#Italian Silk Collection

[shopsofiacollection]

Collections of Italian silk fabrics provide an opulent experience with a variety of superior textiles that highlight Italy's commitment to elegance and craftsmanship. Depending on their quality, kind of silk, and distinctive design aspects, these materials can range greatly in price. Because of its flawless texture and longevity, pure Italian silk typically fetches a higher price. Although raw Italian silk is less expensive, it nonetheless adds a high-end touch because of its natural sheen and slightly rough feel. Inspired by Italy's creative legacy, these textiles are frequently created with vivid hues and elaborate designs.

Because Italian silk can be used to create a wide range of attractive clothes, from sophisticated evening gowns to fashionable everyday wear, it may be worth the investment for fashion fans. Italian silk collections, whose costs reflect the fabric's quality and rarity, are also well-liked for luxury clothing and custom-tailoring.

To reach us out in offline mode do not forget to visit

SofiaCollections

2515 Washington Ave #1502, Houston, TX 77007, US

Email: sofiacustomerservice@gmail.com

Visit Our website - https://www.shop-sofia.com/

[chicinsilk]

"Coquelicot"

Marc Bohan for Christian Dior Spring/Summer 1961 Haute Couture Collection. Sophie Derly wears "Coquelicot" (poppy), a red silk pleated dress and matching coat ensemble. Photo Rolf Lutz.

Marc Bohan pour Christian Dior Collection Haute Couture Printemps/été 1961. Sophie Derly porte "Coquelicot" un ensemble robe plissée en soie rouge et manteau assorti. Photo Rolf Lutz.

[martysimone]

Edge o' Beyond | Lyvie • teddy in French Leavers lace + ultra-fine sheer tulle + Italian silk | anniversary collection

[zae-heeyyy]

Chiaroscuro

Summary: You're very fond of silk scarfs and Arthur Morgan. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female!Reader Word Count: 1,555 Tags: fluff, developing relationship, Horseshoe Overlook, kissing, affection

a/n: It's been 10 years since I've written and published any type of fiction, so I'm a bit out of my comfort zone. Also learned that they mostly used "scarfs" instead of "scarves" in the 20th century so I wrote accordingly. Let me know if you enjoy; thanks for reading!

( ´˘ᴗ˘)♡(´ ❥ `✿)

chiaroscuro: an Italian term used in art to describe the contrast between light and dark, often associated with dramatic lighting.

You let yourself indulge in one of the few simple pleasures you could afford: silk scarfs. Your clothing trunk was full of them; they were light and didn’t take up a lot of space, something you had to think about in your line of work. The often patterned and bright pieces of fabric were soft and delicate, two things you frequently wished you could be if your life had gone differently. You didn’t want to admit it, but you cared about looking pretty. You didn’t like to go out of your way to style your hair or put on makeup daily, so you settled on scarfs. Still, you didn’t feel like you were easily noticed, like Mary Beth or Molly, but you’d caught the attention of the only one you’d care to, Arthur Morgan. 

Arthur had started to notice your growing collection. He invariably knew when you were wearing a new one, always taking the time to acknowledge it. “New scarf?” He’d ask with his brows raised, or “That’s a nice one.” Sometimes, he’d tease you, “We’re gonna have to get you a whole wagon for all those scarfs.” More seriously, he had started complimenting you, “looks mighty fine, miss,” he’d say, tilting his hat. You’d flush and thank him shyly, and the two of you would go about your separate ways.

Then, the cowboy started seeking you out in the mornings, leaning casually against the wagon where your clothing trunk and scarfs were stored. The two of you would share small talk while you picked out your scarf for the day. He would smile and nod in approval of your choice, no matter what it was, and then he was gone again, disappearing like a whisper in the wind. Once, he leaned over you, grabbed a specific scarf from the pile, and held it out, “That one’s my favorite,” he’d say, making you work to maintain your composure when you were beaming inside. 

After a week or two, your communication was much less vocal. It was intense eye contact and shy smiles and nods. He’d silently look through your scarfs, pick one, and wrap it around your neck for you. He seemed so confident in the moment but would scratch his chin and look away right after, finding some excuse to swiftly depart. His sudden lack of confidence embarrassed him, but you found it endearing.

Finally, the tension had built. Arthur was wrapping your scarf around you like he’d started to do, and you grabbed onto his hands as he finished tying the knot. Both of you paused, staring intently at one another. You lifted up on your toes just as he bent to reach you. It was hard to say who kissed who first, but you’d never been kissed so gently and tender. You wondered if you’d made him want to be that way-- gentle and tender, words no one would usually use to describe the outlaw. You could’ve kissed him forever, but you had to breathe, and he had a job to do. But you’d been giddy, and your heart would flutter whenever he was around; it also ached for the following day when you’d have your moment with him again. 

Some mornings, he’d be there waiting before you’d even gotten completely dressed, still in your shift and bloomers from the night before. He’d hand you a metal cup of coffee, and you’d stand close together, shoulders touching, and you two would go on about whatever came to mind. When you couldn’t waste any more time, he’d pick out your scarf and tie it around your neck. You’d share your anticipated kiss before he went off on whatever errands Dutch wanted him to run for the day. 

You’d found him sitting alone another day, seeking solace from camp with his back against a large rock. His head was dipped into his journal, sketching so intensely that he didn’t notice your approach. You’d only caught a glimpse of pencil markings on the page when he looked up, saw you, and closed it. You’d wonder what he was always writing in that thing, but you respected him enough not to ask. He reached out for your hand and pulled you down to sit with him, not letting it go for the entirety of your conversation. You and he would spend hours behind the boulder, lost in conversation. The mystery of the leather-bound book’s contents would fade away, consumed by memories he’d share with you.

But you’d find out sooner than later by accident. Arthur hadn’t returned to camp in a few days, which was typical. However, it wasn’t normal for him to stalk straight to his tent on his return. His routine usually involved stopping by the donation box or sitting by the fire and, lately, seeking you out. You discovered him in his tent, digging through his satchel, his brows furrowed in frustration. His face softened as you approached, and he looked at you, scratching the back of his neck.

“Lost my damn pencil,” the brooding man murmured, looking around his tent.

You helped him look around his tent and through his satchel, taking the leap to dump all its contents onto the cot. Cigarette cards, documents, herbs, feathers, and his journal fell onto the bed. You’d started to give up when you noticed the gray tip of the pencil sticking out of the journal. You flipped the book open without thinking, too caught up in being the solution to his problem to realize you were about to invade his privacy. As you went to grab the pencil from the crease of the journal, your eyes fell on the bookmarked page. The markings on the paper were so detailed and intricate that you couldn’t help but draw your eyes to them. You’d gone quiet, and he turned to face you. His eyes landed on the open journal briefly before you closed it hastily. Handing it back with the pencil on top, you murmured a quick apology. You looked away from him, putting the contents of his satchel back and going to stand. He gently grabbed your wrist as you tried to leave, making you stop in place. Without resistance, you found yourself guided to the cot, where he sat down, pulling you beside him. His face was soft but riddled with thought as he opened his mouth to speak.

“I—“he paused, searching for the words but decided to show you instead. In your full view, he opened the book, smoothing the pages over his lap. Above an inscription, he’d drawn a flower. You recognized it instantly as a printed flower from a scarf you wore a few days before. Your fingers reached to absent-mindedly touch the fabric around your neck. Then the words caught your eyes and made them almost fill with tears, “That girl and her scarfs bring color to my dull, dull life.” You laughed and wrapped your arms around him. As surprised as he was, he wrapped his around you and held you close for a while

The gunslinger had been less shy after that, keeping the journal open when you’d come to sit beside him behind the rock. He’d sometimes tear a page out and hand it to you or leave it for you to find. You’d started finding them all over the camp. He’d leave one in your clothing trunk, caring to leave several if he knew he’d be away from camp for a while, or you’d find one tucked under your pillow when you went to lay down for the night. The sketches were always so identical to your scarfs that you knew exactly which scarf he was thinking about when he drew it. You’d study the drawings, noticing all the elaborate lines. You wondered how the images stuck in his mind so easily, but he’d confessed to you that every part of you stuck in his mind, always. 

You woke and walked to the wagon one day, but he wasn’t there. In his absence was a small box wrapped in twine with a bundle of English mace sticking out of the top. Your name was scrawled across a tag in his handwriting. You opened it to a pool of plain white silk. “Pure as you” was written on a piece of torn paper on the inside. You beamed but left it in the box and tucked it away with all your other scarfs. 

Arthur returned to camp in the evening just as Pearson had served the stew. As he approached, he smiled at you, but his smile fell when he noticed your unusual lack of a scarf. 

“Did you—“he started to ask, but you threw your arms around him and cut him off with a kiss. 

“‘Course I did,” you pulled him to the spot at the wagon and held the box to him, “Just been waiting for you to tie it on.”

His mouth formed into a slight grin, his chest rising and falling with a deep chuckle.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, darlin'.”

He enveloped you in the scarf, sealing his gesture with another affectionate kiss. As you sat together at the fire, you were engulfed by another type of warmth–– your feelings for Arthur. Though neither of you had said it yet, you knew you loved him, and he loved you too.

[fashionsfromhistory]

Jacket

c.1630-1650

Italy or England

Several examples of knitted jackets or waistcosts survive in museum collections are waistcoats, with well-known examples in the Victoria and Albert Museum, London (473-1893, 346-1898, 106-1899 and 807-1904). Both men and women wore these items of clothing either as undergarments during the day or as informal déshabillé or undress at home in the evening to provide additional warmth. These items tend to fall into two categories: Italian waistcoats that open down the front, sometimes known as Florentine waistcoats, and those that pulled over the head. Italian waistcoats were knitted using one or two colours of silk yarn, in imitation of patterns found on woven silks, the effect often enhanced with the use of purl stitches. The fine gauge of these waistcoats suggests that they were hand-knitted in professional workshops, using extremely fine metal knitting needles, known as ‘wires’, for wealthy classes to buy as ready-to-wear clothing. The garment is constructed from rectangular knitted sections; two front panels, two back panels and two sleeves. Several have triangular gores inserted to provide additional width over the hips, at home by the wearer or a member of their household. Their name suggests that they were made in Italy and exported to northern Europe, but it is now known that fine silk yarns were imported from Naples to London from the late sixteenth century to supply the native knitting industry. Because knitted waistcoats were for informal wear there are no known sources showing them being worn, making it hard to give them a more specific date. They appear to have originated at the beginning of the seventeenth century. Lady Elizabeth Howard, the wife of Lord William Howard (1563–1640) ordered ‘a pound of woosted for wastecotes’ for 9 shillings in 1618 and the Danish Royal family used knitted silk waistcoats for children’s shrouds during this period. Knitted waistcoats continued to be worn throughout the century. There are records of waistcoats being relined during the course of their use. Sir Thomas Isham (1656/7–81) is billed £1 5s 6d from his tailor for ‘new Lining A Purple and gold Silke knit wastcoate’ in April 1680. There are continuing references to them also in the early eighteenth century, including a London newspaper report of the theft of a ‘green silk knit waistcoat with gold and silver flowers all over it’ in 1712.

Glasgow Museums (ID Number: 29.126)

[mybeingthere]

Contemporary Swiss artists Gerda Steiner and Jorg Lenzlinger hung flowers, seeds, and branches in a 17th-century church in Venice.

Gerda Steiner and Jorg Lenzlinger design site-specific installations that envelop the viewer. Falling Garden is a world in which botanical curios are suspended from the ceiling of a 17th-century church in Venice. It's a botanic tableau in three dimensions, against a backdrop of richly decorated Italian marble. The piece immerses visitors in a magical reality of dreamy conceits—if a blossom had a mind, this is surely what it would look like. Falling Garden becomes the visitors' collective dream of botanical liturgies and ecclesiastic whimsy.

The artists installed "Falling Garden" inside San Staë church, on the Grand Canal, at the 50th Venice Biennial. According to the artists, the church was built as a mausoleum for a 17th-century doge (duke), who was entombed in the center, under an arrangement of skeletons and a grinning skull. To view the installation, visitors lie on the floor, or, as the artists suggest, on the gravestone's bed. It's the best seat in the house, a house of cascading flowers and cherub carvings. Having thus submitted, the visitor's thoughts are free to drift, as "the garden thinks for them."

To further extend the installation's dimensionality, consider the geographic distance it spans: Falling Garden is a collection of botanical tokens from many different places, including baobab seeds from Australia; beech, elder, and magnolia branches from Switzerland, silk buds from Sweden, celery roots from Canada, seaweed from South Korea, and plastic berries from India.

Photos by: Gerda Steiner and Jorg Lenzlinger.

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode illustrée, no. 20, 16 mai 1869, Paris. Toilettes de Mme Bréant-Castel. 28. rue N.ve des P.ts Champs. Collection of the Rijksmuseum, Netherlands

Robe de dessous en foulard, drap de soie, garnie avec sept volants, le dernier à tête dentelée. La casaque ajustée, pareille à la robe, est garnie d'un volant à tête dentelée, drapée sur les côtés sous un chou de même étoffe; cette casaque est complétée par une traîne qui atteint par derrière le bord supérieur de quatrième volant par derrière. Ceinture pouff composée de trois boucles et de deux pans courts, ceux-ci terminés par un volant.

Underdress in foulard, silk cloth, trimmed with seven ruffles, the last with a serrated head. The fitted jacket, similar to the dress, is trimmed with a ruffle with a serrated head, draped on the sides under a collar of the same fabric; this jacket is completed by a train which reaches from behind the upper edge of the fourth ruffle from behind. Pouff belt made up of three buckles and two short sections, these finished with a ruffle.

—

Robe de dessous en taffetas bleu, garnie de trois volants, à corsage montant et manches longues. Robe de dessus à corselet, en algérienne blanche avec rayures satinées bleues; cette tunique est drapée sur les côtés par une double cordelière en soie bleue, terminée par deux glands; la tunique est drapée par derrière en forme de pouff; de grands nœuds en rubans de taffetas bleu sont posés sur les plis de derrière de la tunique. Ceinture en même ruban. Le corselet et ses entournures ont pour garniture une frange pareille à celle du bord inférieur, mais plus étroite Col-cravate en dentelle blanche. Chapeau rond en paille d'Italie, orné par devant d'une grosse touffe de bluets, par derrière d'une touffe pareille, mais plus petite; autour de la calotte, très-plate, une corde double en paille.

Underdress in blue taffeta, trimmed with three ruffles, with a high bodice and long sleeves. Corselet top dress, white Algerian with blue satin stripes; this tunic is draped on the sides by a double blue silk cord, finished with two tassels; the tunic is draped from behind in the shape of a pouff; large bows made of blue taffeta ribbons are placed on the back folds of the tunic. Same ribbon belt. The corselet and its surroundings are trimmed with a fringe similar to that of the lower edge, but narrower White lace collar and tie. Round hat in Italian straw, decorated on the front with a large tuft of cornflowers, on the back with a similar tuft, but smaller; around the very flat cap, a double straw rope.

[vraisetzen]

𝑨 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕 – 𝑲𝒐𝒌𝒖𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒃𝒐 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

Summary: As Kokushibo does the laundry, he stumbles upon a pair of your underwear.

Tags: NSFW, 18+, Modern/KimeGaku AU, No use of (y/n)

Author's note: A short writing exercise. And I've been obsessed with writing about men jerking off lately...

It comes as little surprise that Kokushibo is fairly adept at doing the laundry – as Kibutsuji Muzan's designated secretary-slash-bodyguard-slash-handler, he is more than accustomed to managing his employer's collection of silk shirts with Italian labels and wool trousers with double pleats and monogram stitching along the inner lining.

When it comes to your clothes and his, Kokushibo has a system down pat, from sorting out dyed fabrics from his dress shirts, to polyester blends from cotton fabrics, and special netting bags for delicate garments. It was a language that only he spoke, with a frazzled attempt once on your part to take over the chores leaving him more than a little disgruntled as you turned his white boxers a darling shade of baby pink.

Hence, it has become a routine for him to find himself kneeling by the washing machine every Sunday, pawing through the laundry basket quietly and efficiently. His shirts and your pyjamas; your shorts and his gym towels. He tosses them into the washing machine, making a mental note to himself on how high he would have to set the water and rinse levels when he is finished.

And then, Kokushibo comes to your intimates – this is not foreign domain to him either. At this stage in your relationship, he is more than familiar with what you wear: the wireless bras, a unisex thong that your friends gave to you as a joke on Singles' Day, lacy pieces that you wear infrequently on special occasions. Kokushibo finds nothing embarrassing about this; he has already seen you in a far more revealing state, and this is, once again, routine.

What is not routine, however, is the strange curiosity that takes root inside him as he holds your panties in his hand, pausing for a long second. It is nothing special – a grey hipster that is a little loose around the elastic from wear – but Kokushibo hesitates as he lingers just over the metallic ring of the laundry drum. Perhaps it is the piece's simplicity; something you throw on without caring for seduction or looking pretty, something that is just there as you go about your day, beneath your clothes, something you hardly think about.

Kokushibo turns the underwear inside out, where there is a slightly darker mark on the crotch, the remnants of you on the cloth. A shot of arousal twinges through his cock as he wonders if you have ever fantasised about him while wearing this particular pair, staining the cotton with your wetness while you are at work.

Did your cheeks flush with the thoughts of him pummeling into you, stifling your moans through clenched teeth and bitten lip? Did you need to excuse yourself from the presence of your colleagues, escaping into the bathroom, checking each empty stall before choosing the one at the end? Did your hands tremble as you fumble with the lock, before pressing your back up against the door as you lift your dress up and slide your fingers into your aching depths?

Kokushibo presses his nose up against the underwear and inhales, and is greeted by the faint scent of sweet-salty musk – the same notes that he finds when he dives between your legs. His hand reaches for the tent in his trousers, rubbing himself through his sweatpants. This feels wrong – debased, even; jerking off to your underwear like some pervert lurking around the laundromat.

And truthfully, if he wanted, needed, you so badly, then you are but a text or a phone call away; but as Kokushibo growls into his hand, thinking about the silky wet of your folds, the threads of glistening juices that clings to his fingers as he strokes your cunt, there is very little regard on his part on what is right. And right now, he is stroking himself swiftly and firmly; it is not like how you do it, with your languished motions and endless patience for teasing out his pleasure – but he is not here for prolonged foreplay. The rough texture of his sweatpants makes for excellent friction, and he runts up against his hand, angling himself precisely to glide his cockhead over the fabric.

It does not take long for him to climax, and he does so with a jerk of his hips and a ragged growl into the inside of his boxers. A dark patch blooms over his sweatpants, mirroring the faint mark on your underwear, and for a few seconds Kokushibo simply stares down at his lap, dazed by the quickness which he brought himself to completion. His cock is still twitching weakly as he thinks of you, and what you will say if you were to come through the doors right now, arms full with the groceries for the week ahead. Will you scold him for making a mess? Or will you let him bend you over the washing machine, paper bags and laundry basket equally forgotten?

Alas, these questions will have to wait as Kokushibo gets up on shaky feet. He pulls off his trousers and boxers with his clean hand and washes them in the basin; and when he comes back, he gives the offending piece of garment – that wicked, ordinary pair of grey panties – a final look before chucking them all in the wash.

For more of my writings, check out my AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vraisetzen/pseuds/vraisetzen

[arthistoryanimalia]

#InsectWeek fashion:

Elsa Schiaparelli (Italian, 1890–1973) for Maison Schiaparelli (French, founded 1927) Necklace & Suit, Fall 1938 collection necklace: rhodoid (cellulose acetate plastic) & metal; suit: rayon, silk, plastic Metropolitan Museum of Art 2009.300.1234, 2009.300.2374

Necklace: "From the fall 1938 pagan collection, this iconic necklace epitomizes Schiaparelli's Surrealist tendencies, perhaps more than any other design she executed because of the unreal idea of insects crawling on your skin as a fashion statement. Because of the clear Rhodoid, a type of cellulose acetate plastic, the multicolored insects seem to be resting on the wearer's skin. Rhodoid was a newly developed material and Schiaparelli was unafraid of using inventive materials for her designs. She appreciated the avant-garde quality and element of surprise infused into the design by using unconventional materials. The pagan collection was inspired by Botticelli's lush paintings; therefore flowers, woodland creatures, foliage, and insects decorated dinner suits, evening gowns and accessories. The multicolored metal insects were also seen securing a ribbon hatband on a doll hat and resting on the collar of a suit [shown here]. This necklace was worn by Millicent Rogers (who also owned the suit previously mentioned), one of Schiaparelli's best clients who was brave enough to wear her outré designs."

Suit: "Elsa Schiaparelli was influenced by the Surrealist art scene of Paris in the 1930s, and references to that movement frequently materialize in her designs. Artists were using collage, photography and paint as their medium; Schiaparelli was using clothing. Here, in a suit from her fall 1938 Pagan collection, she incorporates three elements that have become hallmarks of her career-- interesting fabric, Surrealist elements and unconventional buttons. Schiaparelli scoured fabric houses to find fabrics that perfectly translated her artistic ideas. The crepe used for this jacket and dress is highly textured, adding a rough dimension to the overall design. The Surrealist elements here, the plastic bug ornaments, are shockingly realistic and in juxtaposition to the delicate pink silk of the collar where they rest. As Dilys Blum states in Shocking! The Art and Fashion of Elsa Schiaparelli, many designs from this collection featured earthy decorations inspired by Botticelli's paintings, like flowers, fruits, animals and insects. Buttons were another form of expression for Schiaparelli. In this case, the leaf-shaped buttons represent foliate forms, another common motif seen throughout the Pagan collection. This unusual ensemble would require a certain level of fashion bravado, and the previous owner, Millicent Rogers, definitely possessed that."

[heritagebrowser]

The beauty of Flemish tapestries.

From the 13th century till the 17th century, Flanders, Hainaut and Brabant were the epicentres of tapestry making. It were the most expensive pieces of art ( more expensive than paintings for example) from the Middle Ages till halfway the baroque period. They sometimes had silver or gold woven in it to give it more lustre. Initially only for sovereigns and the highest eclastical individuals, made on commission. The cartoons were originally made by the weavers, later by local artists, and later cartoons were sometimes made abroad and send to be woven in the workshops of the Southern Netherlands (read: Belgium and Northern France). Cities of tapestry making were among others. Atrecht (Arras : in italian tapestry are arazzi), Bruges, Tournai, Edingen, Oudenaarde, Geraardsbergen, Brussels. Even though Flanders was only one of the counties of the Southern Netherlands, the concept of Flemishis apllied to a wider area were Flemish culture was spread.

After Louis XIV broke the monopolies of the workshops in the Southern Netherlands after conquering territorirs during the Wars of the Spanish Succession, he brought over weavers from those lands and the Manufacture des Gobelins near Paris was being established, since then the French created their own style of tapestries, along with a reviving of a production in Aubusson, were flemish weaving techniques were already introduced during the 14th century and a small regional production was already established for wall and floor tapestry and for upholstery.

Many tapestries located in the areas conquered by the French Revolutionist mobs were burned in an attempt to retrieve the silver and gold ... resulting in the fact there are seemingly more surviving flemish (and french) tapestries to be found in England, Spain or Italy.

But the tapestries in this post, these are on display in the Castle of Gaasbeek, located south west of Brussels. They belong to a collection that was established during the 19th century.

One of the series of tapestries in the castle are the so-called Carrabara or Gypsy Suite dates from the Tournai studio of Arnould Poissonier and dates from ca. 1500-1525.

During the Flemish Renaissance period (sixteenth century), Tournai was one of the most important centers for tapestry production. People mainly wove with wool and silk. Typical details are the strongly defined folds in the clothing and the grass tufts that protrude everywhere in the landscape. Tournai carpets were known for their intense, contrasting colours. This is still noticeable, although the colors have faded. For example, the yellow has almost disappeared, making the green – which consists of a mixture of blue and yellow – increasingly bluer.

Gypsies used to be very distrusted, as a strange people of musicians, dancers and fortune tellers, but at the same time they were fascinating because of their unclear origins and their colorful customs. So ideal inspiration to make a tapestry about, as a conversation piece.

[no-saints-around-here]

Me and You, Here and Now

Yandere Yakuza Boss Izana ABO AU

Masterlist

‎‎‎

tw: reader has female parts, reverse abo dynamics (stronger omega), suggestive murder, explicit nsfw, dead dove do not eat

special thanks to @trashybandit for beta reading this!

The front door to your apartment creaked open, and a head of white hair poked in cautiously, empty violet eyes scanning the darkened room. “Coast is clear,” Izana whispered to himself, before letting out a small giggle at the silliness of it all. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known where you were the entire time; it was just that he had never been able to catch you at the best moment. Cracking the door slightly wider, the tanned man let himself in, humming a soft tune as he eased his gym bag through as small an opening as possible before immediately closing and locking the door behind him. From a single deep breath, it was clear that the air inside was stale; neither your door nor windows had been opened in the past twenty-four hours. There were no signs of life anywhere else in the small living area you called home - a thin layer of undisturbed dust coated the kitchen counter, something you would never allow to happen, nor was there a drop of water collected in the dishes tray. To any regular soul that made up the majority of society, it would be reasonable to assume that you weren’t home, and you hadn’t been home. Yet there was no doubt in Izana’s mind that you were here; his sensitive nose could pick up the traces of pheromones that still lingered on the surfaces you had touched. After all, an alpha would always be more attuned to both omegas and other alphas than regular humans would ever be.

Setting his black leather bag down lightly on the worn wooden floors, Izana made light work of stripping off his business suit; he did come straight from work after all, and being a yakuza boss could leave the stench of filthy blood and other people on his clothes. He rather not distract you with any other smell but his. Pulling off his silk scarf and thick woolen coat, those were neatly folded and left atop your spotless sofa before he got to loosening and removing his tie, slender fingers quickly working to unbutton both his vest and the soft white tuxedo shirt. With each minute that passed, the impatience only bubbled and grew in his gut, and it was getting harder and harder for the man to not fuck it all with this bothersome undressing and seek you out immediately, his eyes narrowing at nothing in particular as he quickly kicked off his prized handcrafted Italian leather shoes - there was nothing he could care more in the moment but you. You were waiting for him, in heat and in pain, and he needed you. Badly.

Just outside, separated by a thin wooden door: a quiet, typical suburban neighborhood, a usual silent weekday night; regular (betas, as Izana called them) families going about their usual evening routines, winding down for the day and preparing for the next. The last silver of sun that still peaked over the horizon threatened to disappear at any moment, the night and its cape of stars eager to begin its reign. A crackle of electricity, and the streetlamp that had stood faithfully next to your apartment block flickered on right on schedule, its strong yellow light filtering through your still curtains and casting a patterned shadow onto the floor. But behind the privacy of a locked door and drawn curtains, the feared mafia head could only sigh contently as he let his pajama shirt slip down over his head to cover his toned torso, loose, comfortable pants having been pulled over silk boxers. There was no stronger smell that one could bring to an omega’s heat than sleepwear that had been worn consistently for a week, and combined with the rest of the pieces of clothing that Izana had brought as offerings to line your nest with were equally well-worn and scented, there would be no mistaking who it was that came to woo you.

Bending slightly to pick his gym bag back up from the ground, a lustful hunger - an almost desperate need - sparked to life in those usually empty eyes; now, to hunt. 

Where were you hiding? 

There weren’t many places you could be in to begin with, not in this tiny apartment, and even fewer where you would be while in heat. Nests were usually tucked away in the dark corners of the house, as per the general preference of omegas when they went into heat: smell-proof, sound-proof pods provided by the government as part of a support program, though Izana knew from firsthand experience that there was at least enough space for two. Letting out a hum, the tanned man looked almost at home with the ease he ducked around corners and drummed the tips of his fingers against counters, making a beeline for the master bedroom; even if you had never once been invited him over to this new place of yours, it was clear he knew his way around like the back of his hand.

And pulling open an inconspicuous pair of door shutters, one of several that lined the far wall of your bedroom, the tinted glass window of your pod, tucked away in an unused wardrobe, gleamed back at him. A room within a room, a little cozy box that served as both your slice of heaven and your prison for the duration of your heat: Izana didn’t doubt that you were a lot safer from the dangers of the world inside than outside, your heavenly, addictive scent locked away from those who would do you harm. But right now, the man thought to himself, his pants already tenting as he eagerly reached for the handle of the entrance - right now there was no doubt you were still the safest with him. 

Like the creep of a fog along the forest floor, the sweet tantalizing aroma of your pheromones, combined with the freezing cold of air conditioning, came rolling out as the door was carefully pulled open, an invitation, a siren’s call to your former lover that tempted him into the dimly lit depths. The yakuza boss was only happy to take the bait, easing the black duffel bag through before him.  

‎

You were completely naked, plump flesh shiny with beaded perspiration that your hair stuck haphazardly to despite the temperature being several degrees lower than the already cool night outside, thick thighs splayed open as if to display your drooling private parts for him to feast his eyes upon. Your breasts were larger, heftier, than what they usually were, engorged by the sheer amount of hormones currently flooding your system, nipples already perked and at attention. Long, ugly scratches, now just barely scabbed over, framed your leaking pussy, where you must have raked your nails again and again in an attempt to relieve yourself from the lack of fulfillment, only to have both hands bound to protect yourself from you. Yet all Izana could focus on was you, his gaze unable to tear away as he drank in the tortured expression that pulled at your face, eyebrows furrowed, your lips contorted and twisted as you struggled in vain to find relief from the incessant arousal that was driving you to the brink of insanity.

“There you are, love.” Violet eyes, usually empty and cold, instantly lit up as they laid sight on you, the door swinging shut silently behind him.

Your head instantly lifted at his voice, a whine escaping your lips before you could stop yourself. It was certainly a reaction to the intense smell of his pheromones - an alpha's pheromones - hitting your nose. A promise of reprieve; a real mate who could satisfy your burning needs and quench the ache between your legs. But it seemed no matter whatever your empty womb was screaming at you, your mind was still the one in charge for now. And he was not who you had been expecting. “I-Izzy?” You looked completely confused at his sudden appearance. Your pupils were completely dilated, and Izana doubted if you could see anything more than a blob in your doorway, though your nose was certainly working. He was glad that you still remembered his scent. “You’re here?” 

Very carefully, Izana crouched to set his gym bag down gingerly, making no sudden or abrupt movement that could surprise you. An almost one-eighty role reversal from his stalking of you from earlier; the white-haired man was suddenly the prey caught in the headlights before your predatory, hungry eyes. The plush floor was soft yet cool against his bare feet as he slowly prodded his way nearer, conscious of the ensnared knots of sheets and what-not that brushed against his toes. “It’s me, baby girl.” He assured you, his tone gentle, warm and comforting, a far cry from the nonchalant, almost playful one that his victims know all too well. "You okay?"

You only grunted and whined in response, the entire pod shuddering under his feet as you struggled, though the handcuffs that kept your hands strung from the ceiling remained firm. 

His cute nickname had always been a misnomer for you when compared to him, Izana knew; as an omega, you were taller, larger and a hella lot stronger than he was. If he stretched it to its limits, the yakuza boss could argue that something as unassuming as 'baby girl' was at least kind of fitting for the regular you: a soft, kind-hearted soul that was so very aware and cautious of yourself. Yet at the peak of your heat with hormones flooding your system and your lust consuming your mind, you certainly weren't someone that the alpha wanted to tick off. More well-built than a beta male he was, but one wrong move and you would snap him in two between your thighs like a stick. 

“Y-you’re not supposed to be here.”

But you were his. You had always been his, and you didn’t have a choice in the matter. Raw strength was just one factor, and no doubt this yakuza boss had many other cards to play. This time, this time he would make sure to claim you once and for all, and make it stick.

Izana ignored your statement. “It’s alright, love. ‘M here now.” His voice was low, a guttural undertone, yet the tanned man still made no move to approach you, instead moving to pull the first of many clothing articles from the bag, bundling it up and tossing it like a ball at you, the cream woolen shirt landing softly on your chest. Taking a step back as you paused in your shifting to cautiously sniff at the new offering presented, it was the first time Izana pulled his gaze away from you, glancing around the pod in which you had built your nest and spent the last few days. 

Bundles of sheets and clothes carefully packed and tangled into a comfortable albeit makeshift mattress, Izana noted that the various shirts and sweaters you laid didn’t belong to you - he had never had any reports of you buying them, nor did they smell entirely like you despite you having drenched everything in your fluids. Combined with the fact that you had been left bound for an unknown period of time, his theory of there being another before him had been right. He was glad he acted on his hunch. If he had been wrong, it would have been just another mark to his already stained name. But now that he was provably right, at least that scum wasn’t something he nor you had to worry about.  Not now, not anymore. 

As you continued to squint suspiciously at his sweater, Izana retrieved another piece, this time a pair of shorts, and flung it to join his sweater on your chest, making sure to keep his gaze down and off of you: he knew you were particular about potential mates looking at you during your evaluation. He knew the cogs were turning in your mind as you struggled between rationality and your need to be filled, his strong, familiar scent as enticing to you as yours was to him. He knew you better than the back of his own hand. 

With your extremely heightened senses, the minimal dim yellow lighting within the pod, combined with the extremely tinted windows, were at just the right comfort level for you. Not that it mattered to his courting ritual - you relied almost completely on your sense of smell during this vulnerable period, and it was the overlapping scents of different pheromones that seemed to confuse you, the made man simply listening on as you alternated sniffing at his clothes and the air around your nest.

"Wh-where m-mate?" You stuttered out of the blue, your mind momentarily winning over the insatiable lust.

“Gone. He left, sweetheart.” 

‎

You whined, whimpered, the high-pitched whistle that escaped your lips - a similar yet different tune that you had used with him - meant to call for your mate to return to you. But there was no one to answer your call in the small, dark space. “Left?” You repeated in disbelief, your voice pitching up. “He left?”

The pod rattled as you attempted to break free from your cuffs, whistling again with more desperation, your chest heaving from the effort as your legs tried and failed to gain the traction you needed against the padded floor again and again, Izana’s offerings sliding off and into the dark abyss of the floor. “Left? Gone? Left?” Completely dilated eyes looked wildly in every direction, as if the nobody you had seduced and manipulated into being your fucktoy was hiding in a corner; your former lover was surprisingly content with watching you work yourself into a frenzy from a safe distance, violet eyes roaming over your body. He had no intention of getting caught up in your thrashing.

A beta male - that was who you picked to fuck you through your heat. A nobody from society’s majority that would have never been able to fulfill you, that would have never been able to get you pregnant, that you would have never been able to mark and bond with. A piece of trash that would have happily gone on his meaningless, worthless life, never earning the feared yakuza’s attention if he had simply stayed away from you. And now he’s left - not of his own accord, but you didn’t need to know that.

You must have been waiting for him all this time.

"He never loved you like I do, baby girl,” the man cooed, stripping his shirt off to reveal toned abs, taking a bold step forward, your eyes immediately swiveling back to fix on him, despairing doe eyes brimming with unshed tears. “That scum was just using you all this time."

The cold air whirled down quietly from the ceiling, a silent ballet that filled the background of your breathing as you tried to wrap your mind around what he was saying, your eyebrows furrowing and twitching as your struggles died down - it couldn’t be easy losing your other half while you were actively in heat, but it was a good sign that you hadn’t attacked him just yet. 

“He’s a little cheater as well.” Izana continued, pulling off his soft pajama pants before taking another step closer, now left in just his silky boxers. All his hair was standing on ends with the glacial temperatures in the pod, yet the tanned man bit down and suppressed as much of his shivering as he could. There was no need to give you any form of weakness to exploit. “Out playing with other mates while you’re suffering in here.” 

A lie, so what? The expression on your face turned confused, your lips flapping for several moments without sound before your voice emerged once more. “O-out? Others?” It was clear that you were completely bewildered by the changing situation and Izana’s lies, your brain cocked up on hormones and your mind melting from lust, unable to think straight or tell facts from falsehoods. All to Izana’s favor, of course.

“Mmmm. He’s never home to look after you.”

“He-he was-”

The delinquent cut you off. “No, he never was. He never bothered to spend any time with you, I know. Hated you, hated being with you. Leaving you alone to go party and drink the night away.”

Your eyes showed the conflicting thoughts raging away behind; you were doubting yourself. Doubting your memories, doubting the subhuman you picked. “He wasn’t?”

“No. He even laid hands on you, remember? Beat you so bad the police were involved.” His low, smooth voice whispered back, soothing and confident. Just a little more - all Izana needed was a little more to tip you over to his side, to believe the little lies he told you. You weren’t going to remember much after the high of your heat anyway, only that you two were bound and marked for life. “But I’m here. I’m here to look after you, baby girl. I’ve always been here for you.”

He wanted you he wanted you he wanted you so bad-

‎

Now just within arm’s reach of you, Izana teasingly snapped the elastic waistband of his boxers, and like butterflies to syrup, those wondrous, beautiful blown eyes of yours snapped downwards. And under your judging gaze, the tanned man slowly pulled down the last remaining article of clothing he had on him, revealing his bare body to you. Straightening up revealed the thick, heavy cock that hung between his legs, erect and straining. Individual strands of white hair that decorated his pubic area shimmered even in the dim light, a well-groomed frame that only helped to enhance the desirability of his cock. Izana couldn’t help but puff up at the catch of your breath, thrusting his hip slightly higher for you to get a better look. He knew what your body lusted for, what your heart was screaming and begging for; only he could fulfill you. Only he loved you.

He could all but feel your warm walls surrounding him, squeezing and clenching down around his length - a recurring dream that he had lived through night after night. His version of heaven that he had lived through once, and yearned to live in forever. But not yet. 

Carefully adding his newest offering of his recently worn pajamas, as well as his underwear, atop your breasts and as close to your face as possible, his tanned hand was just inches shy of brushing against your bare hot skin. If you accepted something so intimate from him, it would be time for the next stage. “It’s me, baby girl. Izzy. You remember me, don’t you?”

‎‎

Like a wave washing over you, the look behind your eyes changed; a certain ferocity roaring to life, overpowering and consuming the almost timid personality the real you had been hiding behind. You had walked straight into his trap. He had been accepted. Yet with your hands still bound above your head, there was little you could do. "Izzy, it- it hurts so bad." You whimpered, wriggling, shifting around in your nest of clothes. Trying to hump yourself against your nest did little to ease your suffering. You needed a dick inside you to soothe the ache and pain. You needed him. "Untie. P-please."

"You know I'll do anything for you, love. But you'll have to do something for me first, okay?"

Coercing. Mate-stealing. Highly illegal crimes that came with hefty punishments for him to be here, courting an omega in the midst of their heat who had already picked their mate. But those stuffy government folks could just add it to his list if they ever grew the balls to come after such a notorious figure as him.

“He didn’t fulfill you, did he, baby girl? He doesn’t know you like I do.” You were hot, burning hot as Izana pressed himself up against you between your legs, his hard dick rubbing firmly against the apex of your legs, your skin radiating heat that warmed his own to its core. The friction against your sensitive clit was a tantalizing glimpse - a promise - of what was to come. “I will, but I want you to mark me first.”

“Mark?” You frowned. “No mark.”

“Mark first.” Izana insisted, leaning forward and tiptoeing to press a chaste kiss to your lips, one hand caressing your cheek even as the other dipped down to play with the rim of your anus. He was lucky to be as tall as he is - even with you seated, the man could barely reach your face while he was humping your pussy. “No mark, no sex.” He whispered into your ear as he kissed a trail down your face and neck.

The normal you would have never agreed. You weren’t interested in marking anyone just yet, and you weren’t ready to mark him, but he wasn’t having it. There was no life, no world without his sun to orbit around, to give his life purpose and meaning, and he needed to make sure that you would only be his. Bound to him forever. He couldn’t live without you. 

Your expression turned ugly in the blink of an eye, and the hiss that seeped from between bared teeth was hair-raising as Izana attempted to nibble down on the marking glands at the crook of your neck. The yakuza boss immediately reeled, pulling away just in time to avoid the swing of your leg, narrowed eyes following the daring alpha as he backed off with both his hands raised in surrender. 

But in the blink of an eye, the anger was gone, evaporated into the blistering cold of the pod, the lust washing over your expression once more. "P-please." You whined, and the tanned man carefully slithered back up to you, eager for the warmth of your embrace - he had made the mistake of rushing the courting process. He wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

“Dump him. Take me back.” Exposing the crook of his own neck, the harsh grinding of his dick against you only getting firmer as his pheromones filled the air. “Just one mark, and I’ll be all yours. Fuck as long as you want.” He promised. 

‎

You finally caved, a growl gurgling forth from the base of your throat as you lurched forward, biting down and sinking your teeth into the corner of his neck. Izana whimpered, body shaking from the sudden rush of adrenaline that swept through him, violet eyes rolling into the back of his head as you drew blood from his marking glands. You were his. You had marked him, and you were his. Now and forever. 

With a smooth stroke, Izana plunged his entire length into you, the skin of his hip meeting yours in a violet slap. You reeled, releasing him from your teeth, throwing your head back as your toes curled as the other began to pump, long strokes that had him pull himself as far out as he could go before slamming himself back in. Your drooling pussy was more than lubricated enough to take his fat cock without any further preparations, warm walls that clamped down hard around him, milking him for all he was worth. Your body was demanding, a cruel mistress that wanted more and more, and Izana would happily give you anything and everything you wanted. He was all yours.

Brushing your hair aside, he licked your glands several times, enjoying the entire strength of your pheromones and the mild tingling it gave his tongue before chomping down on the crook of your neck - your blood really was as sweet as you. And that was all it took for him to step over the edge of pleasure, and his thrusting became erratic as he came in you, hot cum spurting as deep into you as Izana could go. 

Slumping slightly to take a breath, it was with one trembling hand that the yakuza boss reached out to keep his promise to free you. All it took was a single press of a button on the side of your pod, and the real monster you had temporarily buried emerged the moment your hands were finally freed. You wasted no time in wrapping both around the tanned man’s comparatively tiny waist, strong, muscular arms bodily lifting him into the air with ease. “You better not already be soft,” you snarled, as you lined the tip of his still hard cock up with your still lustful pussy, forcibly pushing him into you once more and setting a brutal pace as you manhandled him as if he weighed nothing more than a doll. As if his dick was no different from a large, warm dildo that occasionally filled you up. “Keep going. More. More.”

White hair flew back and forth at such a speed that it seemed even they had forgotten how to move as you wrangled Izana into going at your pace. One thick digit you had pressed into his anus and firmly kept against his prostate, an attempt to keep the cock that you were thrusting furiously against yourself hard for as long as possible as you licked and salivated over both crooks of his neck before pressing your lips against his in a bruising kiss. “Mine,” you growled, as Izana came again inside you, his body twitching and jerking in your grasp, pressed firmly between your thick thighs. His tongue was loose and heavy, impossible to move into forming any words except grunts and groans, his eyes rolled up in constant pleasure. But there was no rest for the wicked, the white-haired yakuza boss simply made to ride out his orgasm as you started to bounce him once more. You knew he could take it. 

There was no telling how long this session was going to last, but one thing that was clear here and now was that he was entirely yours. 

Outside, the night starry sky had long dominated the sky, yet Kakucho still sat right outside your front door, hand loosely wrapped around the handle of the gun hidden beneath his coat. Even if he had been given strict orders to stop anyone who tried to access your unit, the black-haired man doubted that there would be any trouble - you were an unstoppable force of nature yourself from the short period of time he knew you, and no one would be giving you trouble you didn’t actively get yourself into. He could only hope that his white-haired best friend was still alive and well. Still, the precaution was probably warranted given the smell of you in heat could attract unmarked alphas in the area, not that Kakucho would know what that smelled like.

Taking another chug of soda, his sole working gray eye wandered up from the quiet, uneventful neighborhood to stare at the bright moon beaming down at him. It was probably going to be a long night.

[shopsofiacollection]

Elegance knows no bounds with Sofia Collections, where every garment tells a story of luxury and sophistication. Embracing the timeless allure of Italian silk, Sofia Collections presents a mesmerizing ensemble of women's tops, bottoms, and dresses, meticulously crafted to captivate the senses and elevate the wearer's style quotient.

At the heart of Sofia Collections lies a deep reverence for the unparalleled quality and craftsmanship synonymous with Italian silk. Renowned for its sumptuous texture, lustrous sheen, and unparalleled drape, Italian silk exudes a refined charm that transcends trends and stands the test of time. With a keen eye for detail and a commitment to excellence, Sofia Collections sources only the finest silk fabrics, ensuring that each piece embodies the essence of luxury and indulgence.

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For those seeking sartorial excellence from head to toe, Sofia Collections presents a curated selection of bottoms crafted from luxurious Italian silk. Embrace effortless sophistication with impeccably tailored trousers, or opt for a playful twist with flowing skirts that dance with every step. With attention to detail and a focus on versatility, our bottoms seamlessly transition from day to night, ensuring that you always make a statement wherever you go.

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Join us on a journey of indulgence and refinement with Sofia Collections' Italian Silk Collection. Embrace the allure of Italian silk and elevate your wardrobe with pieces that exude timeless elegance and sophistication. Whether you're seeking a statement piece or a wardrobe staple, Sofia Collections invites you to discover the transformative power of luxury fashion.

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SofiaCollections

2515 Washington Ave #1502, Houston, TX 77007, US

Email: sofiacustomerservice@gmail.com

Visit Our website - https://www.shop-sofia.com/

[booklovershallway]

Kim Kassas Spring 2023 Wedding Dresses — “Oh Romeo” Bridal Collection

[Inspired by the love story of Romeo and Juliet]

FLORENCE - A corset based ball gown accentuated by a beaded lace peplum layer with a matching belt and a detachable hood

VERONA - A mini corset dress made of embroidered Italian lace with crystal embellishments featuring a voluminous sheer skirt extension with a front slit

SHAKESPEARE - A modified a-line dress featuring a corset bodice, lower waistline and a pleated asymmetrical ankle length skirt design with 3D embroidered detailing

GINOVANA - An Indian lace corset dress featuring pearl beaded accents and a voluminously panel silk chiffon skirt. The dress is paired with a matching statement cape made of Indian lace

WILLIAM - A mini corset dress made of various lace fabrications with accentuated sleeve puffs and an attached pleated silk chiffon skirt train at the back

[digitalfashionmuseum]

Dark Green Pleated Silk Evening Dress, ca. 1910, Italian.

By Mario Fortuny.

National Museums Scotland.

[calabria-mediterranea]

Acri, Calabria, Italy

Acri in Calabria is sometimes described as the "door to the Sila mountains", yet the town appears impenetrable which could be due to a long history of violence.

In the Middle Ages, during the reign of the Norman King Federico II, Acri enjoyed a period of relative peace and economic prosperity, and it became an important centre for the silk trade.

In the 15th century, the power struggle between the French House of Anjou and the Spanish Crown of Aragon nearly destroyed the town. In 1462, a local duke obtained permission from the Aragonese King Ferdinand I of Naples to collect taxes in Acri. When people protested and proclaimed loyalty to the former Angevin rulers, they were seized by troops from the Aragonese army.

Even at that time, Acri must have seemed impenetrable to outsiders, for the Spanish soldiers failed to take the city, until they found a traitor who revealed the secret signals that opened the city gates. The soldiers attacked Acri with incredible cruelty, and it is estimated that 2000 citizens lost their lives. Women and children who had taken refuge in the church of Santa Maria Maggiore were burned to death, and the leader of the guards was publicly sawed in four pieces while still alive, and the limbs were exposed from the four towers of the castle.

Such history of violence is in stark contrast to the quiet peace you can experience today in Acri. But the ruins of the old castle with its one remaining tower still hover over the city as a reminder of times gone by.

Photos by Italian Notes

Follow us on Instagram, @calabria_mediterranea

[beansidhebumbling]

An Examination of Cruelty and Other Such Failings

Nezriel Exes

Her dress was still crumpled where it had been thrown haphazardly the night before, the red silk a symbol of a passion that had burned in the wee hours of the morning with little regard for any sanctity her Mama upheld in Nesta once.

Before.

Before him. Before touches too hot, eyes too knowing, teeth too sharp; Before Nesta started to worship a different god, a crueller one, maybe. All gods were cruel but Azriel... he was a lesson in the what happened when one cared more about the sum than the parts; the breathing, human parts.

Her own breathing felt painful now, the beginning of a stress headache burning at her eyes and pulling tight on her skull. Az. No. Azriel. Not Az anymore, not to her, breathed deeply, steadily, like an innocent. Nesta snorted to herself, a liar even in his sleep.

How very him.

***

The light seeped in through gauzy, white curtains, Mor’s hand no doubt, and Nesta was stricken by how his face, beautiful in the age it was beginning to show, in crepey lines and hollowness, was softened by the dappled, yellow light. Maybe not all age she noted, on a closer look, comforted that her examination would remain a solitary pursuit by the metronomic movement of his chest. The purple shadows pressed into his eyelids, his naturally chiselled face looked just the wrong side of gaunt..

this was not quite the face she loved.

***

She was under no illusion that she had changed since they parted. An argument, a fracturing, a break-up. Words too small for a hurt so big. So explosive, and bitter, and brutal. Her frame softened and wider by the Gilmore Girls diet she’d been following, by the stress that’d been mounting. It was hard to mind herself the way he had.

Hard when three square meals had never been on a list short enough to receive attention, let alone fruit collected from markets in hemp net bags, prime rib-eye wrapped in grease paper, endless variations of nut butters organised on his ridiculous, Italian marble condiment station. Meals he plied her with, spoiled her with, until she allowed herself to grow comfortable with Az Azriel wanting to mind her in ways she could not, did not herself.

Stupid, stupid Nesta.

She should have known better. Comfort was yet another luxury she couldn't afford.

She never felt comfortable anymore.

***

He had not looked different in the dim hazy light of the bar. He had looked as well-maintained, manicured, and handsome as was expected when you had an extensive home gym, Peloton a given, and La Mer hand cream on tap. While his eyes burned from across the bar, the patrons gathered to celebrate Feyre and Cassian’s engagement utterly failed in their roles as buffers, he had looked as he always did.

Intense, consuming, heart-breakingly beautiful.

Even as some horrid part of herself noted with disdain that her thighs chafed against each other, rubbing in softness, in a way they hadn’t in the time before. That the women he’d surely slept with after she walked, probably blonde, probably charming, probably utterly lovely, would never dare to allow such a thing.

His hunger for her had thickened the air around her, had made her think of the unread texts sitting too heavy and tempting, weighing down her inbox, that had led to her blocking his number. Of the new Instagram account he had made. The man who was invisible to social media for so long, who had waxed lyrical to her time and time again of the black hole of energy it was made of. The man who huffed a laugh into her drying hair as she had pushed back,

‘Yeah, yeah, old man. Now let me scroll and fall into this hole in peace’.

The man who was now first to like any photo she was tagged in on Elaine’s, Eris's, even Rhysand’s account.

His request to follow her remained unanswered.

Even gods could change apparently.

Even gods could lose.

***

Her eyes caught the time on his digital clock, bringing her back to herself again. The red numbers flashed a warning,

Move...

Move.

Move!

Avoid confrontation.

Azriel had always risen before seven, one of the things bald men with podcasts attributed his success to. She couldn’t afford to stay any longer in reverie, to let him coax her back. Especially when no small part of her craved it. 

She turned away from him and his pretty, peaceful face, to wriggle her way out from the tanned arm laying on her hip, gripping at her, even through the thick coverlet. While doing the overly familiar dance of collecting strewn underwear, wriggling her way into the tight red slip, she looked at him and her chest tightened just a bit more. Because there he lay, half of a once-great love, vulnerable and searching, seeking her across the expanse of the mattress.

This was why she couldn’t even steal his shirt, an infinitely more comfortable walk of shame look. She couldn’t because she knew he’d take any reason to talk to her, to knock on her door. She couldn’t hand him a legitimate invitation in the form of a crisp Brioni shirt.

 She wasted no time brushing her teeth, with her toothbrush found in the sleek, mirrored cabinet. Her pink toothbrush still kept like some sad, weird shrine to their intimacy. She knew she'll dwell on that later.

She made her way to the door of his room, steps light and well-versed in their terrain, leather jacket thrown over her shoulders, purse, and thrifted, white, slingbacks in hand when the sound of his breathing changed.

Fuck.

***

She stilled on instinct, heart dancing, as he pushed himself upright in a way that was so fast it was almost comical if his dark eyes didn’t arrest on her, narrowing as he caught her red-handed in her escape.

Heart beating too fast, mind moving too slow she went to speak a few times before,

‘Sorry, didn't want to wake you. Keep our mistakes private, right?'

She was aiming for light but the awkward laugh at the end was undercut by how her voice cracked mid-sentence.

Was that hurt that flashed on his face before it was cold and shuttered once more?

He was out of the bed, brazen in his nakedness and upon her before she’d finished, his big hands, cupping her face, and a voice so rich, still gravelly from sleep, retorted,

‘Oh Nesta, not a fucking chance sweetheart. If you think you’re leaving this room after last night, after a mistake,’

the last two words sharpened and thrown back at her like arrows,

'you are being as delusional as I was five months ago. I was wrong. I was wrong to let you go. And believe me I've atoned for my sins, but I will not stand for you calling this a mistake. I won't watch you sneak away from a room we should share.'

Those brown eyes were deep pools of sincerity and regret. Gods repented in this strange, new world it seemed.

The next words were spoken so softly, almost to himself,

‘I can't. I can't. If you want to hurt me, at least let me hear your voice as you do so, let me look on your face as you break my heart once more. Stay with me and do as you will. I can tolerate anything but your absence.'

Shaking his head as if to refocus, he smiled, a pitiful, broken, best attempt at one, with eyes that roamed her face, gorging on all they had missed, before saying,

‘Come back Nes.'

'I thought I was a distraction.'

She sniped.

She remembered still.

He winced.

There, she thought, first blood in a new fight. Though God knew they'd spilled plenty here before.

***

The pulse of arousal that pierced her was sharp and strong and she hated that this was the most alive she’d felt in months. That she yearned for this fight, has been since she talked herself into approaching the bar last night, lying to herself that all she was doing was fulfilling a craving for bottom shelf vodka and coke.

She'd been to enough therapy since to know she was on shaky ground. She was envisioning the frenzied fighting and fucking to come, a sickening thrilling deja vu, when he kneeled.

Legs buckled like a broken puppet.

A script change.

Tears streamed from eyes filled with such anguish she felt her own swell in response as Azriel cried,

'Never a distraction. I was stupid, a liar and a fool. I kept telling myself that, telling you, because the truth terrified me. You were, are, and always will be everything to me.'

Tugging at his curly fringe, a nervous habit of his, he continued.

'I thought if I believed that, that you were a distraction, I'd find a way to survive even if you left me. Instead it drove you to walk and I found out none of it mattered. There were times in your presence I thought heaven might exist. Your absence, however, confirmed hell is real and it lives in the empty space you once filled beside me.'

Her skin felt like a live wire. Girls like Nesta Archeron didn't get love confessions from exes, they got bad credit and a therapy bill.

Or they had until now anyways.

'How do I know you've changed? All the time you made me feel full never compensated for what you took when you hid me from your friends, when you called me a...'

The word was too hard to say.

She resorted to examining the crown molding as Azriel waited a beat then answered carefully.

'You can't. I'm asking you to trust me knowing I have no right to. I love you Nesta. This is all too late. I know that. Believe me. I'm going to win you back. I swear it. You leave today and I'll find a way tomorrow or the next day. I had sworn to leave you be but looking at you now, I know you feel it too. I just hope someday you'll see it as a blessing too.'

***

When she leaves she feels his eyes following her to the taxi.

In the coming weeks he sends gifts - antique books, red dahlias, mix tapes of songs he thinks she'll like.

When she gets a text from a new number she does not block it.

When she visits next time, she brings her suitcase with her.

Because she understands.

The only craving she has ever had was for him.

As has been the case since she first started working for him, they were drawn together, they both knew this on some level.

That they were unbreakably bound to each other by gods so cruel.

Maybe crueller than him.

Maybe crueller than her.

Somehow.