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Fic: Conjure Hell Is All I Do (Snow White: A Tale Of Terror, Will/Lilli)
Title: Conjure Hell Is All I Do
Fandom: Snow White: A Tale Of Terror
Pairing(s): Will/Lilli
Word Count: 1640
Rating: R
Summary: Will has nightmares, and Lilli seeks to comfort him.
Notes: Takes place partway through the movie.
"You should sleep," he says, and if her lips weren't still parted, they would, now, in surprise. She has never seen the look that is in his eyes - not from Peter, not even when he kissed her - but she is not without imagination; she knows what it must mean.
That he wants to kiss her again, as much as she wants to be kissed. Why, then, would he send her away?
"I'm not tired," she says.
"I am," he says, and she knows it for a lie, but she does not call him out for it.
-
She manages to sleep a little, but not deeply, and it is still dark when she wakes. At first, she has no idea what woke her - the night is silent - and then she hears Will, moaning in his sleep. Nightmares again; she is glad she did not sleep through them.
The others are asleep still, and farther away; even so, she walks quietly over to him, rests on her heels as she moves her hand near to his face.
He awakes with a start, and reaches for her, not gently; almost at once, his hand is at her throat.
She wonders what has ingrained in him so deeply that particular reflex, though she fears she knows the answer. She would rather she did not.
He releases his grip the instant he sees her, and it does not hurt. Still, she cannot help touching her hand to her throat, tracing where his hand had been, and his fists clench at his sides as if to keep from doing it again. It does not frighten her; she does not believe he would hurt her, even if he is unsure.
As if to prove to him so, she takes a step forward, and lays a hand gently on his chest. He does not back away, as she half expected, but reaches for her in kind; places a hand almost on her shoulder, traces one finger as if seeing invisible patterns in the air just above her skin. He is not even touching her - a hair's breadth away, as if there is some unseen barrier between them - but it is enough to set her pulse racing. Her heartbeat thunders in her ears as if it could wake their sleeping companions; almost as if it could wake those already dead.
She can feel every drop of water not yet gone from his skin; though it is no longer raining, it is not a dry night, and they are, however roughly, indoors. She draws the same patterns on his skin that he had nearly drawn on hers, and hears his breathing quicken in response. In the dim light, his eyes are almost black. This does frighten her, though she is not certain that fear is entirely the correct name for it.
She is breathing as rapidly as he is, and her mouth is dry, as if all the moisture has gone to the air and his still-damp skin. She darts her tongue out, licking her lips to wet them, and as she does, his gaze flickers down, drops to her mouth and stays there. It is too dark to read his expression, but she does not need to.
It is the same gesture Peter had used, before he kissed her; it must seem an invitation. Perhaps it is one.
Will wastes no time in seizing upon it. His mouth descends to hers, his lips fever-hot, and she abandons the teasing half-touches she had painted on his skin. Now, she can only cling to him as he bears her towards the crumbling brick of the walls; she cannot even return his kiss until they stop, pressed in the corner farthest from the few sleeping figures, and then she does so with abandon.
She had thought herself sufficiently in love with Peter, had thought his attentions adequate. It seems, now, as if comparing a loaf of stale bread to a wedding feast. She is starving, and stale bread is no longer enough to sate her hunger.
It is not until his hands dip lower - skimming her waist, and then her hips - that she has reason to pause. She knows of this, too, of course; Elsa always had a free tongue in private, and there were, after all, her own prospects to consider. It is the act of a marriage bed, that which Rolf had desired to take from her, and it is not to be given freely.
No matter how she aches for it.
Will stops when she hesitates, drawing back; the earlier look is not gone from his eyes, but it is dimmed, and there is something else in his expression. He does not speak, but waits for her, and she studies him; the beard on his jaw, so unlike Peter's smooth skin, the unlikely softness of his lips, the scar standing livid against his cheek. It is this last on which her expression catches - she has always thought him guarded, except in moments like these, but his face lays his past bare for all to see; it makes him perhaps the most honest man she has ever known.
Certainly, he is nothing like a savage at all.
"I can't," she says. Breathless, and she almost does not hear herself. She does not imagine the few moments it takes him to let her go, as if he is reluctant; of course he is. Reluctant, but not unwilling.
His hand lingers a moment longer on the crook of her elbow as he steps back, and it is not this that decides her, but the shiver that rolls up her spine at his touch. She thinks of the scar on his cheek, of the holy Crusaders who put it there, and thinks, to Hell with them. She is there already, or near enough; it is no longer of any consequence to her.
If she is to be dead, and abandoned, forgotten and replaced, she will at least have what she wants.
She catches his hand as he goes, pulls him back towards her, and he comes willingly. He kisses her again, harder this time, as if to prevent her from pulling away again, or perhaps warning her what is to come after. His hand slips from hers, catches on her wrist, encircles it - not quite gently, but not painfully, either, and she allows him to move it as he will, behind her back, scraping against the rough stone. The pressure of his lips is almost bruising, and not nearly hard enough; if this is the man he is, she wants him entire.
His free hand moves up, settles below her hip, bunching the skirts there. She helps him as best she can, gathering her shift, and then his hand is on her bare skin, above the knee, trailing inside her thigh. It is enough to make gooseflesh stand out on her skin, but he does not stop there; it is not her thighs he is content with, but what lies between them, and he is as rough and as careful in this as he is with her always. She did not imagine it would be like this - she has always thought of it as a duty, as a means for procreation, but this is not that, at all.
His touch leaves her suddenly, and she would protest, even in company as they are, if she could not see what he does instead. She almost does not look, but she will not, she thinks, be childish or afraid; if she can choose to lie with a man who is not even her husband, she can certainly gaze upon him if she wishes. Her glimpse does not last long, and then she must close her eyes, anyway, as he moves in her; keeps them closed, until he speaks.
"Lilli," he says, and her name on his lips, the heat in his voice, rough and low, sends another shiver through her; not in her spine, this time, but lower. "Open your eyes. Look at me."
She does - looks straight into his eyes, as he is looking into hers. There is a need there, desperate, that echoes her own, and he almost smiles, perhaps at recognising the same.
He looks as if he would speak more, but does not, and it is a good thing, for she would be unable to reply. She closes her eyes against a sudden rush of pleasure, and sinks against him, against the wall behind her; moments later there is a groan and he is pressing her back, leaning almost his full weight against her. Her breathing still comes heavy, as does his, and for a long moment there is no other sound.
"Lilli," he says finally, and she looks up at him; his gaze is hesitant, now, and she will not allow him to bear the shame of something she willingly chose.
She kisses to silence him, parting only to pull his shirt over his head; strange that it should be done now, but she feels no shame in it, only traces those same patterns once again on his skin. She does not look up, afraid of what his expression might show.
"Lie with me," she says, and it comes out more like a command than she had intended. Still, he goes with her, and wraps his arms around her as she makes her bed on the hard stone floor. It is nothing like a marriage bed, but she would not have it be false; tonight, at least, they can both be honest.
"Sleep," she says, quiet into his chest, and he closes his eyes; her fingers rest on his scarred cheek, only for a moment. "Do not be plagued by dreams."
They are still, as is the night around them, and when sleep finally comes, it is untroubled.
Fandom: Snow White: A Tale Of Terror
Pairing(s): Will/Lilli
Word Count: 1640
Rating: R
Summary: Will has nightmares, and Lilli seeks to comfort him.
Notes: Takes place partway through the movie.
"You should sleep," he says, and if her lips weren't still parted, they would, now, in surprise. She has never seen the look that is in his eyes - not from Peter, not even when he kissed her - but she is not without imagination; she knows what it must mean.
That he wants to kiss her again, as much as she wants to be kissed. Why, then, would he send her away?
"I'm not tired," she says.
"I am," he says, and she knows it for a lie, but she does not call him out for it.
-
She manages to sleep a little, but not deeply, and it is still dark when she wakes. At first, she has no idea what woke her - the night is silent - and then she hears Will, moaning in his sleep. Nightmares again; she is glad she did not sleep through them.
The others are asleep still, and farther away; even so, she walks quietly over to him, rests on her heels as she moves her hand near to his face.
He awakes with a start, and reaches for her, not gently; almost at once, his hand is at her throat.
She wonders what has ingrained in him so deeply that particular reflex, though she fears she knows the answer. She would rather she did not.
He releases his grip the instant he sees her, and it does not hurt. Still, she cannot help touching her hand to her throat, tracing where his hand had been, and his fists clench at his sides as if to keep from doing it again. It does not frighten her; she does not believe he would hurt her, even if he is unsure.
As if to prove to him so, she takes a step forward, and lays a hand gently on his chest. He does not back away, as she half expected, but reaches for her in kind; places a hand almost on her shoulder, traces one finger as if seeing invisible patterns in the air just above her skin. He is not even touching her - a hair's breadth away, as if there is some unseen barrier between them - but it is enough to set her pulse racing. Her heartbeat thunders in her ears as if it could wake their sleeping companions; almost as if it could wake those already dead.
She can feel every drop of water not yet gone from his skin; though it is no longer raining, it is not a dry night, and they are, however roughly, indoors. She draws the same patterns on his skin that he had nearly drawn on hers, and hears his breathing quicken in response. In the dim light, his eyes are almost black. This does frighten her, though she is not certain that fear is entirely the correct name for it.
She is breathing as rapidly as he is, and her mouth is dry, as if all the moisture has gone to the air and his still-damp skin. She darts her tongue out, licking her lips to wet them, and as she does, his gaze flickers down, drops to her mouth and stays there. It is too dark to read his expression, but she does not need to.
It is the same gesture Peter had used, before he kissed her; it must seem an invitation. Perhaps it is one.
Will wastes no time in seizing upon it. His mouth descends to hers, his lips fever-hot, and she abandons the teasing half-touches she had painted on his skin. Now, she can only cling to him as he bears her towards the crumbling brick of the walls; she cannot even return his kiss until they stop, pressed in the corner farthest from the few sleeping figures, and then she does so with abandon.
She had thought herself sufficiently in love with Peter, had thought his attentions adequate. It seems, now, as if comparing a loaf of stale bread to a wedding feast. She is starving, and stale bread is no longer enough to sate her hunger.
It is not until his hands dip lower - skimming her waist, and then her hips - that she has reason to pause. She knows of this, too, of course; Elsa always had a free tongue in private, and there were, after all, her own prospects to consider. It is the act of a marriage bed, that which Rolf had desired to take from her, and it is not to be given freely.
No matter how she aches for it.
Will stops when she hesitates, drawing back; the earlier look is not gone from his eyes, but it is dimmed, and there is something else in his expression. He does not speak, but waits for her, and she studies him; the beard on his jaw, so unlike Peter's smooth skin, the unlikely softness of his lips, the scar standing livid against his cheek. It is this last on which her expression catches - she has always thought him guarded, except in moments like these, but his face lays his past bare for all to see; it makes him perhaps the most honest man she has ever known.
Certainly, he is nothing like a savage at all.
"I can't," she says. Breathless, and she almost does not hear herself. She does not imagine the few moments it takes him to let her go, as if he is reluctant; of course he is. Reluctant, but not unwilling.
His hand lingers a moment longer on the crook of her elbow as he steps back, and it is not this that decides her, but the shiver that rolls up her spine at his touch. She thinks of the scar on his cheek, of the holy Crusaders who put it there, and thinks, to Hell with them. She is there already, or near enough; it is no longer of any consequence to her.
If she is to be dead, and abandoned, forgotten and replaced, she will at least have what she wants.
She catches his hand as he goes, pulls him back towards her, and he comes willingly. He kisses her again, harder this time, as if to prevent her from pulling away again, or perhaps warning her what is to come after. His hand slips from hers, catches on her wrist, encircles it - not quite gently, but not painfully, either, and she allows him to move it as he will, behind her back, scraping against the rough stone. The pressure of his lips is almost bruising, and not nearly hard enough; if this is the man he is, she wants him entire.
His free hand moves up, settles below her hip, bunching the skirts there. She helps him as best she can, gathering her shift, and then his hand is on her bare skin, above the knee, trailing inside her thigh. It is enough to make gooseflesh stand out on her skin, but he does not stop there; it is not her thighs he is content with, but what lies between them, and he is as rough and as careful in this as he is with her always. She did not imagine it would be like this - she has always thought of it as a duty, as a means for procreation, but this is not that, at all.
His touch leaves her suddenly, and she would protest, even in company as they are, if she could not see what he does instead. She almost does not look, but she will not, she thinks, be childish or afraid; if she can choose to lie with a man who is not even her husband, she can certainly gaze upon him if she wishes. Her glimpse does not last long, and then she must close her eyes, anyway, as he moves in her; keeps them closed, until he speaks.
"Lilli," he says, and her name on his lips, the heat in his voice, rough and low, sends another shiver through her; not in her spine, this time, but lower. "Open your eyes. Look at me."
She does - looks straight into his eyes, as he is looking into hers. There is a need there, desperate, that echoes her own, and he almost smiles, perhaps at recognising the same.
He looks as if he would speak more, but does not, and it is a good thing, for she would be unable to reply. She closes her eyes against a sudden rush of pleasure, and sinks against him, against the wall behind her; moments later there is a groan and he is pressing her back, leaning almost his full weight against her. Her breathing still comes heavy, as does his, and for a long moment there is no other sound.
"Lilli," he says finally, and she looks up at him; his gaze is hesitant, now, and she will not allow him to bear the shame of something she willingly chose.
She kisses to silence him, parting only to pull his shirt over his head; strange that it should be done now, but she feels no shame in it, only traces those same patterns once again on his skin. She does not look up, afraid of what his expression might show.
"Lie with me," she says, and it comes out more like a command than she had intended. Still, he goes with her, and wraps his arms around her as she makes her bed on the hard stone floor. It is nothing like a marriage bed, but she would not have it be false; tonight, at least, they can both be honest.
"Sleep," she says, quiet into his chest, and he closes his eyes; her fingers rest on his scarred cheek, only for a moment. "Do not be plagued by dreams."
They are still, as is the night around them, and when sleep finally comes, it is untroubled.