichen on their shoulders and chest grown dry and brittle. The lack of them, of being able to look forward to seeing them, had put a damper on your spirits. And then the bloom going into stasis three days later had been a bit worse.

Winter felt like it lasted an age, but two days ago the little white flower had perked up again. You’d been walking past the small vase, lonely and lost in thought when the moving petals had caught your eye, reaching slowly towards the weak sunlight shining through the fogged windows. You’d assumed it had only been disturbed by a breeze until you’d reached for it, extending two fingers. The blossom had shot up, stem growing long until it bumped into your skin, Aspen’s heady scent filling up the room until you’d breathed deep and, overwhelmed, sneezed. You’d felt a bit silly asking the little plant if Aspen was awake, and even sillier when it hadn’t reacted in the slightest. There was little cause for doubting though, not after the flower had followed Aspen into its own rest, all you need to do now is wait.

But waiting is proving much harder than you want it to be. You miss Aspen, have been missing them and their rumbling laugh. You miss the way they can’t seem to stop stroking your cheek or your shoulder, eager to touch you, to have your attention. You’ve thought about them frequently through the winter, but that nectary taste is so heavy on the back of your tongue now, no matter what you drink, no matter how deeply you breathe in that it feels… Off. I should go, you tell yourself a few times a day, but as soon as you make it to your car, you find a handful of excuses to stop. To stay. The winter might have been long, but another week won’t hurt anything, will it?

Twice you drive halfway there, but the state of the roads always sends you back. Rain has been pouring from the sky, leaving the underbrush of all forested areas slogged with mud, and Makeout Point will be the worst of all. The normally well traveled paths are always dotted with leaf litter, and this time of year they’re likely to have puddles, floating with decaying leaves, unassumingly deep. All it would take is one misplaced step, your feet gliding through the slick mud, for chaos to reign. If Aspen is awake, they would most definitely attempt to help, but you can’t imagine a giant tree person carrying you back to your car without a few lingering consequences.

The rumors about Big Foot and wandering bears died down towards the end of November, but at best that would start them up again. At worst—well, you don’t really want to imagine the worst. Most of those thoughts have to do with mob mentality, and you can’t let yourself imagine that fallout without feeling sick.

You swallow, finding yourself back on the road to Makeout Point, heart beating a bit too fast. You don’t fight the urge to go this time. The flower had been much larger today, dotted with new buds and leaves, and all it had taken was a single inhale of the little thing to make you ache.

Even if all you do is spend a short time by Aspen’s side, you have to see them. Just to make sure they’re awake. Just to make sure they’re okay.

You’re clutching at the curved handle of your umbrella, rain splattering against the arch of water-proof material, as well as the sleeves of your zip-up hoodie, when you realize you may not have thought things through. Again. You look down at your feet, frowning at the amount of mud already caking your boots, and glance back up at the winding path disappearing through the trees. It would be smartest to head back, rather than risk a dangerous slip down a too-soft hill. Smarter to keep the visit short, rather than risk getting soaked through.

You think of the soft fan of Aspen’s fern-like eyelashes when they blink, and the way they shiver every time you press a kiss to the whorls on their cheek. They always turn to kiss you in the best way they know how, afterwards. A gentle tilt of their head, the slow, slick curl of one of their tongues around yours. You can taste the faint sweetness of them on your lips, can feel the pressure of their fingers on your back. You’ve already come this far out to see them. You can take a few minutes to give them a kiss, despite the chill and splatter of rain, can’t you?

The trail becomes worse as you go on, the rain having battered down the dirt in places where the branches overhead are thin. You have to hug the trunk of a twisted oak as you slip by one of the deeper puddles, fingers scrabbling at the craggy bark when a root proves too slippery. You don’t fall, but it’s a near thing, and your heart doesn’t thank you for the scare. Moving slower becomes necessary the longer you walk, searching out patches of thick moss to dry and wipe your boots on. Even on drier patches of dirt you’re still sliding with mud and leaves sticking to your boots. When you finally crest the small hill that leads to Makeout Point, you assume your impatience will wane, that this arduous ache will ease now that you know Aspen is close. Instead, it grows tenfold.

It’s cold outside, the rain is freezing, but as soon as you see the riot of fauna and moss crawling down the path, you feel terribly hot. It’s like you’ve been running a marathon in your winter clothes, like the umbrella is keeping the relief of the cold rain from your face.

You toss it aside, striding up the path, barely paying attention to the unsteadiness of your steps. You can still feel the mud sliding under your feet, you recognize the sensation of rocks and bits of dead branches catching in your boots, but none of that matters now that you’re here.

Makeout Point no longer looks like a mildly haunted hangout for people looking to bring a bit of a thrill back into their lives. The rough campground atmosphere has vanished in the wake of springtime. The sky overhead is still grey, still covered over with clouds, but they’re thinning, bathing the spot in the promise of sunshine soon to come. The fire pit, made of forest found stones or carefully cultivated bricks, is overgrown with ferns and green and purple leaved clover. Dainty white flowers are brilliant in the tide of greenery, drawing the eye like a meandering path of scattered stars. As gorgeous and awe-inspiring as Makeout Point currently looks, the calm feeling that you came here for, prior to Aspen finally deciding to speak to you, is utterly absent.

The humidity has risen, and sweat dots the back of your neck while you slowly creep closer, staring up at the ocean of thick leaves and blooms and buds swaying with the breeze. It’s always been shadowed, has always sported full branches, but this is almost overkill. The branches are so heavy with buds and new growth that they’re bowing, and the gentle weight of a single bird looks like it could make them snap. You breathe in deep, fumbling with your hoodie, eager to shrug out of it, when you finally turn and spot Aspen, standing straight and tall in their normal place.

They’re waking, the obsidian gleam of their eyes mildly unfocused as they blink. The horn-like branches on their head are draped so thoroughly with vines and thick leaves, and the blooms that match the one you have back home, that all you can bring yourself to do is stare. You’d thought that Aspen looked impossible the first time you’d seen them, a being so strange but artfully put together that surely they could be nothing but animatronic, something you would normally only ever see through a movie screen. A creature pulled straight out of someone's imagination.

“Lovely,” they say, and their name for you reaches right down into your depths. Your bones, you realize, have felt like kindling placed too close to the fire, and Aspen’s voice is the bright burst of heat that finally makes everything pop. They take a step away from their spot, caught midway between two towering redwoods, and half the branches overhead seem to come with them. They have to pull free of a net of vines, so thickly overgrown that when the vines and loose branches fall, and they do, scattering like a strong storm has passed through, you have to skip back a few steps to avoid being caught in the deluge. You suck in a breath, almost choking on the sweet taste of them as your eyes catch on their shoulders. The tiny mushrooms that had dotted them all through autumn have grown, tall and thick, and faintly yellow or white, and then there are shelves of them trailing down Aspen’s biceps, edges gone periwinkle blue.

They cross the little clearing in a handful of steps, swooping you up into their arms and cradling you against their chest. The thunder of their movement startles near-by birds into screeching and taking flight, branches snapping as they take off, and then Aspen turns in place. They’re a walking, talking tilt-a-whirl that leaves you breathless until you rap your knuckles against the least green covered spot you can find, closing your eyes to try and keep them from stinging.

“St-stop spinning!” You gasp and the world jolts to a halt, leaving you blinking and panting. Aspen is ripe with the scent of growing things, and it feels like you’ve been rolling through a field absolutely chock full of sweet smelling flowers and the tang of pine. If you thought Aspen made you weak kneed before, with their scent and taste and rumbling voice, it’s nothing as to now. You’re overheated and happy to see them, and blood is rushing to all the right places—but your wanting is so terribly strong that it still leaves you feeling off kilter.

“I have to ask,” you get out, doing your best to breathe through your mouth. It doesn’t help much, you can still taste everything on the back of your tongue, can see their wooden jaw lowering, writhing tongues just barely visible. “In Spring, your… You said once, that I made you feel like Spring when—”

“Ahh,” Aspen murmurs, and then very, very gently, lowers you back to your feet. They keep hold of your shoulder until you’re standing straight, and only then do they take a few careful steps away.

The space is a little maddening, even though you’d been hoping for it so you could get your head in order. You have to swallow to keep from following after them, to tamp down the urge to move your feet and instead make your mouth speak. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, knowing where you come from,” you say with a wry laugh, clutching tightly at your sweater sleeves. “...Does, has your presence always been a kind of aphrodisiac in spring-time? Or is that just with me?”

Aspen flutters those little fern eyelashes, slowly crouching, elbows resting on their knees. Considering. “Perhaps it has been. I don’t intentionally give back what was given to me, but it’s hardly outside the realm of possibility.”

And it might well explain why, even after it became a little less cool to wander through the forest rather than head to the movies, couples still continued to flock here. You’d noticed that Aspen had fed from your pleasure, had bloomed every time you kissed or touched, so it isn’t entirely a surprise to know that they feed upon others. Granted, in a much less hands on kind of way.

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” Aspen asks, reaching for you, and then thinking better of it. Their long, branch-like fingers curl, hesitating before dropping back to their side. “While I am wonderfully glad to see your face, Lovely, if you want to leave—”

You wave away their words, closing your eyes to see if that will help with anything. The ache of yearning for them is still very much present, but you’ve yearned for their touch since the night you first had it. It’s stronger now, but you were still able to reason through it enough to ask. You were still able to stop yourself and think before stripping off your clothes. You forget to breathe through your mouth though, and that sweet scent makes you shudder, makes your mouth grow terribly dry and then fill with saliva to overcompensate. If you stay, or if you wait and come back when the height of spring has passed, what will change? You’ll still want Aspen. Still crave their company and the refuge that their home has become. You’ll still want their touch. You’re just… A little more horny than normal right now, and a little more willing to speak about it.

“Not leaving,” you finally say, blinking your eyes open when one of their fingers presses against your shoulder. You’re swaying forward, most of your weight balanced against their precarious hold. “I want- I want to stay, but I have to tell you: All I can think about is getting out of my clothes.” Whether the statement might have shamed you normally or not doesn’t seem to matter. The words are so overwhelmingly true that a weight vanishes from your shoulders, decision made. You do your best to slow your movements though, trying to straighten your stance as you lift both hands to grab hold of their arm. Your fingertips brush over the spongy edge of a mushroom on their forearm, and another mushroom promptly pops into existence right next to your hand.

“Oh, good,” Aspen says, reaching out for you with both hands now. You let them lead you close, let them lift your feet onto the bend of their knee, leaving you within range of their mouth. “I dreamed of you while I slept,” they confide in you, and the deep rumble of their words makes your knees want to buckle.

Even with the heavy humidity pressing in on you from all sides, making your back faintly damp with sweat and pushing your hands to quest for zippers and buttons, your brain is still working. A flicker of half recalled knowledge about dreams clamors for attention. If they were dreaming of you, if Aspen is more akin to humans that either of you think, their dreams were recent, had in the moments or days just before waking. Maybe that was why the bloom grew, why it started budding, why whenever you breathed in the faint scent of nectar, you started to ache for the lack of them. “And what did I do in these dreams?”

For a single second, Aspen looks abashed, ducking their head close enough for you to press a kiss upon. Their eyes fall closed when you brush your lips on their face. Your hoodie comes off, tossed over your shoulder to land somewhere upon the carpet of multicolored clovers. “Shall I tell you? Or would you rather I show you?”

There it is. Their mouth opens, a single fingertip finding your chin. It’s softer than normal and cool compared to the normally temperate feeling of their wooden body, and you have a split second to glance down and see that those blue edged mushrooms are growing along the length of their finger. Then Aspen is tilting your head back to kiss you. Like the first kiss you’d shared, they start out slow. A single, sticky-sweet tendril traces your lips until you part them and then slips into your mouth to curl around your tongue. You suck on it, hands pausing in their overeager quest to strip off your clothes. You want to brace yourself against Aspen’s face, to press your hands to their chin as you roll your tongue, arousal flooding you so fiercely that you can barely breathe. You forget about your clothes entirely when you tilt your head back a little more, gasping as another one of those thin green tongues flicks out to touch your lower lip. Aspen’s hand, gentle in the middle of your back until now, curls around your torso, fingertips pressing a little uncomfortably into your ribs. They groan, in that lovely, low tone of theirs, the noise filling you up with a gentle, steady vibration until you wonder if you could get off on that alone.

You pull back, just trying to get a hint of space to breathe, but Aspen chases after you, more green tendrils flicking against your lips and trying to slip into your mouth until you gasp out for them to slow. You tip your head to rest against theirs, breathing hard and smiling too wide, and then get back to the business of shedding your clothing. Aspen’s grip on you trembles, but they allow you the space to shuck what feels like yards of material, fingers tensing like they half want to help. They tried, just the once, in the very middle of November, thumb and forefinger pinching at the end of your sleeve. They’d been careful, truly, but Aspen had still moved a little too fast, a little too sure. They’d split the seams of one of your jackets at the arm and then nearly dropped you in fright. For both your sakes, it’s better that you handle most of your own clothing. Now they just stick to watching. You can catch the vague shape of yourself in the dark mirror of their eyes, and can feel the soft wind of their breath on your quickly bared skin.

“Is all of this you?” You ask, looking away when your face becomes a little too clear in their large eyes. Makeout Point is rife with plants now, and looks more like humans haven’t been in the area for decades as opposed to a single winter. A cool drop of water splashes onto your shoulder from the crown of greenery still circling their horn-like branches. You jump, and Aspen reaches out to swipe the scattered droplets away with their finger while you unlace your boots and push your clothes down your hips. “The new growth. The flowers.”

Aspen hums, turning their finger until the new blue tinged mushrooms drag over your skin, leaving behind a trail that tingles, even after they’ve stopped. “I suspect so. I’ve never been quite so ardent in my dreams of spring as I was this year. But then I’ve never gone to my dreaming knowing I may well wake to your Lovely face.” The end of their finger comes to a stop in the hollow of your throat, eyes dropping to watch you swallow, to watch your pulse speed faster. You shake one of your legs, letting your boot drop to the ground and clothes slide down your skin. You switch, uncaring about the muddy boot print you’re putting your foot back down on. The other boot and the rest of your clothes drop to the ground. The chill in the air is all but gone, or what senses you have that would notice it have been overwhelmed by lust alone. The press of your thighs, the warmth of your own skin, is enough to make you want to slide your hand down yourself. As impatient as you are though, you want Aspen’s touch more. You tilt back your head again, reaching out to rest your hands against their jaw—and pause.

“After this, the growing is going to get a little out of hand, isn’t it? Will I still be able to make it through when it comes time to leave?”

It takes a fair amount of effort for Aspen to drag their eyes away from you, but they make a quick glance around Makeout Point, noting the shiver in the still moving plants. “I won’t let the forest cage you,” Aspen promises and then huffs when you grab hold of one of the dangling vines twisted about the branches on their head. They let you tug, let you pull their attention back to you, and their eyelids lower as you tilt back your head for another kiss. When Aspen’s vine-like tongues curl around your tongue this time, there’s more than just the one. They angle their head to the side, pale green shoots tracing your lips before pushing into your mouth with the others. Aspen doesn’t choke you, leaves plenty of room to breathe, but it’s still a little overwhelming, have that many vines snaking into your mouth. They twist and writhe against your tongue, drag over the edges of your teeth like they enjoy the sensation, and desperate ache for them grows stronger, until it feels like you shouldn’t need to breathe. Aspen picks you up off their knee, a deep rumble echoing through their chest when you keep hold of them.

They’re slower even than they were the first time, without the cushion of your clothes to keep your skin from pressing too hard on some of their fingers. They cradle your back and neck and head with one hand, while the other curls around your hips and thighs as they stand up straight. The rush of movement is strange when you’re still holding onto their face, still sucking on their tongues, eyes closed, but you don’t care about it right now. You trust them, and nerves have been pushed far to the wayside when you want them so badly that every inch of you feels like it’s on fire.

There’s a gentle pressure as they urge you to open your legs, but you barely need the prompting. You part your thighs willingly, gasping when they finally pull their mouth away from yours, tongues flickering over the hollow of your throat and along your collarbone. You expect them to lift you higher, to angle you towards their mouth as their tongues are still sliding down your chest. Instead Aspen’s thumb, ridged with those blue edged mushrooms, drags over the top of your thigh. That tingling feeling spreads over your skin and then your legs start to shake as the mushrooms press between your legs, soft and growing warm from your own body heat. The tingling sensation turns sharp as they stroke their thumb gently over you, and you can’t help but whimper when they drag the gills of the mushroom down to your ass and then back up. You can’t see what it looks like with their head in the way, Aspen’s fern eyelashes closed as their tongues curl and pluck at one of your nipples, but it's starting to feel like the mushrooms must be secreting something slick. The next drag of their thumb, the tip of it pressing into you, makes you arch and moan. You reach back to grasp at the finger bracing your head, legs shaking as you get closer to orgasm and then Aspen pauses, one of their tongues fluttering over the edge of their wooden mouth.

“Did you dream of me, Lovely?” They ask, but not entirely like they expect you to answer. “Was that why you rushed to see me when spring dawned?”

“Yes,” you gasp, immediately. That was partially why you came, but every inch of you is hot, and you’re still right on the precipice of coming. It’s too hard to cobble together a coherent sentence.

Aspen’s thumb pushes and turns and then your eyes are rolling into the back of your head as you come, breath leaving your lungs in a harsh, almost painful gasp. Their mouth finds you as you do, slick, sticky vines pushing into you alongside their mushroom ridged thumb. They drink down your pleasure, moaning when your thighs tremble against their face. They don’t seem to notice when you dig your fingernails into the smooth wood of their skin, they just keep moving, the pressure of their tongues and thumb leaving you full and clenching as you finally whimper. “Fuck, fuck, fu- Aspen! Aspen, I’m-” You buck against their face, noise dying on your parted lips as that only presses them deeper. You kick out your leg, bare toes brushing over the moss on their shoulder, but that only makes Aspen adjust their hold.

Maybe it’s because it’s spring time, or because yearning for you has been building up in them as steadily as it had for you during the winter, but even after you stop shaking, even after your legs go limp, Aspen isn’t quite done. Their thumb pulling out of you makes your back bow again, and then they turn you over. You’re on your stomach in their giant hands, Aspen’s tongues filling you up over and over again before you breathlessly ask for them to cease. Your legs feel like jelly, and that strange, hot ache has finally ebbed.

When you blink, glancing around the circle of trees, it looks like the forest has erased all signs of humanity. Vines are thick and tangled over every inch of the area, laced between trees. Ferns peek out from the ground, and those pale, white blossoms are scattered around the area like wedding petals. Aspen’s next lick is gentle, cleaning rather than fucking, and you shudder in their hold.

“I don’t know if I want to leave,” you mumble, tired and sated. “I missed you something awful.”

There’s a creaking noise and then you clutch at their fingers as they sit, flowers and leaves puffing up into the air and raining back down. Aspen carefully turns you to sit on their thigh, arranging you against their midsection until you’re lounging and grinning for all their effort. “...shall I come with you?” They ask, and when you glance up at them their head is tilted to the side. “While I know you will return now, it’s always difficult to part.” Aspen hesitates and then places a fingertip to your lips, eyes filling with pleasure when you kiss it tiredly.

You’ve watched them turn back into nothing more than a tree in the presence of others, and… And a bigger yard would be nice. A backyard, you amend, thinking of neighbors catching sight of a moving tree, or simply noting the fact that a tree has switched places somehow overnight. “Not yet,” you say, trying and failing to hold back your grin. “I think the park rangers and the rest of the town might notice if you were following my car back to my house. But… But soon. I would like that.”

Aspen hums again, that deep rumbling noise making you warm a fraction. “Simply tell me when, Lovely, and I will always follow,” Aspen vows, and plucks your hoodie out of the nest of vines. They spread it over you like a blanket and a spiral of flowers blooms along their forearm.

...Maybe you should just find a house out in the middle of the forest.

You only stayed over at his place because, well. He refused to let you walk home in the severe storm that had taken over the society of shades last night. A kindhearted gesture from the man, as always.

Rasui had his grey areas in morality. But below it all laid a heart of gold, full of love and passion. A need to make sure the world is balanced and a better place. For humankind, and supernatural. As much as he himself, has been scorned by the race of man.

He'd never burn you and you know it. Alas the heat his heart pumps and produces. It scares you and you don't want to be scared of it. But you are.

"Rasui?" You call out. Remnants of sleep thick in your voice still. Your ears pick up the halt in song. Except for the radio, that continues to play.

A head of neatly tended to brown hair, long, and flaming at the end, pokes out from the corner of the kitchen entrance. Rasui meets your eyes with a tender smile and golden brown irises you could drown away in for hours.

"Habibi/Habibti." He greets. The deep tones of his voice shifting octaves, like smooth honey. "Good morning, come on into the kitchen." Of course he invites you into the kitchen. This man knows how convincing he is. You love it and hate it.

Carrying yourself towards the kitchen with soft and quiet footsteps, you turn to look into the comfortable space. Your eyes certainly were pleased to see Rasui's shirtless and quite defined, sculpted back. As he rummages around the kitchen.

"What are you making?" You ask softly. "Last I checked you don't really eat."

Without turning around, the fire elemental whips out 5 eggs to crack into a bowl and whisk away at. "Tae-hyun suggested I do an attempt gyeranjjim." As he responds, he reaches for the sift across the bowl and follows along the recipe. "I may not eat often, but even I am a bit curious. And I thought, it'd be a good breakfast for you. I bought fruit too."

It's like your breath has been spirited away. Ear tips flaming red, while the blush sneaks across your cheeks. "Thanks, Rasui." You respond, rather meekly. And even then, he smiles back at you like the gentle fall sun.

You take your time moving towards him. Not too close yet not too far either. The movements of your bodies work as a slow dance. He moves to the side, you do too. He leans over on his shoulders, so do you. He noticed, and you did as well.

"Restless?" His question strikes an arrow against your heart. His voice, still full of warmth, harbors a tinge of worry for the close proximity between the two of you.

"No I just. . ." You take a deep breath. "You know I— I don't want to be scared of touching you. Even if you're flaming up." What a way to confess. A heavy sigh heaved from the flames in Rasui's end strands. While he himself doesn't breathe nor does he need to. His fire does, occasionally.

"I want to be able to hold you too without feeling your trembles, habibi/habibti."

. . .

Well say something, damn it! Are you standing there just to look like a fool, with your heart on your sleeve. And an itch at the palms of your hands to grab the man and pull him in for a close, intimate hug? And maybe it's moving too fast. Maybe it's an irrational decision.

His flames never once burnt you when they came out by accident. But the fear of them, did. Seared at the slight burn scars across the bottoms of your feet. Fire is like life, it lives like us and it destroys, like us. Rasui? He's destroyed, but he wouldn't you.

Never you.

Once more you watch as the man sighs in slight discomfort at the booming silence, and turns his back to you to resume breakfast making.

Until he feels you. All of you. Arms wrapped around his torso, face buried in his hair while your hands feel the soft dark bronze skin. The world's rhythmic heartbeat skips, as does the flames inside of Rasui's soul.

He smells so nice this close. Spiced, expensive colognes, firewood— the good kind, and small hints of blood oranges. Your throat clogs when you feel the warmth of fire slip through the corners of what skin isn't being touched.

The fear begins stabbing away at your heart but you persist. You're tired of this. This fire isn't ever going to scorch you. It's not going to hurt you, because you know the difference between conjured flame and the flame of the soul. There's a wide scaled difference.

A strong hand grips at your arm, and puts a great divide between it and the torso it previously slung around.

Your heart skips a beat this time. When your eyes meet a wide, almost frantic gaze.

Rasui pushes the food in the making away. Turns off the stove and meets you halfway. Front turned to you and hands settled on your waist. It's your turn to decide whether you want to hug him again or flee.

With a quiet gasp, you almost throw yourself at him. Hugging tight, as if he was going to disappear if you let go. "Habibi/Habibti, calm down—"

"I am calm." You sob, "I just need a moment."

"Alright. . ."

Hugging onto Rasui has never felt this good, nor has pushing your boundaries felt this amazing. You feel free, even if its just for this moment.

Even if the fears come back. Rasui and you will tackle them together. This isn't a fight you have to fight yourself. And the past is not something we can change. But we can learn from it, and we grow from it.

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