(yield) (tom/minerva) (R)
Title: yield
Author: absinthe lust
Pairing: Tom/Minerva
Rating: R
Word Count: ~1800
A/N: Apologies if you've seen this before.
She likes the clear nights best; it is easier, then, to pretend that she is just a young princess in a fairy tale, stealing through the shadows and down the empty corridors on her way to meet her forbidden love. When it is stormy, the turmoil outside easily reflects and exposes the confusion within her, and she is not yet skilled enough to know and play by every rule in the game of self-deception. On stormy nights, she stays inside.
She walks briskly - no matter how respectable her reputation may be, she would be questioned as to her intentions, wandering the halls after hours. A shudder runs through her at the thought of having to explain, of having to fool another; it is certainly hard enough to deceive herself.
Tonight, the stars and the moon are arranged artfully in the black velveteen sky, the light they emit filtering through the stained-glass windows and throwing haphazard shadows onto the floor, ones she skips around skillfully, almost dancing.
She reaches the seventh floor much more quickly than times before, slipping beyond that telling tapestry and passing the blank wall one, two, three times. She has no trouble finding the room she needs; by now it knows her mind intimately.
He is standing beside the dark-curtained window that always seems to appear in this room when they meet, gazing out across the castle’s grounds. Her eyes fall to the deep hollow of his throat, the delicate ridge of collarbone that barely hides beneath pale skin. She wonders if he has always looked so deceptively fragile.
She says his name softly, once, twice, almost hoping he won’t hear. But he does, as always, hears and turns, slowly, so slowly that she feels she will burn with the anticipation of it.
He sees her and smiles.
+
He rarely ventures into the light - she frequently finds him in dark corridors, lurking in alcoves, stalking the halls at night. Like nearly all great things, he is most beautiful cloaked in shadow, muted - if she gets too close, his brightness will overpower her - she will be burned, blinded.
But he was always there, however guarded, always just one quickturn step behind her. The almost silent press of piano keys in an empty room, the delicate exhalation of a held breath, the quickened heartbeat, the whispery feeling of nimble fingertips ghosting along bare skin; that was him. She began to anticipate the feel of cold fingers on the back of her neck; the charming tone, the haughty smile that always catches her at once, dragging her over to the other side, if only for a short while at a time. It makes her easy prey, she knows, but finds that, for once, this does not deter her.
+
He is unfailingly arrogant in his ministrations - every move that he makes suggests, no, knows that he has played and won this game before, that he understands the rules intimately, and that there is no chance of losing. Minerva closes her eyes and tilts her head back, letting her long, black hair cascade over her shoulders as he bends to flick his tongue around the shell of her ear, down the side of her throat.
“Tom,” she whispers breathlessly, frantically. He ignores her, sliding her robes off her shoulders with practiced hands, cold hands that then reach down and gently cup her pale breasts, making her shiver lightly as his long fingers slither up to tease her nipples, to stroke and rub and pinch.
He grows violent quickly, pressing his lips to hers in an almost painful kiss, his teeth biting down into and breaking the soft skin of her bottom lip, and she feels a few drops of blood spill into her mouth with their invasive metallic tang before he slips his tongue between her lips, startling her, and he is there and gone before she can even register it.
She feels the mattress yield as he shoves her down onto it, her elbows sinking into the soft down, her thighs parting before him as he leans on top of her, elbows bent, his cold hands cradling her head gently. He leans down for another kiss, sharp teeth nipping at the soft spot behind her ear as he slides into her effortlessly, hips easily finding a steady, pounding rhythm as they always do, again and again and again.
Her thighs tremble slightly around his hips and he smiles knowingly as he slides the pad of his thumb along her clit - she arches into his hand and comes, fingers gripping the back of his neck and whispering his name faintly. She feels him smile wickedly against the side of her neck, thrusting into her somehow even harder, his fingers digging bruisingly into her thighs, leaving imprints the color of aged wine blossoming in their wake.
He hisses her name through gritted teeth as he comes, almost as though it is being dragged out against his will.
I will be the death of you, he whispers, and she shivers and closes her eyes because deep down, she knows she wants it.
+
When she wakes, he is the first thing she sees, reclining cat-like on the bed next to her, doing nothing but watching intently, watching and waiting. She rises to her elbows, meeting his gaze defiantly.
“Good morning, love,” he says finally, a wry grin playing on his lips. “You slept so soundly I was afraid you might be dead.”
“Afraid, or hopeful?” she retorts as she sits up, pulling the sheets tightly around her breasts and shivering as she looks out the window. The sunlight is just barely beginning to spill over the harsh green of the horizon; she has time to spare.
The smile does not leave his lips. “Now, now, Minerva, no need to get peckish.” She does not respond, and his eyes follow hers to the window. “Yes, we still have time left.” He reaches out and slides a hand slowly down her arm, long fingers tugging suggestively at the bed sheet. “Why? Do you fancy another go?”
Her hand reaches out and grabs his, halting its progress. “I have to leave,” she states shortly. His expression does not change, and somehow that frightens her more than if he had lashed out. “And I won’t be back.”
This breaks him out of his reverie; he rolls his eyes, and his smile turns patronizing. “You say that every time, Minerva, and every time you return.” He turns on his side, propped up on his elbow, and raises his eyebrow skeptically. “One might begin to disregard absolutely everything you say.”
“I’m serious.” Her voice sounds strong, commanding; she preens as she feels him bristle. “I won’t be returning.”
He leans close, so close she can almost feel the pulse beating beneath his throat. “Why? Do I frighten you?” he asks.
She can hardly breathe; her heart races and flutters traitorously. “No.” She lies flawlessly.
Suddenly cross, he grasps her by the shoulders and pulls her away from him, forcing her to meet his eyes. It is much like being paralyzed, she thinks, but even the strongest body-bind spell is child’s play compared to this. After a moment, though, he smiles beatifically. “I don’t believe you,” he declares, sliding his hands down to cup her elbows, perpetually possessive underneath a facade of leniency. “Liar,” he accuses, only half-teasing.
She breaks free of his hold, earning a snarl for her troubles. “Well, I did learn from the best,” she asserts, avoiding his eyes carefully.
He regards her for a moment, and she knows better than to blink. Finally, he sighs deeply, lips pursed in a petulant frown. “Then so be it.”
“What?”
He glares pointedly at her. “I know you both heard and understood me, Minerva, you’re neither deaf nor dumb.”
“I heard you, yes, I just…” She is at a loss for words, feeling oddly slighted. “I suppose I just expected more of a fight.” She hates admitting even that, the fact that she needs him to want her.
He chuckles coldly. “One would think you would know better by now than to expect anything from me. But no matter.” He shrugs. “If you feel you must leave, then leave. Who am I to stop you?”
This time it is she who laughs. “We both know very well that if you wanted to stop me, you could.”
“Well, I could stop you, yes.” he says coyly.
“But you don’t want to, is that it?”
“We obviously strongly disagree on very important points, Minerva.” He says her name like a curse. “Points that are becoming more and more imperative with each passing day.” He brings a hand up and gently runs his thumb over the dried blood on her lip, but the tender look quickly leaves his eyes. “Perhaps all of our time together was nothing but a precursor to this moment.”
She shakes her head sadly, and catches his hand in hers, holds it briefly before he jerks away. “It just seems such a shame to waste such talent on evil.”
“Evil?” Tom snorts. “Evil is, for the most part, terribly overrated,” he says derisively, stretching lazily as he stands. He crosses the room and stops in front of the full-length window that overlooks the vast grounds. He lets his forehead rest against the chilled glass, brings a hand up, and braces himself against the window frame.
“But power isn’t.” This he whispers, so softly that Minerva doubts that she really heard it at all. She decides to pretend she did not, for this statement, for some reason, chills her to the bone, every syllable dripping with foreboding and peril, perfectly matching the feverish glint in his eyes.
+
She lets the door close with a slight click, slipping silently down the empty corridors. Her feet glide easily on the polished oak floor, barely touching the ground as she hurries back to her common room, ignoring the whispers of the paintings, ignoring the nagging voice in her head that warns her that she is cutting things entirely too close time-wise.
Her roommates are still asleep as she undresses quickly and slips into bed, closing her eyes in pretense mere minutes before the early riser springs out of bed and opens the blinds, rousing the reluctant rest out of their bunks.
Later, when she dresses, she does not worry when she cannot find her tie. She grumbles slightly as the lack of red and gold mocks her, her appearance so obviously incomplete, but she does not worry, knowing exactly where she left it, still tied around the wooden bedpost from last night.
She knows she will soon retrieve it.
Author: absinthe lust
Pairing: Tom/Minerva
Rating: R
Word Count: ~1800
A/N: Apologies if you've seen this before.
She likes the clear nights best; it is easier, then, to pretend that she is just a young princess in a fairy tale, stealing through the shadows and down the empty corridors on her way to meet her forbidden love. When it is stormy, the turmoil outside easily reflects and exposes the confusion within her, and she is not yet skilled enough to know and play by every rule in the game of self-deception. On stormy nights, she stays inside.
She walks briskly - no matter how respectable her reputation may be, she would be questioned as to her intentions, wandering the halls after hours. A shudder runs through her at the thought of having to explain, of having to fool another; it is certainly hard enough to deceive herself.
Tonight, the stars and the moon are arranged artfully in the black velveteen sky, the light they emit filtering through the stained-glass windows and throwing haphazard shadows onto the floor, ones she skips around skillfully, almost dancing.
She reaches the seventh floor much more quickly than times before, slipping beyond that telling tapestry and passing the blank wall one, two, three times. She has no trouble finding the room she needs; by now it knows her mind intimately.
He is standing beside the dark-curtained window that always seems to appear in this room when they meet, gazing out across the castle’s grounds. Her eyes fall to the deep hollow of his throat, the delicate ridge of collarbone that barely hides beneath pale skin. She wonders if he has always looked so deceptively fragile.
She says his name softly, once, twice, almost hoping he won’t hear. But he does, as always, hears and turns, slowly, so slowly that she feels she will burn with the anticipation of it.
He sees her and smiles.
+
He rarely ventures into the light - she frequently finds him in dark corridors, lurking in alcoves, stalking the halls at night. Like nearly all great things, he is most beautiful cloaked in shadow, muted - if she gets too close, his brightness will overpower her - she will be burned, blinded.
But he was always there, however guarded, always just one quickturn step behind her. The almost silent press of piano keys in an empty room, the delicate exhalation of a held breath, the quickened heartbeat, the whispery feeling of nimble fingertips ghosting along bare skin; that was him. She began to anticipate the feel of cold fingers on the back of her neck; the charming tone, the haughty smile that always catches her at once, dragging her over to the other side, if only for a short while at a time. It makes her easy prey, she knows, but finds that, for once, this does not deter her.
+
He is unfailingly arrogant in his ministrations - every move that he makes suggests, no, knows that he has played and won this game before, that he understands the rules intimately, and that there is no chance of losing. Minerva closes her eyes and tilts her head back, letting her long, black hair cascade over her shoulders as he bends to flick his tongue around the shell of her ear, down the side of her throat.
“Tom,” she whispers breathlessly, frantically. He ignores her, sliding her robes off her shoulders with practiced hands, cold hands that then reach down and gently cup her pale breasts, making her shiver lightly as his long fingers slither up to tease her nipples, to stroke and rub and pinch.
He grows violent quickly, pressing his lips to hers in an almost painful kiss, his teeth biting down into and breaking the soft skin of her bottom lip, and she feels a few drops of blood spill into her mouth with their invasive metallic tang before he slips his tongue between her lips, startling her, and he is there and gone before she can even register it.
She feels the mattress yield as he shoves her down onto it, her elbows sinking into the soft down, her thighs parting before him as he leans on top of her, elbows bent, his cold hands cradling her head gently. He leans down for another kiss, sharp teeth nipping at the soft spot behind her ear as he slides into her effortlessly, hips easily finding a steady, pounding rhythm as they always do, again and again and again.
Her thighs tremble slightly around his hips and he smiles knowingly as he slides the pad of his thumb along her clit - she arches into his hand and comes, fingers gripping the back of his neck and whispering his name faintly. She feels him smile wickedly against the side of her neck, thrusting into her somehow even harder, his fingers digging bruisingly into her thighs, leaving imprints the color of aged wine blossoming in their wake.
He hisses her name through gritted teeth as he comes, almost as though it is being dragged out against his will.
I will be the death of you, he whispers, and she shivers and closes her eyes because deep down, she knows she wants it.
+
When she wakes, he is the first thing she sees, reclining cat-like on the bed next to her, doing nothing but watching intently, watching and waiting. She rises to her elbows, meeting his gaze defiantly.
“Good morning, love,” he says finally, a wry grin playing on his lips. “You slept so soundly I was afraid you might be dead.”
“Afraid, or hopeful?” she retorts as she sits up, pulling the sheets tightly around her breasts and shivering as she looks out the window. The sunlight is just barely beginning to spill over the harsh green of the horizon; she has time to spare.
The smile does not leave his lips. “Now, now, Minerva, no need to get peckish.” She does not respond, and his eyes follow hers to the window. “Yes, we still have time left.” He reaches out and slides a hand slowly down her arm, long fingers tugging suggestively at the bed sheet. “Why? Do you fancy another go?”
Her hand reaches out and grabs his, halting its progress. “I have to leave,” she states shortly. His expression does not change, and somehow that frightens her more than if he had lashed out. “And I won’t be back.”
This breaks him out of his reverie; he rolls his eyes, and his smile turns patronizing. “You say that every time, Minerva, and every time you return.” He turns on his side, propped up on his elbow, and raises his eyebrow skeptically. “One might begin to disregard absolutely everything you say.”
“I’m serious.” Her voice sounds strong, commanding; she preens as she feels him bristle. “I won’t be returning.”
He leans close, so close she can almost feel the pulse beating beneath his throat. “Why? Do I frighten you?” he asks.
She can hardly breathe; her heart races and flutters traitorously. “No.” She lies flawlessly.
Suddenly cross, he grasps her by the shoulders and pulls her away from him, forcing her to meet his eyes. It is much like being paralyzed, she thinks, but even the strongest body-bind spell is child’s play compared to this. After a moment, though, he smiles beatifically. “I don’t believe you,” he declares, sliding his hands down to cup her elbows, perpetually possessive underneath a facade of leniency. “Liar,” he accuses, only half-teasing.
She breaks free of his hold, earning a snarl for her troubles. “Well, I did learn from the best,” she asserts, avoiding his eyes carefully.
He regards her for a moment, and she knows better than to blink. Finally, he sighs deeply, lips pursed in a petulant frown. “Then so be it.”
“What?”
He glares pointedly at her. “I know you both heard and understood me, Minerva, you’re neither deaf nor dumb.”
“I heard you, yes, I just…” She is at a loss for words, feeling oddly slighted. “I suppose I just expected more of a fight.” She hates admitting even that, the fact that she needs him to want her.
He chuckles coldly. “One would think you would know better by now than to expect anything from me. But no matter.” He shrugs. “If you feel you must leave, then leave. Who am I to stop you?”
This time it is she who laughs. “We both know very well that if you wanted to stop me, you could.”
“Well, I could stop you, yes.” he says coyly.
“But you don’t want to, is that it?”
“We obviously strongly disagree on very important points, Minerva.” He says her name like a curse. “Points that are becoming more and more imperative with each passing day.” He brings a hand up and gently runs his thumb over the dried blood on her lip, but the tender look quickly leaves his eyes. “Perhaps all of our time together was nothing but a precursor to this moment.”
She shakes her head sadly, and catches his hand in hers, holds it briefly before he jerks away. “It just seems such a shame to waste such talent on evil.”
“Evil?” Tom snorts. “Evil is, for the most part, terribly overrated,” he says derisively, stretching lazily as he stands. He crosses the room and stops in front of the full-length window that overlooks the vast grounds. He lets his forehead rest against the chilled glass, brings a hand up, and braces himself against the window frame.
“But power isn’t.” This he whispers, so softly that Minerva doubts that she really heard it at all. She decides to pretend she did not, for this statement, for some reason, chills her to the bone, every syllable dripping with foreboding and peril, perfectly matching the feverish glint in his eyes.
+
She lets the door close with a slight click, slipping silently down the empty corridors. Her feet glide easily on the polished oak floor, barely touching the ground as she hurries back to her common room, ignoring the whispers of the paintings, ignoring the nagging voice in her head that warns her that she is cutting things entirely too close time-wise.
Her roommates are still asleep as she undresses quickly and slips into bed, closing her eyes in pretense mere minutes before the early riser springs out of bed and opens the blinds, rousing the reluctant rest out of their bunks.
Later, when she dresses, she does not worry when she cannot find her tie. She grumbles slightly as the lack of red and gold mocks her, her appearance so obviously incomplete, but she does not worry, knowing exactly where she left it, still tied around the wooden bedpost from last night.
She knows she will soon retrieve it.