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MB Saucy Side: The Promise of Tahiti (Ferro Version)
🕑 Added 2023-09-30 06:52:27 +0000 UTCThe weather outside is frightful, but there is nothing delightful about the fireplace which refuses to fulfill its lyrical obligation. Instead of basking you in cozy warmth, the flames sputter weakly and filled the small cabin with smoke that burns your throat and nasal passageways.
Ferro stares helplessly down at the poker in his hand. “I think,” he says slowly, “that the chimney might be clogged.”
“Gee, what gave it away?”
Ferro winces at your heavy sarcasm, but you find it difficult to care about your boyfriend’s feelings when acrid fumes sting your eyes and make it increasingly difficult to breathe. This is why you suggested vacationing in Tahiti over summer break, but Ferro had his heart set on skiing—never mind the fact that neither of you know how to ski.
“We’ll learn!” he’d cheerfully claimed. “Babe, trust me. This cottage I rented is like something out a fairytale.”
“You already rented the cottage?” you’d asked taken aback.
“Trust me,” Ferro had repeated.
Lovestruck fool that you are, you trusted him. And now you’re both going to die. In New Zealand, to further the indignity of it all. Who on earth dies on a ski trip to New Zealand?
Of course, Ferro was never all that interested in skiing, which is why he reserved the first place he’d found online. Skiing was just the bait to convince you to come with him, a cherry on top of a two-week Lord of the Rings tour (that Ferro conveniently hadn’t mentioned, knowing that you’d sworn to never again go on a themed tour with him after the Star Trek debacle).
Granted, the tour had been fun. You might never be able to read Tolkien ever again, having reached your maximum tolerance for elven lore, but you did take some adorable photos of Ferro fanboying in the Fangorn Forrest. Should you both survive this, maybe you’ll start scrapbooking.
Ferro’s hoarse cough brings you back into the present, to the matter of the clogged chimney and your imminent demise.
The iron vent creaks as you close it, smothering the already dying flames to ash. You and Ferro both stare grimly at the extinguished fire.
“Maybe we can check into the resort?” you suggest.
Ferro shakes his head. “Radio said that roads are closed due to the storm.”
“So, no chance of getting someone out to fix the breaker then.”
“If the breaker were fixable, I’d do it myself,” Ferro says. “The wiring needs to be replaced.”
Fantastic. Being without electricity as one thing, but now even humanity’s most primitive heat source has failed. It feels like a personal affront by Prometheus himself: you can either spend the night freezing your ass off or asphyxiate from smoke inhalation.
You groan. If only Ferro’s puppy eyes weren’t so damn irresistible, you’d be in Tahiti right now.
“Maybe it’s not that bad,” Ferro says. “We’ll be like that fanfiction trope.” His voice lowers to a husky whisper: “Two strangers, forced by winter’s chill to seek refuge in an abandoned cottage, must cling to each other for warmth in order to survive. By the end of a steamy night, they’re lovers.”
“Except this rental cottage cost us seven-hundred dollars a night,” you point out, “and we’re already lovers.”
Ferro smirks. “I’m not opposed to roleplaying.”
That fact, you already knew. The Lord of the Rings tour left Ferro feeling . . . inspired.
“Maybe,” you concede.
* * * *
Fanfiction tropes, you and Ferro quickly realize, are bullshit.
There’s nothing sexy about a being burrito-ed with someone else by musty blanket inside a freezing, smoggy cabin. Initial attempts at nudity are immediately discarded; clothing is kept on, and several layers added out of necessity. Instead of skin touching skin, the polyester of your winter jackets rub sensuously against each other.
Even handholding is impossible given that both you and Ferro opt to wear mittens instead of risking frostbite.
Unable to sleep, you stare at the fluffy cottonball at the top of Ferro’s knit hat. Pale moonlight illuminates your breath, and a frigid breeze blows in through the open window (necessary to let the smoke out so that you and Ferro both don’t die).
“Next time, we go to Tahiti,” you inform Ferro.
He chuckles. “We’d certainly be wearing less clothing.”
You place your mittened hand upon his upper thigh, a teasing gesture which he doesn’t seem to feel through his snow pants.
“If we were in Tahiti, we’d be on a private beach,” you say, closing your eyes to imagine the scene. “One with white sands, secluded by palm trees.”
“Where no one could see us misbehave?” Ferro says, and you can hear the smile in his voice without opening your eyes. “I’d take your hand and walk us into the water.”
“The warm water,” you insist through chattering teeth.
“So warm it’s practically a jacuzzi,” Ferro promises. “We’d wade out until the water was waist high.” He pauses. “We’re not wearing bathing suits in this scenario, right?”
“Definitely no bathing suits,” you confirm.
“The water would be so clear that I’d still see your legs beneath the waves. I’d cusp my hands and fill them with water, only to open my fingers and let it cascade over your shoulders and chest like a waterfall.” His breath quickens, and he nuzzles your neck (or rather, your scarf, which is decidedly less erotic). “I’d give anything to see all of you under the sun,” he murmurs. “Water droplets glistening on your skin, nipples tightening in the salty ocean breeze.”
You frown. “No tightening nipples,” you chide. “I don’t want to be cold in Tahiti as well.”
“You’re only nippy in Tahiti because you’re turned on,” Ferro counters.
“Well, I won’t stay that way if you keep using the word ‘nippy’.”
“Then I’d use my hands,” Ferro says. “My tongue. Other parts of me.” Despite the ski mask covering his features, you can tell that he’s waggling his eyebrows.
“I don’t know,” you tease. “Aragorn and I are kinda hot and heavy right now.”
Ferro kisses you through the layers of protective fabric. It’s not sexy or steamy or electric or any of the adjectives usually used to described physical intimacy. Instead, his kiss is a promise: that he’ll love you no matter how many layers of clothing between, regardless of weather or location. To him, you’re irresistible whether flaunting your nudity on an imaginary beach in Tahiti or wrapped within a blanket cocoon in an unfortunately real, run-down cabin.
One thing, however, is certain:
Next time, you’ll pick the vacation.
