Burnt Sugar
It’s just after dusk when they clunk back into their guest room. After the ceremony, there had been a low-key sort of “reception.” Maria had fired up the fired up the grill and an intense tournament of cornhole had broken out
“So where are they going to again?” Yon asks while he closes the door behind them.
”The arcade,” Carol responds while turning on the lamps near their bed, the room dimly lit, “Monica mentioned it to Verena and they ganged up on Maria, Talos, and Soren. They’ll probably be gone until late, maybe get the girls a snack or something too.”
Yon hums in acknowledgement as Carol crosses back over to him.
“You were a good sport, you know?” Carol praises, brushing a dried patch of buttercream frosting off his cheek; Monica had made red velvet cupcakes, Carol’s absolute favorite, and insisted that they perform the traditional Cake Smash, much to unsuspecting Yon’s dismay. After slinking over to the mirror on the dresser, she removes the flower crown from her tousled hair and sets it down gently onto the hardwood surface.
“I had a nice time,” Yon adds sincerely from his seat on the edge of the bed, unlacing his shoes.
“I did too,” smiling at him in the mirror as she unclips the pin from her dress. After combing her fingers through her messy hair, she turns around to face him and leans on the chest of drawers comfortably, “I did have an idea that may make a bit nicer though.”
“Oh?” he cocks his eyebrow at her, rising from his seat to approach her. “And what would that be?” he investigates coyly, squaring his hands on her hips
Carol escapes his grasp easily, moving to her duffle bag on the floor. She bends to search through it for a moment, Yon curiously trying to see over her shoulder. When she finds the object, she turns back to him while keeping it out of his view behind her back. She comes to face him once again, but this time slightly bashful and timid, very odd for steadfast Carol. Wordlessly, she brings the cloth-covered mystery in front of him. Then, she unwraps the fabric and he feels his heart stop at what he sees.
The first thing that came into view was an obsidian blade about as wide as his thumb nail and nearly as thin as well. Then, a dull gun-metal handle peaks out, etched with delicate star designs and Kree glyphs, he thinks he makes out the interlocking symbol for bond and curly, twisting design for vow. Accents of shimmering gold and deep indigo paint outlined each engraving. He knew almost immediately that this was no ordinary knife.
It was a bonding blade.
At first, he’s lost for words and just dumbly stares at it, his brain short-circuiting. He has so many questions, but they’re all jumbled. Finally, he formulates a complete thought, choking it out dryly “where did you get this?”
“Remember when we went deep undercover on Lekyrah?” He nodded, of course he remembered. They had been aiding the Kree border planet in their behind-the-scenes, yet somehow incredibly bloody battle for independence.
“I got it when we passed through that market,” she replies matter-of-factly.
His eyes go wide, “you’ve had it that long?”
“Yeah,” she answers, blushing, “I never had any doubts - did you?”
He shakes his head. No, he can’t say he had.
He takes her hand in his, an act of comfort. “We don’t have to do this, the blood transfusion fulfills the law. These aren’t your ways,” he knew Carol was anything but fond of Kree traditions. He never wants to make her feel forced into being something she wasn’t ever again.
“No, but they’re yours. Besides, we might as well do it right.”
He strokes the back of her hand with his thumb, warmed by her motivations. Moving as one, they fill the open space in the middle of their room. They settle themselves on the floor, sitting on their shins in front of each other, close enough that their knees grazed each other with each breath. Their arms rested on their thighs, palms facing the sky. Their gazes only on each other and completely unfaltering. Nearly simultaneously, they both creep a hand up their neck, switching their universal translators off. Using them wouldn’t have been a nuisance, but performing the ceremony in natural Kree tongue was far more intimate.
“Do I sound as bad as I think I do?” Carol asks as she hesitantly trips over the words. After ditching the Kree, she had completely deserted their language. She could still read it perfectly fine, but she can’t recall exactly how long it had been since she had spoken it and Carol knew she was rusty.
“You never sound bad to me,” Yon replies fluently, skimming her thigh. The silk did little to protect her from his touch, his warmth creating goosebumps where he caressed. But just like a breeze on a hot day, he was gone far too soon, returning to mirror her,
Carol breathes out through her nose, recentering herself before picking up the ceremonial blade. She could feel the curves, the grooves, the ridges of its detailed handle as it settles in her palm. With her other hand, she delicately hangs on the back of his neck. Leaning her forehead on his, she remains his gape with the same fire he has creating lusty smoke in his honey eyes, making the hazy and cloudy.
“Blood is sacred. It flows through not only our bodies, it flows through our souls. To spill blood is to waste the most valuable liquid in the universe. Every characteristic our blood has is a representation of our people: its deep, vibrant color mimics our deep, vibrant culture; the power it provides parallels the power of our spirits; its thickness is the thickness of our skin, unbreakable to the enemy. Blood is not just the liquid that gives us life, the blood in us is our life,” Carol recites before leaning down to his neck as to press a gentle kiss to his jugular. The steady pulse of his blood thumping against her lips as she speaks into the burning skin, “to open your veins to me is to give your life to me. Do you trust me to value your blood? To cherish its significance? To take pride in your existence? To hold your life next to my own?”
“I do,” Yon-Rogg rasps, his throat, his mouth going dry.
Carol lovingly smiles into his neck before lifting her hand from its crook, her free hand taking his right. Then, with a soft grip on the knife, she presses the blade into the skin of his palm just under his pinkie. Carol smoothly continues the cut, creating a linear line ending below his thumb, slightly above his wrist. There was no pain in the action. To Yon, the fluidity of it made it feel like a caress both on the surface of his flesh and underneath it. The blue blood begins to seep from the wound immediately, its viscosity causing fat beads to form. With both hands, Carol deftly brings his palm to her mouth as to not spill any of the precious substance. Finally, she covers the cut with the heat of her mouth, licking it to collect the deep blue pearls on her tongue before swallowing, her eyes never leaving his. Her saliva felt boiling hot, yet still oddly soothing to the abused flesh of his palm and she tongues at him almost like massage and he nearly whimpers at the feeling. Carol collects every speck of blue blood escaping in the ridges of his hand before pulling away, her brown eyes nearly black with something dark and primal. A thin stream of blood leaks from the corner of her mouth and starts to bead down her chin. Yon-Rogg instinctively uses a finger to collect it and Carol catches it with her sinful mouth, sucking it clean before releasing it with a subtle, slick pop. She had been too distracted to notice him slip the knife from her loosened grip, Yon-Rogg taking the role of dominance from her.
His hand slips from hers, his fingers ghosting over her temple before sweeping down the gentle slope of her check and finally tracing the sharp outline of her jaw. Almost in a daze, Yon grasps Carol’s chin with ironic tenderness, tilting her head and gaze up to him, elongating and exposing the pale porcelain plains of her neck. He drops his head to her level, bringing his lips just a wisp away from her own. Their breath mingles heavily as he begins his recitation. “Blood is sacred. It flows through not only our bodies, it flows through our souls. To spill blood is to waste the most valuable liquid in the universe,” the deep vibrato of his voice causes his lips to vibrate making them lightly brush against Carol’s. “Every characteristic our blood has is a representation of our people: its deep, vibrant color mimics our deep, vibrant culture; the power it provides parallels the power of our spirits; its thickness is the thickness of our skin,” Yon mutters as he snakes his hand from her chin, dusting down her neck and over her collarbone, her shoulder, nimble fingers tickling the length of her arm leaving shivers in their wake, “unbreakable to the enemy. Blood is not just the liquid that gives us life, the blood in us is our life.” In only a moment, the warmth of his breath leaves Carol’s lips and she almost groans at the loss, but then she feels the heat on her temple and the inferno of his kiss on the surface, her eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. The blaze burns its way down the slant of her cheekbone as Yon settles on her hot check. “To open your veins to me is to give your life to me. Do you trust me to value your blood? To cherish its significance? To take pride in your existence? To hold your life next to my own?” he mutters onto her supple skin, the words feeling like a stroke of pure fire to her excited nerves.
“I do,” Carol sighs blissfully, “I do.”
With the consent she has given him, Yon-Rogg takes her hand into his at last. Bringing their intertwined hands to fill the void of space between their torsos, he gracefully takes the knife that had been patiently resting in his uncut hand to the expanse of her palm. Repeating the same path she had taken on his own, Carol nearly moans at the release of the cool, somehow soft metal gracing her skin. The blood pooling, Yon bends, attaching his mouth to the oasis building in her palm, drinking it dry. A broken, feeble whimper leaves Carol’s lungs as he gives one last long stroke of his tongue down the entirety of the slice for good measure. The minute he straightens his torso, Carol can’t help but pounce on him, crashing his lips to hers with the strength of an ocean wave on a jagged rock cove. She moans at the taste of her blood, their blood, on his tongue, tart and syrupy. His hands crawl upwards to the straps of her dress, tugging the silk down her shoulders and pooling the gown around her waist. Breaking away for a single breath, they rise and the blue fabric falls like a waterfall down her legs and bunches around her feet. As they frantically reconnect, they stumble out of the silk twisting around their faltering feet, staggering blindly before the backs of Carol’s thighs meet the softness of the mattress, her back colliding with the feathery sham blanketing it.
“We certainly are newlyweds, huh?” Carol laughs breathlessly before choking into an elongated moan as Yon-Rogg’s lips begin their assault on her neck. He marks the skin like a painting, creating blooming deep purple bruises on the canvas that was her milky white skin.
“You're leaving them too high,” she pouts weakly, her actions conflicting with her words as she intertwines her fingers into his sandy locks to keep him locked against her.
“Wear a scarf,” he gruffs into her neck, his teeth nibbling a particular tender region of her throat making her wriggle against the ministration.
“It’s 74 degrees out.”
“You get cold.”
“Liar,” Carol grins cockily at him as Yon turns his focus further south, Taking one bra strap from her shoulder, he drags it down slowly, savoring the anticipation and the way Carol’s breath halts and skin flushes. Every second feels like an eternity, the wait suddenly ending when the cup slips from her breast, a magenta nipple exposing itself to him. She gasps the minute the barrier is removed from her bud, making it vulnerable to the cool spring air.
“I don’t know,” Yon contemplates slyly, “you seem a little bit cold to me.”
Gently cupping the breast, he flicks the erect bud before giving it a firm pinch. Carol throws one of her arms next to her head, clutching the crinkled bedding with her hand, a short, high-pitched whimper escaping her plump lips.
“Bastard,” she sighs breathily.
He hums in passive acknowledgement, far more concerned with keeping such delicious noises rolling off her tongue, taking the peak into his mouth to aid in his objective . The wet, slippery warmth blanketing her nipple like humid fog sends shudders of pleasure to the very tips of her toes. Circling the bud with his tongue as he draws it further and further into his mouth with each solid suck, Yon smiles when he is rewarded with sharp moans falling from Carol’s lips like lyrical, rhythmic music. Carol whimpers as she feels the heat leave her chest before breaking out into a keening cry as he subtly drags his teeth over the tip of the pointed peak. He kisses his way swiftly across the flushing skin of her chest, exposing more as he goes by dragging the other bra strap down her arm and taking the twin into his secure grip, repeating his attention on the ignored nipple: pinch, flick, lick, suck, graze. By the time he slips his hands behind her back to unhook her lowered bra, Carol’s head is swimming, absolutely drowning, in the sea of his affections. Her dizzy brain fails to register his progress, Yon somehow between her trembling thighs, pulling her panties down her long legs and off her body smoothly. When he finally settles himself at her center, Carol’s lungs begin to burn as she realizes she had been waiting with bated breath for him to make his arrival causing her to take in a deep gasp of oxygen into the neglected organs. His lips dust over her sensitive inner thighs, an adept finger tracing the entirety of her slit, collecting the heated wetness as he goes. Carol throws her head back, a grunted sign escaping her.
“You’re dripping,” Yon notes as he sops the fluid onto her clit, using the slickness to rub it, frictionless.
“You’re cocky,” Carol challenges back, breathless.
Unwavering from her dispute, Yon dips a finger into her, putting her in her place. She can’t control the involuntarily clench of her muscles from the intrusion and Yon notices. “Well, you feel like you like it.” Skimming his nose on the plump flesh of her thighs, he continues “and you smell like you like it.” Moving his face back to her pussy, his tongue escapes his mouth and gives a lap to her, shocking her senses and sending both of her hands twisting into the comforter. “And you certainly taste like you like it.”
Yon-Rogg knows he’s won the battle when Carol doesn’t quip back smartly, instead breathing a heavy sigh. He smiles at the admission of defeat, dragging his tongue up to her clit to swiping at it like a switch, turning on and off her pleasure. With the space he has created, he pushes a second finger into her, then shortly after a third. Each push is marked by a salacious, languid moan tumbling from her mouth. He sets a steady pace of thrusts and twists, caressing every ridge, bump, and crevice of her walls paired with short, crisp licks on her nub. Carol can feel the adrenaline in her blood, the sweat beginning to prick onto her skin at the onset. She was sure her nails must be leaving thin, slit-like holes in the bedding by now, perhaps even a few singes as her hands burn under his attention. She feels the tension building in her gut like sand dripping and pooling in an hourglass, approaching oblivion. Still, his touches aren’t enough, a few stubborn grains sticking to the glass and refusing to fall. She wants to tell him what she wants, to beg him to take her to the edge and allow her to fall into bliss.
“Yon-Rogg, please, please, I need - “ her mouth stalls, the Kree word for her desire completely missing from her mind, a stark blank in her vocabulary.
“What do you need?” he mumbles on her folds, the vibrations sending delectable trembles throughout her body.
“I can’t remember how to say it in Kree,” she grumbles lightly in dissatisfaction, “just please, please.”
Yon-Rogg knows he could turn on his universal translator to clarify, but his eyes glimmer cunningly as he comes up with a better idea to identify her want. Speeding his pace from languid to quick strokes, he asks “you want it faster?”
“Yes,” she cries, “and I need, need it-“
“Harder?” he elaborates, the thrusts of his fingers becoming bruising.
“Yes! I need it all, I need-“
“More?” He finishes, looking over the curves of her body to her face quizzically. “You need more?”
“Yes! I need more, more, more,” Carol chants like a devoted mantra.
Yon-Rogg needs no further instruction, combining his previous adjustments and covering the entirety of her clit with his mouth, flicking it with his tongue while sucking.
She wails his name like she was praising an ancient deity, the string inside her becoming tauter and tauter and tauter before it snaps like a rubber band. She cums, his fingers knuckle-deep inside of her velvet heat and his mouth suckling at her clit, with a flood of fluid and a scream. Yon extends the high, licking at the nub and his fingers continuing to squelch inside her until she pushes him away with a weak hand, overwhelmed by the ecstasy. He takes one last taste of her glistening juices before abiding by her, pulling himself from his vigil between her thighs.
Carol can’t catch her breath as her chest heaves with her labored, hiccuping breathing. Her body shakes progressively die, but her head still feels like it’s stuffed with cotton. She is blissfully boneless and weightless, the same way she felt when she first learned to 4-point-roll back at the Air Force Academy. Her dilated eyes darkened and unfocused on the ceiling about her.
Yon-Rogg crawls up her body when Carol comes back to Earth, her breathing starting to steady, eyes returning to their inviting auburn color, desperate shakes becoming a slight tremor. He settles himself above her, using his arms folded above her head to balance his weight as to not smother her.
“Have I fulfilled my duty as a husband?” he questions softly, brushing some of the wild, matted golden hair from her face.
“I do feel pretty fulfilled,” she jests, brushing her thumb over the blunt arch of his cheek. “But don’t I think you’re entirely off the hook yet. You should get going, you’re wife’s an impatient woman.”
“How could I ever forget, I did marry Carol Danvers, infamous for her flaming fists and short-temper.”
“Don’t you mean Carol Rogg?” Carol lifting an arched brow and quipping her lips in tandem.
His heart swells at the sentiment, pressing his lips to hers softly before whispering, “I guess I do.”
For a few beats, they don’t speak, they don’t move, they don’t even breathe. Only their eyes flicker over each other’s faces, savoring the small details of each other: Carol favoring to study the skinny scratched scar just below his left brow, Yon-Rogg brushing the dusting of tan freckles across her cheeks. When their travelling gazes crossed, they smile warmly at one another before he moves to his knees to remove his slacks and briefs, then unbuttoning his shirt. His comforting weight returns in almost an instance with the added bonus that now she could feel his rough skin on the entirety of her body. Her arms instinctively wrap around his broad shoulder, shivering as her bare breasts press against the hard contours of his chest. He grabs her thighs, hauling her legs to encircle his lean torso and spread for him.
“And tell me, Mrs. Rogg,” Yon implores, pressing a feather-light kiss to the corner of her mouth which was agape in lusty anticipation, “what is that you want?” His tip barely dipping into her wetness.
“You, Mr. Rogg.” Carol pleads, moving one of her hands to the back of his neck and dragging him down so his forehead rests on her own. She looks adoringly into his honey eyes, milky with desire, as she continues, “all I want is you.”
He drops his head a few inches further, colliding their mouths while he completely fills her in one strong thrust. He swallows the keening mewl she releases at the intrusion, using the action as leverage to deepen their kiss, his tongue exploring her mouth. Ever the strategic commander, he tactfully registers her body’s reactions to his actions to establish a pace that would best satisfy her: the way her nails bit into his skin when he pulls his cock out, leaving only the tip inside her; the quick rhythm of her chest and flutter of her lashes when he drives in fast, but pulls out slow. He soon figures out a pattern of punishingly-paced complete thrusts that have her toes painfully curling into the small of his back. When Yon shifts the plunges just a hair higher, he brushes a spot that sends pure electricity jolting throughout her body. A deep gasp rips through the air, her body curling into the wonderful feeling and eyes shooting wide open.
“Fuck” she growls, her fingers bruising his muscular back as she clasps desperately onto him. “God Yon - shit - please,” she sobs.
“Please what?”
“Don’t -“ she breaks off into a high-pitched whine, “just don’t stop.”
Her hands trail up, caressing on their ascent, cupping his face. Her eyes glaze over his face sporadically, a million things she wants to say on the tip of her tongue yet somehow so foreign and far away. Instead, she chooses to express herself the way she knows best, through action; she covers his lips with her own, moving them in the shapes of the Kree glyphs she wishes she could speak, hoping that Yon-Rogg understands. She knows he receives the message from the way their pace slows, their raw rut molding into something softer, more intimate. He focuses his attention on the spot, hitting it over and over and over again. Their eyes trained solely on each other and their gasps paired like a musical duet accompanied by beat of their slapping skin. The pleasure knotting at the base of his spine is becoming inescapable, making it harder and harder to ignore. He skims a hand down their bodies, slipping it between them to rub at her bundle of nerves while his mouth goes to suckle on the fragile flesh under her ear and she’s gone. Her back arches sharply and she calls out his name in commendation. With a few more pumps into her tightened, pulsating softness, he follows her into climax with a deep guttural moan muffled into the sweaty skin of her neck. He collapses onto her, the weight far more comforting than crushing. For a few minutes, they just lay there together gasping for breath and basking in the sweet afterglow of ecstasy, Carol’s fingers gently carding through his hair. Then he realizes that he’s probably suffocating her under his dead-weight and swiftly rolls them over so she’s on top of him, Carol releasing a fit of giggles at the action.
“God, you’re making me dizzy,” She laughs, straddling his waist.
“Hopefully in a good way,” he replies huskily, nibbling on her ear.
“Oh yes,” she hums, “definitely in a good way, a great way actually.”
She leans down to kiss him again, a smirk on her lips, but she’s stopped by an odd sensation tickling her palm. Something slick, sticky, and wet covers her fingertips and drips down her wrist. ‘Oh yeah, the cut,’ she thinks, nodding the curiosity away. Then it comes abruptly back, stunning her.
THE. CUT.
“Oh my god, we forgot about the blood!” She gapes.
It’s like she can finally see with clear eyes, and gods did they make a mess. The region of the bedding Carol had been gripping by her head is absolutely drenched in blood. Swipes of blue cover Yon-Rogg’s face and neck, she can safely assume his back and shoulders were painted in the same. With a quick glance down her body, she knows she’s not much better; azure blotches covering her thighs and breasts like war paint. The light beige fabric of the comforter is trashed, the blood on their bodies transferring onto the layer like a stamp. Yon-Rogg comes to as well due to her outburst, noticing the destruction of their lovemaking but has a different reaction. He snickers, not laughs, that bastard fucking snickers.
“It’s a mess, this isn’t funny!” Carol weakly pushing his shoulder.
“It is a little funny.”
“What in the hell am I gonna tell Maria?” She laminates, bashfully burying her head into the tainted fabric.
“That you got distracted,” he kids, Carol lifting her head just enough so he can see her unamused eyes.
“Oh har, har,” she jokes sarcastically before yelping at the feeling of her body leaving the bed. “What do you think you’re doing?” she accuses while gripping onto him like a koala.
“Like you said it’s a mess,” he looks down at her with mischievous eyes, his slow strides continuing towards the attached bathroom “and messes need to be cleaned up.”
“I meant the bedding.”
“You didn’t specify,” his burning lips returning back to her bruised neck.
Carol wants to fight back, but she wants to give in more. She melts into his warm touch, stretching out her neck for him. Besides, they had the rest of the night to clean up their mess and the rest of their lives to clean up the many more that would surely follow after.