#LaCE compliant
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One of the things that consistently perplexes me in fandom conversations around LaCE is the assertion that LaCE states or implies that Elf-sex always results in a child. This is just...not true of the text?
I talked a bit about the "you have sex, you get Elf-married" assumption here, and much like that example, I think a lot of this one also comes from reading the text with the fandom depiction in mind - and inadvertently reading into it what is already understood to be the case.
LaCE begins its discussion of Elven marriage by describing the ceremony of betrothal and marriage and how these are both achieved. In the oft-referenced wedding sex passage, we are told that
It was the act of bodily union that achieved marriage, and after which the indissoluble bond was complete.
I talked in more detail about this passage in the post already linked above, but the main thing we need to take away from it for the sake of this conversation is that an Elf was not married until the act of bodily union completed the indissoluble bond.
With that in mind, we follow the text to its description of Elven reproduction and childbirth. The important passage to note within this is regarding the timeline between conception and birth:
As for the begetting and bearing of children: a year passes between the begetting and the birth of an elf-child, so that the days of both are the same or nearly so, and it is the day of begetting that is remembered year by year.
Whether LaCE is utilizing Years of the Trees or Years of the Sun throughout the text is debatable, but it's not really necessary to elucidate that for the current discussion. The important thing here is that this, paired with the subsequent description of the timing between marriage, first, and additional children, is where we can see clearly that LaCE assumes that sex does not always result in procreation:
[...]at whatever age they married, their children were born within a short space of years after their wedding.* * Short as the Eldar reckoned time. In mortal count there was often a long interval between the wedding and the first child-birth, and even longer between child and child.
So what we know now is:
Elf-marriage is completed by (not caused solely by) bodily union
A year takes place between the conception and birth of an Elven child
Elven children are said to be born "within a short space of years" after the parents' marriage
There is often (not always, which is important!) a long interval of multiple years between the wedding and first childbirth
Which is a fairly straightforward contradiction of the 1:1 assumption. If every act of Elven sex resulted in a child, then a child would be born exactly one year after each marriage, since a marriage could not be completed without the act of bodily union. By telling us that there was "often a long interval between the wedding and the first child," LaCE establishes that there were occasions in which that interval was shorter. Which cannot be the case if all sex results in procreation because in that case the interval would need to be the same across the board. Additionally, it references "years" rather than "a year" when it discusses this intervening timespan, which reiterates that same fact.
This premise is confirmed by the Annals of Aman found in Morgoth's Ring where we are told that Finarfin weds Eärwen in Y.T. 1280 and their first child, Finrod, was not born until Y.T. 1300: a full 20 years after their marriage.
(Why yes I did find a way to shoehorn a mention of my guy into this, yet again confirming that I cannot in fact make it five minutes without mentioning him.)
Anyway, all that to say, if you're wanting to be LaCE-compliant, get those Elves doing it for fun.
#laws and customs among the eldar#LaCE compliant#Elven childbirth#meta#silmarillion meta#LaCE#the silmarillion
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Playing For Keeps
by unendingwanderlust (@unendingwanderlust)
“Is there another in your life?” Maedhros asked. Fingon’s fingers paused where they had been rubbing back and forth across Maedhros’s scarred back, comforting. They had separated for such a long time; a wound that Maedhros had carried all the way across the Sea, never to heal. Surely someone would have caught Fingon’s eye in the meantime, and Maedhros needed to know. He had already suffered unspeakable humiliation and pain; what was another stab through his heart? So, Maedhros looked deep into his cousin’s eyes, daring Fingon to be the one to finally break him...
Explicit, No Archive Warnings
Words: 1,637
#silmarillion#russingon#maedhros#fingon#thangorodrim#hurt/comfort#lace compliant#angst#pining#silm smut week#first age
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kinktober #2
Strange Candy
kinktober day two | aphrodisiac | 18+, cw: intoxicated sex (all consensual), female reader. both of them hella sassy, book-ish!thran because no angst in my house. this is very silly, just like the author. don't eat funny mushrooms you find in the forest! | wc 3,7k | want more kinktober? click here |
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“Strange indeed.” Said the King thoughtfully. The group of hunters who'd led him to the newfound development traded a long look. Crouching down, the King's majesty eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead as he studied the newfound addition to his great Elven forest. “And the beasts have returned seemingly unharmed, you say?”
“Yes, my Lord. The bears had retreated into a den and so did the foxes, emerging approximately three days afterwards. All seemed in good health and very hungry.” The Silvan hunter replied.
“Then these must be harmless.” Deduced the King, taking out a thin blade to poke at a dense cluster of brightly coloured fungus.
At least, he guessed it was a fungus. Upending one cluster, he found no roots. The flesh of the mushroom was white and fragrant, pleasantly earthy and rich, with subtle floral undertones that made his mouth water slightly. The smell intensified tenfold upon cutting the mushroom down the middle. The King brought it closer to his nose, carefully scenting for any bitterness or rot.
“My Lord...” A concerned Feren piped up from his spot behind the King.
You offered the Captain a glance full of genuine compassion, without a doubt considering his job to be the most complicated and tedious in the whole of Thranduil's kingdom. Minding Greenwood's fiery monarch was not for the faint-hearted.
“Surely you are not thinking of putting it in your mouth?” You added a dash of sarcasm into your question, equally concerned.
You were sassed right back, eyeroll audible. “It is a mushroom, where else would I put it?” Thranduil straightened up, holding the newfound addition to the flora of the forest impaled on his knife. As soon as his eyes zeroed on you, you gulped. Thranduil gave you a nasty little grin. “What is the worst that could happen? I have the best healers of my realm at my disposal.”
Feren's fingers twitched, a tell-tale sign of his withering self-restraint. You sighed and contemplated the best time to begin backing away.
Thranduil simply raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge. “Worry not, the Kingdom has forgotten of your and Feren's...” Elegant pause, Feren's sigh. “Accident.”
“'twas no accident,” you said defensively. “You gave us your Ada's moonshine to see if it was still good. On purpose.”
Thranduil shrugged as the mushroom was evenly divided into two parts with the help of his knife. A perfect picture of innocence, he held up the treat in his palm, grey eyes sparkling.
“I am NOT doing it, my Lord!” Exploded Feren, and gave into his urge to take a step back. He, more than anyone, knew how insistent Thranduil could get. A seven-thousand year old elf giving huge puppy eyes! And it worked! The Captain shielded his own face with his palm. “Throw me in the dungeons for a fortnight, I care not!”
Contrary to your expectations, Thranduil simply rolled his eyes, and swiftly stuck one part of the colourful fungus in his mouth. Everyone gasped, including you, but the old Elvenking remained completely unbothered.
“Hm,” he blinked after a second. “That is not bad.”
Waves of impending doom washed over you with each contemplative movement of Thranduil's jaws. Looking first to the left, and then to the right, you found no immediate means exit of the situation. It was you, the resident human, and the tree behind you, which your King had no problem with crowding you against. Not that he moved or anything. He was just... Large. And very handsome. And spectacular at rounding his shiny, bottomless eyes with great purpose.
“We must know if this fungus is harmful to Edain,” he said, honey-sweet. You hated that he was right. “According to hunters, there is an abundance of it, and, knowing how curious you Edain are...”
“Ugh!” You shook your head. “Just give me the mushroom. If I die, I will haunt your halls for all eternity.” Obediently and with no small worry, you snatched the piece and stuck it in your mouth, chewing quickly, not even taking note of the taste.
Thranduil's last experiment that involved you and Feren still fresh on your mind, you turned back towards the Halls before you'd even finished chewing. You'd rather be in the privacy of your rooms least intoxication has you do something embarrassing... Again. Thankfully, the King conceded, and after giving the hunters a command to gather more of this mystery fungus, the party set out back home.
It was Feren's turn to offer you fleeting looks of compassion. You quietly smiled back, not feeling anything out of sorts. The ride back was pleasantly uneventful. Not a creature was stirring: even the ever-present spiders were absent in their bothersome scuttling.
Too smug for his own good, Thranduil entered his halls with a spring in his step. “The haunting of halls of Greenwood has been postponed indefinitely, I see,” he said in passing as he shrugged off his outer travel robes. A maid immediately offered him a silver robe of heavy satin which he politely declined. “Nay. The discovery has warmed me plenty.”
You noticed that yes, the weather has turned rather warm indeed and bowed before departing back to your daily business. Mid-way through your chores, a thin, translucent sheen of sweat glistened on your brow as you silently cursed the Vala responsible for such unusually pleasant weather. The Halls had already began to prepare for a long winter with covering unnecessary exits and patching up drafty areas.
What wouldn't you give for a gulp of fresh, cold air! Chores forgotten, you hurried to the nearest balcony. There was one not frequently visited by Elves as it was hidden behind a clever alcove; stepping aside and squeezing through the narrow opening, you sighed happily and deeply as your clammy skin finally felt crisp late night air.
Your shoulders dropped as you exhaled, finally shaking off some of that uncomfortable heat. A tranquil scene of swaying treetops and budding stars over a darkening sky emphasized the calamity of your solitude.
“Hm.”
“My Lord,” you greeted without turning, familiar with the timbre of voice and soft swishing of expensive fabric coming from behind you.
Thranduil's profile appeared within your field of view as he posted up next to you and demurely placed a hand over the stone railing of the balcony. “I was unaware someone had found the secret entrance to my private balcony.”
“Oh,” you froze. “I apologize... I was simply...”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “I take no offense. Indeed, it was quite clever. Even keen Elven eyes miss the opening behind the alcove.” Sans outer robe and clad in a simple but rich ensemble of sateen shirt and velvet breeches, it became evident you'd caught the King in a private moment of relaxation. His brow, usually tinted with concern with kingdom, was pleasantly warm.
You swallowed, looking away. He was a beauty even among his own kin, and like this - relaxed and comfortable - bordered on irresistible. A flash of heat spread through your body at the realisation. It took no small effort to squash these thoughts and steer them towards some semblance of propriety.
“The Valar have blessed us with good weather this autumn, my Lord. I was doing my chores and nearly felt faint from the heat.” You said, noticing Thranduil's eyebrows rise. “And the construction of your halls is incredible! Not a single drafty corner.”
“Heated, you say?” He interrupted suddenly, turning to face you fully. Etiquette (whenever you remembered it) dictated you should, too, and you two faced each other. Thranduil radiated curiosity, eyes lingering on your flushed cheeks and the warmth crawling down the neckline of your clothes. “Strange.”
“What is, my Lord?”
“I have said the same thing to Galion but he gave me a very pointed look and gestured towards Lady Anariel, who had been complaining to her maid about not lighting a fire in a timely manner.”
You frowned, too. The Lady Anariel was as Northern as Elves come and was fairly tolerant of wintery weather. When others wore furs, she got by with an outer dress of wool and, perhaps, a pair of gloves.
“Do you feel... Strange, my Lord?” You had a slight suspicion. Just a teeny-tiny one, that boiled down to those Eru-forsaken mushrooms.
In response you received an impish sort of shrug. “Not necessarily so. Do you?”
Your face blanched. Aside from suddenly finding him irresistible and feeling a little hot under the collar, nothing was amiss. But the longer you lingered on those two thoughts, the stronger they became. It was as if you were an adolescent again: barely any impulse control and all feeling.
‘twas a delicate situation. You could speak to a healer, of course, or let the strange circumstance run it's course. If it even could do that. Thoughts growing jumbled by the second, you said the only clear thing on your mind.
“Those cursed mushrooms.”
Thranduil was unperturbed. “I do not believe they are cursed. Potent, yes, but not cursed.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “... You too?”
He sighed. “I came out here in hopes of clearing my head from this fog of lust.” As you prepared to mutter- what, exactly? Apologies? - Thranduil's finger reached out for tour face to trace the curve of your jaw. “And in the process I found something much more exciting.”
Your bottom lip trembled. Such a simple gesture felt heavenly. Wherever his skin came in contact with yours, the heaviness receded briefly. Your breath caught in your chest as your heart picked up a hare's pace.
“Am I being propositioned?” You wished to say to yourself but in the fog, managed to sputter out loud.
“We could help each other out...” The King, unfurled to his full height and radiating heat equal to that you felt on the inside, grinned a crooked grin. It sat youthfully on his timeless features, just the right amount of flirtatious and reassuring.
You pretended to think about it. No, you really did, out of concern for your dignity. Throwing yourself onto the King was simply uncouth. Such was your next course of action, but the necessary amount of time had passed and the need, having been brought to the forefront or your mind, took hold of your sense. Slowly, you leaned into the touch and brought your hands to Thranduil's forearm, tilting his fingers to your mouth. Hot breath caused them to twitch.
“Does this answer your question?” You tilted your head, lips brushing against the multitude of rings he wore on his persona. It was most exhilarating to see his pupils widen and his mouth tremble.
Adam's apple bobbing, Thranduil swallowed. “No.” And smirked, the stunning bastard. “I need a clear, straightforward statement.”
You sighed, feigning annoyance. “I enthusiastically consent to having uncouth, untoward and potentially nasty things being done to my body by my Lord and King...”
You did not even get to finish. In a flash, Thranduil's hands had encircled your face and he bent himself over you, pushing your body into the balcony as he devoured your mouth with his. There was no grace and no finesse; something heavy and hard poking your stomach showed you just how much self-control your King had.
Seconds ago, you'd been having a perfectly normal conversation and now you found yourself airborne, having been unceremoniously picked up by the tall Elf and carried towards his chambers like the most coveted spoil of war while he devoured your mouth. You hummed into the kiss and responded with a groan, tearing the back lacing of your clothes clean off.
Your back connected with the mattress of his bed. Blinking at the rapid change of pace and scenery, you moaned out in frustration regarding your ruined clothes.
“I will commission more for you,” he said carelessly, throwing his own shirt Mordor knows where. His bare chest, chiseled with lithe muscle and pale as fresh milk, captivated your attention.
Previously having contended yourself with the occasional glance at the tiny window of bare skin where the sides of his robes met, you used your newfound opportunity to drink yourself full of Thranduil's fair skin. It felt as soft as it looked when he laid upon you, the weight of his body offering a delicious momentary reprieve from the tension building up in your muscles. Gossamer hair shielded you from the outside world as he leaned in towards your mouth again, this time capturing yours in a sensual dance of tongue and teeth.
A nimble hand took care of your bottoms, sliding inside your underwear as slick and cunning as a snake, to cup your mound. Thranduil groaned into the kiss, finding you soaked and willing, fingering the cleft of your lower lips with practiced gentle moves. The tenderness of it drove you crazy. Your need flared as a wall of standstill fire and you were surprised you did hadn't noticed it earlier. If the pulse in your cunt was anything to go by, you would come undone the very moment your King would finally allow you to feel full.
He was fairly content with sucking your soul out through your mouth and mapping the fat outer lips of your cunt. Never quite breaching and wholly avoiding your throbbing pearl, Thranduil simply basked in the amount of sticky juice your cunt was capable of producing.
The first loud moan of the night broke free if your lips and it was one of frustration.
Thranduil smiled into the kiss, your teeth clashing together. “What is it, mm?” He queried in-between wet pecks.
“I want to come.” You whined.
He chuckled. “And what's in it for me?”
Thankfully, your eyes were closed and he did not see your eyeroll. “You'll get to come, too?” Cringing at how lame it sounded, you were nonetheless powerless beneath him and overwhelmed from your desire.
“I prefer to play with my food.” He grinned a predator's smile, all shiny teeth and lidded eyes, but tugged down on your bottoms nonetheless. “Try harder.”
That became difficult as you were now bare; shivering in your King's arms, you cracked open a hazy eye to see him settle himself closer to your dripping center. It captivated him. Sliding two fingers along your lips, your eyes closed and head fell back as every nerve in your body came alight. Rewarded by a long moan, Thranduil gathered ample amount of moisture on his fingers and brushed over your quivering entrance.
Your back arched as he plunged them deeply within your aching cunt. The sticky noise it made was positively scandalous.
“I will-ah! forgive you for gathering the entire -ahh! King's guard to look at Feren and I!” You managed to form a quasi-coherent sentence through the moans and gasps spilling from your lips and were rather proud of yourself for it.
Thranduil's laugh echoed in the room as it did in his chest, a pleasant rumble vibrating through your core. “Whether Galion forgives you two for barking at him remains to be seen.”
Genuine amusement briefly overshadowed your shame at the situation of the past and at your own current neediness. The combination of emotion startled a laugh out of you, causing your core to clench around Thranduil's fingers and coat them in your wetness. He groaned low in his throat and rubbed your inner walls, reveling in the resulting moan. It did nothing to bring you closer to the peak.
“Sadist!” You accused and attempted to grind down on his hand, fisting the crumpled sheets.
“Slander!” He punctuated the rebuttal with an expert curl of his fingers. You arched. He smirked. “You should learn patience.”
There was no strength in your mind to formulate another witty comeback. Sensation, low and insistent, built up in the pit of your belly, an ache so sweet and tender you were sure it would be any second that you'd burst with it. Every pore on your skin open and receptive to touch, even the slide of silk sheets as your body bent with pleasure was overwhelming. You panted wetly through parted lips as a third finger joined in, the stretch of it making your eyes roll back into your head.
Thranduil would kill you. You were sure of it now. He would end you with a blinding smile and clever fingers never ceasing to move within you, the movement just shy of where you needed him most.
“Mercy!” You moaned. “Mercy, my King!”
You should have known his idea of it would be no less torturous than the ‘kindness’ that led you to your current place writhing atop his bed. Slowly, his tongue traced a path around your outer lips before dipping inside; it was hot and wet, like a summer storm, when it connected with your engorged clit and flicked it from root to tip. Electric feel of sensation pierced your body in a lightning bolt as your leg muscles seized. The King gave a pleased rumble and went for seconds and thirds, effortlessly holding your thighs open with one strong, long arm, palm digging into the soft meat.
Even the pain of it echoed with pleasure.
While the need within your loins kept steadily climbing with no end in sight, your King treated himself to a leisurely late night snack. His tongue delved in and out of your cunt, lapping up the waterfall of arousal. You would have been mortified, really, for the mess had you glued stuck to his face, your hips attempting to follow his mouth in circles.
Coupled with the digits slowly but surely stretching the entrance to your channel, brushing over the sensitive fornix, you knew the night would be long. Dark, but not cold. Hazy.
“Ngh!” You articulated through gritted teeth, feeling him pull away from a particularly sensitive spot in favour of sucking a bruise onto your inner thigh. Thranduil followed a path only he himself knew, marking your flesh with pulling, precise bites that left discoloured spot damp with spit. They pleasantly ached.
Over your stomach and at the underside of your bottom rib. The sides and bottoms of your breasts, all the way up at the root of your nipples. He took each one in into his mouth, suckling on it like a hungry babe, before releasing them with a wet pop just blow a gentle breath onto the pebbled nubs. Through parted lashes, you watched him, aptly fascinated by the lack of colour in his eyes, pupils blown wide and deep with lust.
You tasted your cunt on his tongue as he made way back up. Risking a glance downward, you saw Thranduil's cock hard, flushed and heavy, hanging out of his breeches. He hadn't bothered with removing them and that single detail had you nearly undone. How the King himself could not wait to he inside of you!
An understanding of his previous games had come too, for he was rather proportional everywhere. Just the slide of his weeping tip against your bruised thigh invoked a shudder in you, back arching. You presented yourself to your best ability, eyes shining with pleading as he rested his forehead against yours.
Thranduil held himself above you, weight on his elbows, as his cock nosed at your sopping entrance. Immediately, it tried to suck him in, coaxing his lips to bend into a smirk. Such proximity was putting your sensibility directly into negatives. With a wild look mirrored in his own darkened pupils, you petulantly stuck out your bottom lip and panted with all the sarcasm that you could muster:
“we'll get to the good part... About tomorrow?” You wished to add more, something about him being old, but that remark and many more drowned in the absolute extasy flooding your body as he slid into your cunt in one single smooth stroke. “Aah...” Left your lips instead, and with it, any remaining oxygen departed from your lungs as well.
“Mouthy,” Thranduil remarked, sounding unfairly put together for someone who's mouth was as slippery as wet stone and cheeks brighter than a ripe beetroot.
You forgave him then and there. In awe, you watched him give you another one of his impish grins and nudge at that spot deeply within you. And he did it all over again, plush mouth releasing the sweetest, quietest of moans as he did so. Time got lost in the tug of war tour cunt played with his cock; like this, your release was imminent and fast approaching.
You grabbed Thranduil's arms, rubbed his shoulders as your legs wound up around his narrow waist while he contentedly and systematically unraveled you apart with rapid, smooth snaps of his hips. For a while, there was nothing in the room but the two of you and the lewd noises of damp skin slapping against skin. Clutching harder, you felt yourself tighten around his girth. Each measured stroke abused your engorged clit, heavy sac adding extra sensation on your perineum.
A low, feral groan joined the thrilling cacophony of sex. Thranduil fucked you through your first orgasm with gritted teeth, barely slowing with the new resistance of your cunt attempting to milk him for his worth. Hair hanging over your faces like a curtain, he claimed your lips in a searing kiss as you whimpered with overstimulation. Evenly, his thrusts became shallow, grinding.
Having become a acquainted with your bearings somewhat, you made a confused noise. The King just grinned. His palm connected firmly with the side of your hip as you squealed. He withdrew.
“Present yourself to your King.” He ordered, both smug and slightly breathless, helping you along onto all fours.
You chuffed into the damp bedding and obeyed, arching your back at a sinful curve. Within seconds, you were once again blissfully full.
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a/n: I am way too horny of a person to write anything LACE compliant. Or is that my commitment issues talking? Anyway, ELVES FUCK SEVERELY! At least this October. mwah 💋
I once ate like 12 grams of cubensis and was a cat for 3 hours, so Feren barking at Galion with the help of some 3k+ year old mushroom infused moonshine isn't that far-fetched.
#thranduil x reader#thranduil smut#thranduil x you#thranduil fluff#(question mark?)#lotr x reader#lotr smut#this sexy blonde pointy eared menace smh#LACE non compliant#female reader
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we have a problem, Houston. Someone sent this in...
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Which is really sweet. One problem. THIS 6000 YEAR OLD 7' 300lb BEEFCAKE HIMBO HAS NEVER BEEN IN LOVE. Never. I've tried. Buddy boo is a highkey romantic at the end of the day, and there's one thing that playing him for 7 years has taught me he will either end in him falling for a gremlin or luthien herself because holy shit he's a handful. The only ship I ever succeeded in snagging for him was kinda a flirt ship that was one of those "oh let's fuck with people together for funsies" where he mostly did it just to piss off one of her boyfriends. Like SERIOUSLY. HE'S A MENACE. a romantic menace tho. Like he's gonna be sweet as fuck and loves deeply. You're very welcome to shoot your shot
And infatuation is Ecthelions area of expertise ( trust me ecthelion is mr obsessive when he wants to be but will not speak it aloud ) but if Glorfindel ever swooned you can bet your ass he'd do something about it.
Edit: if he ever did feel "some enchanted evening" over someone you can bet your ass he's gonna be rubs your feet, protects you, flirt turns off, "my type is my beautiful girlfriend so and so" type of devoted. He'll give you a flower, and then hold your flower while you kick ass and then give you back the flower while HE kicks that persons ass. Like seriously. Engage at your own risk.
#:: ooc ::#You want pining thel is your man#This has been a psa#......i think glorfindel might be a bit thor coded#Also if I'm being LaCE compliant that means he's a 6000 year old virgin which just#GIL GALAD NO LONGER OLDEST VIRGIN ALIVE
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I really like the idea of reworking lace's softlock scene where she admits to having nightmares to be cyrus platonically offering to share a bed with her, because that's a very normal not inherently romantic form of intimacy for him & something he's been quietly craving, and lace agreeing with the excuse that this is something cyrus also wants/needs (neither of them, obviously, able to articulate it within the framework of their own desires, needing it to be about their service to one another) except the crush she's been nursing & repressing comes to the fore with some light lyrium poisoning and this subsequently interrupts the connection to the fade/solas if only for a moment-- and a moment is all cyrus needs to realize that there is something deeply fucking wrong in his body/soul that has been kept out of his sight
#classically lyrium & blood magic dont interact the way that lyrium & non-blood magic do#but if its about disrupting the link to the regrets prison i think im still canon compliant?#just musing... mulling things over like wine....... ofc i like the elgarn'nan solas catfight being what causes the magic to glitch#but the timing of this works better for cyrus & lace's relationship and doesnt point to solas' involvement the same way?#rook!cyrus#cyrusXlace#dragon age veilguard spoilers
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We can always begin again - Chapter 1
Relationships: Celegorm/Aredhel, Curufin/Finrod (background) Summary: Celegorm didn't think he'd be granted mercy, that he'd be re-embodied or that he'd be welcome anywhere. Aredhel thought she'd never welcome him again after what he'd done. They were never good at staying away from each other. TW: none for this chapter but a warning: this is mostly canon compliant Celegorm, for what this fic is supposed to be this means Eol won't be beyond salvation (he is in only one chapter briefly but I felt this needed to be said) (Not to worry tho, I have another aretyel fic in the works where Eol is just the worst) A/N: Enjoy!
Also on AO3
Tyelkormo Fëanorion didn't know how long it had been since he'd seen the sun. He didn't even think he'd be given a chance to see it again, a permanent residence in the Halls would have been mercy compared to what he had bound to his soul, turns out mercy, as some would call it, tasted of ash and poison. It hurt his eyes.
He breathed in then held his breath.
It was a cacophony of senses he no longer was familiar with and he just needed another minute. If he was free of Mandos then he could be granted that, it was the most humble request he'd ever made.
"I don't believe they shall let you back in, brother"
Tyelko opened his eyes to watch as Curufin prepared his oh, so kindly, allowed horse. He was rather happy to have the company, the twins and Caranthir had been released before him, it was nice to not be left alone now.
"What a shame," he shrugged, if somebody saw him now they'd almost believe it "I'm convinced we truly were close to send dear Mandos to retirement."
"And have to do his job? Rather dreary don't you think?" Curufin managed a smile back.
"On the contrary, after everything that happened I find it rather fitting."
It was a voice Tyelko was not expecting, in fact he was not expecting anyone, he figured even his brothers would rather steer away from him after Doriath, instead he could now see his mother approaching on the horse he could remember so clearly from childhood, and the one who spoke...
"Irìssë!"
She was there, black hair to the wind and dressed in all white, it was like nothing had changed, that she was about to call him to a hunt and then to camp in the wild, he'd tell her what story the birds were telling that morning and everything would be just right. He ran to her, he needed to feel she was real.
"Don't touch me!"
He stopped dead in his tracks, because this was Irìssë, this was his best friend, he had felt so hollow when he discovered her death, so why? Why did she back away from him, her face a mix of fear and hate.
He felt Curufin's hand on his shoulder and looked at him, but his brother only shook his head. It frustrated him, he didn't want to be told that thing were different, he was alive, he wanted to feel alive now. He pushed Curufin's hand away, looking to the ground instead.
"Are you still sure you want to be here?" he heard his mother ask Irìssë.
"Yes," she said back "Yes, I'm just not ready for that yet."
He nodded, it wasn't directed at him exactly but he knew what it meant.
"Irìssë, I-" Curufin tried to say but she quickly interrupted.
"There is no need," she answered but seemed to be eager to end the conversation instead "It's in the past now, I don't need any explanation."
Tyelko felt he disagreed but it didn't seem that anything he said would be useful so he decided to be silent instead and let things change. It had been what he'd searched for so long, why did it felt so wrong now?
They had been riding for at least an hour before his mother decided to break the silence.
"I am to make you two aware that you, in specific, are forbidden from Tirion Palace," she told them, it was rather curt but they supposed it was to be expected "You may choose one of the accommodations for the returned or," she took a breath and for the first time in that hour, they heard their mother "Or you are free to come home with me."
It was more than Tyelko expected, but then again, if freedom was the confines of Formenos then he'd much rather go back to Mandos, spirits could not feel real boredom.
"Findaràto is crown prince." Curufin hummed and Tyelko felt ashamed of his earlier rejection, he didn't think his brother would accept his support as it was now.
Nerdanel nodded "I have good reasons to believe that Ëarwen might build dungeons just for you if you attempt to enter."
If it was supposed to be a joke, it was a poor one indeed. But the chill was slowly leaving her voice and Tyelko could be grateful for that.
"What about you?" he couldn't keep himself from asking, Tyelko genuinely hadn't meant to sound so resentful, but the damage was done already "What have you come to tell us?"
Irìssë gave him a look that reminded him how cold she could be since the Helcaraxë, it was vague and he couldn't tell what she was thinking, she was right there and most distant than ever, before turning back to the road.
"I am here for the same reason as aunt Nerdanel," she said "To offer my home."
"What?!"
She'd been so distant he had expected for the journey to end in her telling him that from that moment on they had nothing to share anymore, that their great friendship would finally find its conclusion. She was free.
Instead...
"If you so wish," she said, her voice still on that bitter edge "You two are welcome to stay with me and my son in our cabin."
That was a surprise for both of them, they really didn't think anyone would welcome them back, let alone offer their house.
"No," was Curufin reply "With all of my respect, Irìssë, mother, but I wish to be alone for now."
Tyelpë. The reason went unspoken.
"And you?" Nerdanel asked her third child.
"I-" Tyelko looked at the two women in front of him, his mother was giving him a simple solution that was much better than the small house away from everyone he thought was in his future. It was the correct option, to stay in Formenos, rust away there, but he had always been selfish and he wanted some closure.
So he spurred his horse forward, blocking the path of Irìssë's horse and earning her glare, it did, however, maker her look at him and that was what he needed.
Tyelko searched her eyes for any sign that they still knew each other "Do you truly want that?"
Her stare as intense as his, daring him to say anything "Yes."
"I'm sorry, Ammë," he told Nerdanel and he meant so, it had been so long since he'd seen her but he felt it wasn't what he needed.
Nerdanel, albeit strained, merely smiled "If you are both decided I have nothing else to say."
The four of them separated another hour later, Nerdanel leading Curufin to his temporary home, while Irìssë led him towards the forest, Tyelko had half expected to be led deeper inside, instead, they stopped right at the edge, where a small-ish wood cabin stood.
It was no Himlad, that was certain, almost too simple even for Irìssë but it didn't look cramped, having at least two floors, it would have been rather uncomfortable otherwise. Her son. Tyelko hadn't even considered that when he'd made his choice. He knew nothing about the boy, besides a vague memory of his presence in the battlefield with Turgon, thinking about it now, he wished he'd known sooner, it was strange how such a big side of Irìssë was now a mistery to him.
"You can still leave."
It was the first smile she'd given him and it was more of a scornful grin, crooked, not what he remembered in places. But it was the closest thing to home he had in years.
"Too bad, you're stuck with me now."
#sorry for the eol thing#but i have rules for myself#and if it's canon compliant then tyelko's bads are similar to eol's#therefore if i'm kind to one i have to be kind to the other#mostly canon compliant just means abducting luthien and trying to marry her but without other implications#very much NOT LaCe compliant#<- it will become more obvious in the curufinrod companion fic#silm fic#my writing#celegorm#aredhel#aretyel#feanorian#feanorians
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I’ve been wondering recently whether or not Elvish Wardens and other fighters are allowed to be present during the births of their children?
Like, if you’re going LACE compliant, then most elves who can birth children won’t become warriors unless necessary and even then, they’ll try to minimize the deaths they cause so they can physically create life.
So like obv you could be a warrior and a someone who births, but I wonder if at one point there was a rule or at least a cultural norm about not having warrior-class parents in the birthing chambers? My initial gut reaction would be to say yes (especially given fathers weren’t allowed in with their wives until I believe the 1950-60s in the UK in which Tolkien based his knowledge off of), but also both parents are expected to spiritually feed their elfling after their birth so maybe not? Or maybe the act of birth itself is considered so high-concern that the answer would still be no.
Anyone have any elvish birthing canons and customs? Curious about thoughts related to LACE and non-LACE!
#Tolkien elves#Tolkien meta#elves#elvish gender expression is different okay#elvish pregnancy and birth#lotr#lord of the rings hcs#lotr headcannons#silm#silmarilion#tolkien legendarium#Tolkien LACE#LACE compliance#non LACE compliant
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Faegalad had heard it many times. That she would one day find someone she loved, and, hopefully, she would be able to marry them. She had tried to point out to Celebrimbor that not even he was married, but... when she learned of his love for Galadriel, she only felt... alone.
Truthfully, it was something she... couldn't wrap her head around. She didn't understand it when Mirdaniel talked about wanting to marry one day and have children. Didn't understand when she would hear others say how wonderful it felt when they met their partner or why anyone had any interest in getting married. She didn't share that interest. Didn't share that desire. And... as she grew older, as she neared her fiftieth year, she felt more and more alone. Felt like there was something wrong with her. Something... broken, even. But she did her best to ignore it. To smile and nod and pretend it was something she wanted, too, when she felt more and more suffocated and more isolated. Unsure how long she could keep up the facade before she cracked beneath it.
In an attempt to try and fix herself, she began to court. If someone showed interest, she gave them a chance - thinking she could fall in love herself and everything would be fine. That there wasn't something wrong with her and she just needed to meet the right one to feel whole. But... she never felt anything stronger than friendship to those she courted. She would kiss them and hope she would feel some sort of spark - feel anything to suggest she was alright - but... she never felt anything other than discomfort. She only felt her stomach tie into knots in a way that made her feel sick instead of like she was flying.
Her relationships never lasted long because of it, or got too serious. She tried to make them work, but... she could only let them go for so long until she realized she was only being cruel by leading them on when she felt no love for them. Sometimes it ended amicably, sometimes it didn't. It was never her intention to hurt anyone, but she did, sometimes, and it only made her feel worse. She didn't understand what was wrong with her or why she couldn't feel some sort of attraction like others felt toward her. Mirdaniel teased her for being too picky, and Faegalad tried to accept that as the answer. Tried to tell herself she was being too picky about who she wanted to be with and that she needed to be a little more lax with the standards she held that... didn't even exist. But she kept trying to find that spark - kept trying to fill the hole in her chest that she was so desperate to keep hidden because she was ashamed that there was something wrong.
But... then she became Ring-bearer. Became a pariah. She focused on being the best soldier she could - on proving her loyalty to her people who she abandoned. Her focus became them. Her people, her kingdom. On making things right and rebuilding Eregion, and keeping her kingdom strong. It was then that it... became easier to handle, because she stopped trying to fill that hole. Stopped focusing on what was wrong with her in favor of being ruler. Even though there was still a quiet, nagging thought in the back of her mind that she was broken. That there was something wrong with her that caused such strife to begin with.
Something she continued to keep to herself, out of shame of her own heart.
#headcanons#((I feel like now is also a good time to mention that I'm personally neutral about lace#and I'll go either way with being compliant or not dsfkhjsgfd - or both! I can pick and choose lol#it just depends on thread ¯\_(ツ)_/¯#with that said I'm always down to write something about her talking to someone about this 👀))#((but yeah Fae is on the aroace spectrum and I did tweak her info to include her being demiromantic/sexual!))
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Before voting, spin the wheel and get a Lord of the Rings character.
Not sure who your character is? You can look them up on this Tolkien Gateway character list, or just vote based on vibes.
For the purposes of the game, assume your vote is not "LaCE compliant." (That is, fucking an elf does not instantly mean marriage or death for that elf.)
Poll concept from @pollsnatural.
#lord of the rings#lotr#poll#polls#technically more of a game than a poll#whatever#fmk#first time I post in weeks and it's this XD
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"Where else was I supposed to sit?" - [OT8 SKZ]
quick summary ; lap sitting w/ ot8 skz
warnings ; thigh touching, casual groping (light suggestive content, MDNI), handsy skz
chris ;
sitting in chris' lap is like asking for a death wish. he welcomes it, when he's not busy of course, but he's got a bad habit for needing to always have his hands moving. he has to constantly be touching something, squeezing something - even when he's standing still during interviews or shows his hands are at his sides, fingertips rubbing restlessly on his palms. so when you're in his lap, he finds ways to make his hands useful; whether it be carefully twisting the hem of your top around his fingertips, sliding his fingers in and out of your belt loops and tugging on them here and there, or gently kneading at the plush of your thighs. that's what most commonly happens - he just really loves the warmth and soft squish between his fingers. he can't help it.
minho ;
you're more than welcome to sit in minho's lap - but you have to be facing him, and i'm sure you know why. if you're around friends or the other boys he'll let you sit facing away and just loosely lace his arms around your waist while chitchatting or pestering hyunjin. but if you're together, he wants you facing him so he can somehow wiggle his hands into your bottoms and casually, non-sexually, rest his hands on your ass. he'll either slip his hands up the bottom of your shorts - or tuck them into the back pockets on your jeans, letting you rest your face in his shoulder as he watches some drama jisung told him about. (no, not the dating ones. he refuses to indulge in those.)
changbin ;
sitting in binnie's lap is like heaven on earth. his thighs are the perfect mixture of muscle and fat - soft enough to be perfectly plush and comfortable but strong enough to nearly push you off when he tenses in frustration at some silly jab seungmin made thirty seconds ago. he's always got his arms around you when you're this close to him, so you're basically just enveloped by big thighs - big arms - his big ol boobies- all in all sitting in binnie's lap is just the perfect stress reliever. but don't think he doesn't notice the way you slide a hand down to grope at the skin when he's wearing shorts - he sees everything.
hyunjin ;
hyunjin likes to sit cross legged and then have you sit in his lap that way - so you're not on top of his thighs, but in between them. the man sits like he's sporting ten inches so i'm bound to believe he is - simple as that - he just prefers it that way, freedom for his thighs so he doesn't feel too pinned down wherever he's sitting. he finds solace in playing with your hair when you're in front of him, occasionally bouncing his legs so you're bopping around enough to make him laugh from behind you. if you're really compliant, he'll probably hold onto your wrists and pretend to puppet you around - which seems to make the other boys laugh quite a bit as well.
jisung ;
he's got a leg bouncing problem, but not in the way that hyunjin does it where it's for fun. he's said before that he's just done it since he was younger but was always told to quit, so now he only does it when he's alone. so if you're on his lap and no one else is around, he's probably carefully bouncing one leg beneath you. it's not too bothersome and if you do huff about it, he'll stop - he just finds it a habit and sort of relaxing. but if you give him something else to do? he'll go with that instead. like playing with the necklace you're wearing, or twisting the hem of your shirt around his fingers. he just needs some way to let out the energy that builds in his tiny ass waist while he's sitting still.
felix ;
i'm bound to believe that felix is like hyunjin and prefers when you sit between his legs - but he likes to spread his legs as wide apart as possible and have you sit in front of him so he can do your hair. he likes braiding it or combing his fingers through it, apologizing if a ring catches on you. he'll fix your shirt from behind and pull you back to lean into him, wanting to support you while you relax - and his hands always find a way beneath your shirt. his fingertips will brush over your skin, thumbs smoothing over any beauty marks or potential scars - always tracing every dip and bump to commit it to memory. (and hoping he'll see it later.)
seungmin ;
he's the type to refuse to let you in his lap at first, pushing you away with laughter and putting his arms up so you can't sit down. but he'll give in eventually, letting you sit on his thighs and sighing. if you're not comfortable that's on you - because he's going to manspread and he's not putting his thighs together just for your ass to rest on. he'll cuddle up soon enough though, so expect him to rest his head on top of yours and wind his arms around you, squeezing you every few moments or swaying with you in his arms. he won't admit it, but he does enjoy the comforting warm of you so close to him.
jeongin ;
sitting in jeongin's lap is like a luxury if he allows it. or - well, if he likes it. sometimes he'll let it happen but he won't touch you, he'll keep scrolling on his phone or talking to felix nearby - but it's not because he doesn't want it to happen; he's just not one for skinship. he'll bounce his leg to give you a small bit of affection so you know he doesn't mind. but if it's a good day, and he really is digging the touchy-feely vibe, he'll wrap his arms around your waist and squeeze you to him until you're barely breathing. if you're around the others, it's common he'll lean forward so you're flush together and rest both of his hands on your knees - which makes you stare and wonder just how his hands are engulfing your body so easily...
#stray kids imagine#stray kids scenarios#skz imagine#skz x reader#stray kids x reader#bangchan x reader#leeknow x reader#changbin x reader#hyunjin x reader#han x reader#felix x reader#seungmin x reader#jeongin x reader#IN x reader
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whiny and spoiled
in which reader is being a brat but spencer just can't help himself from taking off her clothes and going down on her anyway!
18+ (smut) warnings/tags: MUNCH!SPENCE (aka canon compliant!) oral fem receiving (duh lol) reader referred to as a girl, bratty reader, idk if this is soft dom spencer or if this is just pure unadulterated munch spencer who will eat pussy at the drop of a hat, overstimulation kinda, sexy and hot, will make u bust a/n: requests are tentatively open in that i may not complete them but i will surely consider them!! thank you guys for all the positive feedback, it's so motivating and i love that you seem to like my stuff so much! please lmk if you like this and what you'd like to see more of in the future! so many ideas and WIPs
You’re lounging on Spencer’s bed when he gets home, fiddling with one of his Rubik’s cubes and kicking your feet in the air absent-mindedly.
You look up as he opens the bedroom door and gestures for you to remove your headphones, looking a little bemused at the scene in front of him.
“How was work?” you ask, eyes tracking him as he shrugs off his bag and comes to kiss you in greeting.
“It was fine,” he dismisses, hands braced on the mattress as he leans over you, looking you up and down. “Why are you wearing boots in bed?”
“Because I didn’t feel like dealing with the laces.”
“Take them off, please. You have no idea how much bacteria and filth you’re introducing to the place I sleep.”
“Probably no more than I do with my hands,” you shrug, shaking the Rubiks cube in his face for added emphasis. He plucks it from your hand and sets it on the bedside table.
“I’m asking politely,” Spencer says, raising his eyebrows slightly and standing up straight, probably wondering if this is the thing you’re going to push him on tonight. You chew your lip, cocking your head as you regard him.
“I want to keep them on. They’re my good luck charm. People leave the scary girl wearing the stompy boots alone.”
He circles to the foot of the bed.
“Are you saying you want to scare me away?”
“No. But I don’t need the boots to scare you,” you tease.
You squeal when he grabs your ankles and pulls you down the bed, beginning to unlace one of your shoes.
“Do these actually intimidate people?” he asks absent-mindedly, focused on loosening the laces.
“I mean... I don’t know. Maybe some people,” you splutter after a moment, slightly flustered.
“Hm. I guess I don’t find you all that scary to begin with,” Spencer admits, tugging the first boot off and tossing it to the ground before getting to work on the second one.
“Shut up. I’m totally scary.”
But you’re losing your steel as he looks down at you, eyes raking over your body. There is a hungry sort of sparkle in his eyes now—one that has become familiar and sends a thrill through you.
“Maybe to people who don’t know you very well.”
Your eyes narrow.
“Don’t patronize me.”
The second boot is removed and joins the other on the floor. His hands begin running up and down the front of your legs. You shiver.
“I’m not patronizing you, honey. I’m just being honest.” The movement of his hands ceases as he seems to consider something. “Do you want me to be scared of you?”
You swallow, eyes darting over his face and looming frame, wishing he would keep touching you.
“No,” you find yourself saying. “But fear is respect. Everybody likes being respected.”
“I don’t know if I agree that fear and respect are the same,” he muses, smiling ever so slightly, “but I respect you very much.” He resumes moving his hands, higher this time, over your thighs and under your skirt. “I just can’t imagine such a sweet girl being perceived as intimidating.”
“I am not sweet,” you mutter, distracted by the way his hands skim so lightly over your skin—flipping your skirt over your stomach.
“Right. You’re terrifying,” he amends gently, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your tights. “Up.” You lift your hips, allowing him to tug the sheer fabric down your legs and carefully off your feet. “The pink underwear are really scary,” he teases, snapping the fabric against your hip.
“Shut up,” you repeat breathlessly, face heating. “You’re the one that got them for me.”
“I did, didn’t I? They look good on you.” Finally, he looks up from the pink lace to your eyes. “Can I take them off?”
“You don’t always have to ask, you know,” you breathe. Sometimes, the answer is obvious enough.
“I like hearing you say yes.”
You flush, because what he really means is that he likes when you get desperate.
“Yes, you can take them off.”
A smile flickers over his face as he slides the underwear down and off, making sure to take his sweet time. Every brush of his thumb on your calf, every delicate pass over your ankle gives you anticipatory chills.
“Before I’m dead?” you ask, slightly strained. He tsks, tossing them on the bed.
“Someone should do something about that attitude of yours.”
“My attitude is your fault.”
“Because I like giving you what you want? Sue me.”
“Spencer,” you grit.
He slings your ankles over his shoulders.
“See? You’re not scary. You’re just whiny and spoiled.”
And before you can defend yourself, or at least make a sufficiently withering reply, he’s leaning down, licking a broad stripe between your legs that for once renders you speechless. Any comment on the tip of your tongue dies as the tip of his becomes all you can think about, melting into a content moan while you rake your fingers through his hair. He sucks lightly on your clit until you’re rolling your hips and then he releases, moving to press kisses to your inner thighs. “Are you going to be nice now?”
“Mhm,” you promise, wanting only for him to keep pleasuring you in that mind-numbing way of his.
“Are you just saying that?”
Another kiss.
“No! Mean it,” you whimper.
“Good girl,” he says, rubbing your outer thigh.
The next kiss is planted on your clit, before he’s taking it into his mouth again and leaving you a whiny mess. You throw your head back and your eyes flutter shut, melting into the bed and not bothering to hold back your sounds.
“Fuck.” Your voice is small, a gasp as he begins to flick his tongue over the bud, each brush against the sensitive spot making your hips stutter. He rubs your leg soothingly but doesn’t let up—you look back down to watch as best you can through your hazy, half-lidded eyes. “I love you,” you murmur.
He laughs against you and the vibrations only make you feel higher, whining and bucking slightly when he begins to lap at your slick entrance—kitten licks so light they’re torturous.
Spencer obviously has a goal in mind; there’s no hesitation and the teasing is minimal. He just wants to make you feel good. And it’s working. The man eats pussy like he’s in love with it.
His name is rolling off your tongue when he kicks into full gear, firm, fast circles around your clit that make you dizzy and hot.
“Oh, my god—” you cut yourself off with a languid, shameless moan, rolling your head to the side but keeping your eyes glued on him. He groans in approval as your hands card through his hair, moving one hand to slide affectionately up and down your stomach as the muscles there tense and flex.
“Fucking obscene,” he mutters, pausing for another filthy, wet kiss to your cunt. “Taste so good, angel girl.”
“Mm... wanna cum,” you beg, rolling your hips and hoping he’ll get the message.
“You will.” Spencer takes a long, luxurious lick as if to prove his point, pulling a desperate mewl from your parted lips. “Because you always get exactly what you want, don't you?”
“Mhm,” you agree, eyes screwing shut, but the reply quickly devolves into a stream of little ah’s that are so sweet Spencer has trouble reconciling their sanctity with their pornographic nature. And the way you unconsciously, innocently begin to pull him closer, trying to press yourself further into his mouth—well, it’s like he said; fucking obscene.
Sometimes Spencer likes to tease you at this point, to pull away and say sweet and dirty things that always bring forth your most adorable, embarrassed, desperate whimpers. But you taste so good, and you are whiny and spoiled, and you make such pretty noises when you’re all soft and needy like this and he can’t bear to pull away. Not when you deserve to cum. And it’s thoughts like these that are the reason you’re a spoiled princess, he muses peripherally. Because he’s fucking whipped for you.
“That’s so good,” you exhale, “just like that, please—fuck!”
He knows you’re going to cum, and there are many things he could do, many things he could say to fuck you over for his own enjoyment, but now he wants more than just about anything he’s ever wanted to work you apart and taste you cumming on his tongue. So he keeps running a reassuring hand over your stomach, trying to remind you to breathe as you approach your peak.
You finish, a slow wave of ecstasy washing over you, chanting his name as your hips sporadically roll and stutter into his face, and he’s making out with your soaked, messy pussy in a way that would never lead one to believe he’s ever been shy or squeamish or hesitant in any way.
“Spencer,” you yelp, incandescent warmth radiating in soft waves from your core and slowing your movements as your hips twitch in an attempt to escape the continual onslaught of his mouth.
“You can take it for a minute, honey,”
A defeated, half-pleasure half-pain whine lets him know he’s won as he continues to kiss your throbbing cunt, but soon small, weak moans are slipping unbidden past the barrier of your lips. You realize he’s going to make you cum again and there’s nothing you can do about it but tighten your hold in his hair, groan, and ride his tongue as he eats you for all that you’re worth.
The second orgasm is softer, blurrier, and equally perfect as the first. It threatens the already tenuous hold you have on your consciousness, strand after strand snapping until you’re barely hanging on.
“Spencer,” you repeat, slurring as you try to shut your legs. “Please, can’t, baby.”
“You could,” he says, sitting up and closing your useless legs for you, massaging the weak muscles. “You’ve done more.”
“Mm-mm,” you disagree, chest rising and falling as your breathing slows. “Don’t wanna.”
“That’s okay, angel. I’m not gonna force you.”
You sigh, obviously satisfied. “That felt really good.”
“I bet it did,” he chuckles, finally moving to lay down next to you. Immediately you curl up to him, and he smooths your skirt back down before tracing soothing patterns on the leg you’ve slung over him. “You’re so cute.”
“Don’t go spreading it around.”
“Never,” he promises, mocking but in good nature. The two of you lay in comfortable silence for a few moments, as you consider his decidedly unsatisfying answer.
“You’re not even a little scared of me?”
He smoothes your hair away from your eyes.
“No, honey, I’m not. But I’m sure other people find you utterly terrifying.”
You open your eyes to regard him ruefully, before they narrow again.
“You have a little something...” you begin, gesturing to your mouth. He snorts.
“Oh, do I?”
#criminal minds#spencer reid#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid fic#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x self insert#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x you#spencer reid smut#criminal minds smut
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I Will Be
by LusBeatha
In which Elrond realizes he is an elf and not an elleth, studies botanical medicine and thinks all matters should be solvable with plants, has absolutely no intention of choosing between being a healer and being a warrior, and finds empathy in surprising places.
General, No Archive Warnings
Words: 25,087
#silmarillion#kidnap fam#maedhros#maglor#elrond#elros#family#trans character#body dysphoria#lace compliant#fluff#angst#first age
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introducing dolly!reader
rafe's princess.
she's the most obedient pet he could have asked for. everything he wants of her, she complies with no question. it's almost as if she has no mind of her own and he loves it.
but that's far from it. dolly knows he likes to control everything, and she wants him to have control over her too. she loves knowing she belongs to him, that he adores her delicate, compliant nature. she rarely makes decisions on her own, preferring to let him guide her, spoil her, and mold her into exactly what he desires. it excites her to be taken care of, to be dressed up, to be kissed on the forehead while he reminds her how precious she is. the satisfaction she adores seeing on his face when he tastes the sweet treats she bakes him
her doe like eyes. that soft, dreamy voice she speaks to him in at all times. the way her face heats up and her plush thighs squeeze together when he calls her his princess.
even after the possessive, aggressive sex they have, her adoration for him never wavers. he abuses her cunt however he pleases, and she still clings to him like always, lingering onto his every want of her.
all her skirts are too small.
all her dresses are too short.
and that's cause he picks all her outfits. every laced item, pale pink pieces of lingerie, and the bows she puts in her hair are all chosen by him.
because thats what she wants, and she wants whatever he wants.
#outerhills#dolly!reader#outer banks smut#rafe cameron smut#obx smut#outer banks#rafe cameron#rafe cameron x reader#rafe smut#rafe fic#rafe x reader#rafe imagine#rafe fanfiction#rafe x you#rafe cameron x you#rafe obx#rafe outer banks#rafe cameron fanfiction#rafe cameron imagine#rafe cameron x y/n#rafe cameron x female reader#rafe x y/n
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slowly kissing down the body [49 + dean] ── ✮⋆˙
Pairing: Dean x Fem!Reader Genre: Fluff, smut (MDNI) To note/warnings: Established relationship, spooning, body worship, oral (m receiving), cussing, not proofread Word count: 1.4k A/N: @xpurdyglambertx requested this one in our Discord server and I hope I did it justice 👁️👁️ Thank you, Liz! Sorry it took me so long.
kisses askgame here 💋
It’s a rare occassion — or maybe it’s been happening more frequently lately. Either way, it feels special and you’re pretty sure it always will.
His back molds perfectly against your chest, both your bodies forming a seamless curve together. Your limbs are wrapped around him like some koala’s, as Dean likes to phrase it.
“Shut up,” you smile softly, your voice half-muffled by the way your face nuzzles the nape of his neck. “You enjoy being the little spoon, admit it.”
A gentle chuckle escapes his lungs, the deep vibrations of which buzz lightly against your palm, which he holds close over his heart.
“Guilty as charged,” he hums sleepily, before bringing your fingers up briefly to press a small kiss to your knuckles.
You know you’re lucky to be able to unwind with Dean like this.
Such a long day, so much work to do, a long drive after a complicated hunt — it’s all worth it once you can cuddle up with your boyfriend in clean sheets, comfy pillows and each other’s body warmth.
After coming back to the bunker, you had shared a warm shower. He threw on his sweatpants, you stole his shirt and thus you turned into two puzzle pieces that connected into one on the bed.
You sigh happily, all but melting into him. If you could crawl into his skin, you would. Your lips automatically find home at his bare shoulder, pecking a freckle there.
“I’m startin’ to think you just enjoy being the big spoon way more,” Dean teases.
Your smile widens into a smirk and you hum, practically feeling the shudder that runs down his spine.
“Mhh, maybe,” you mumble back and brush your lips at the spot between his shoulder blades. His skin is warm, the perfect balance between smooth and roughened. “Wanna know my favorite part of it?”
Dean’s breath hitches before he can answer. All thanks to your teeth grazing down his naked back.
“Christ, you’re gonna be the death of me,” he utters through gritted teeth and ragged breath, voice all husky and heavy.
You could get high on the effect you have on him.
Your mouth latches onto an old scar of his, your tongue hot and wet as it trails down lower and lower. Another kiss follows, that one carefully exploring a faint bruise on his ribs, before you continue your exploration further south and add a purple mark of your own.
Dean’s hand squeezes yours tightly, pressing it impossibly closer to his chest and you swear you can feel his heart drumming against your palm.
Then, you sit up slightly, using that exact palm to push his back against the mattress. Shifting, you position yourself on top of him, straddling his lap. The plush of your thighs drapes on each side of his hips perfectly, pulling his hands to them like magnets
“This is my favorite part,” you mumble sweetly, wide eyes feigning innocence as you bat your eyelashes down at him and trail both your hands over his torso. Over his stomach, to his hips, where you toy with the waistband of his sweatpants.
“Right here,” you add with a not so innocent smirk and roll your hips against his slowly.
You feel his cock hardening beneath you right through the thin lace of your panties and you feel yourself clench around nothing at the broken grunt you’re able to pull from Dean. The way his fingers sink into your supple flesh has your mind reeling.
It’s about him though.
Your plan is to make him feel good and from the looks of it, you’re doing a fine job at it.
Dean’s body, lax and compliant from a stressful hunt, tenses and squirms just enough to signal you which spots are the most sensitive.
You lean down, claiming his lips in a chaste kiss, to which he eagerly lifts himself, only to be nudged down by you again.
“Sit back and relax for me, babe,” you smile, before repeating your previous steps. Your pecks and kisses and nibbles wander down his jaw and throat, over his chest, his tattoo, lower and lower.
You map out every freckle and scar, each dip and curve.
You know his hands are itching to touch you all over, fingers itching to paw at every inch of you, but for now it’s his turn to be pampered.
Your tongue leaves behind a trail of slick, warm saliva cooling against his flushed skin. By the time your teasing kisses reach his navel, he’s impatiently bucking his hips.
He’s getting desperate, so you throw him a bone by ghosting your fingers over his clothed cock.
“Quit— shit, babe, fucking *shit*,” he interrupts his own whimpering briefly to swallow thickly, “quit teasin’ me already.”
“I just wanna take my time with you,” you breathe sweetly, while tugging the fabric down. “It’s supposed to be relaxing, remember?”
“You just wanna drive me crazy.”
A grin tugs at the corners of your lips and you look up at him theough heavy lidded eyes and a glimmer in your widened pupils.
“Is it working?” You ask teasingly.
“Obviously,” he quips back, unable to contain a grin of his own. Christ, he’s so smitten with you, it should be illegal. You have him wrapped around your little finger. Though your fingers are wrapped around him, pulling his twitching dick from its confines at last.
Dean’s head falls back against the pillows, eyes fluttering closed in ecstasy as you begin to pump him slowly.
Your other hand gives his thigh a firm pat.
“My eyes are down here,” you joke while you lower yourself into a more comfortable position, your knees tucked neatly beneath you, head resting between his thighs.
“’S very funny,” he huffs back and his chest is heaving as he pants heavily.
Still, his green eyes lock with yours and you reward him by placing your lips right at his base.
Dean’s brow twitches and it’s obviously taking all his self-control to stay still.
He’s already ruined, but God, what are you doing to him? You’re taking him apart at the seams, making him crumble. Whatever did he do to deserve you?
“Just a little reward for such a hardworking hunter,” you giggle coyly.
Had he said his thoughts out loud or are you just able to read his mind so well?
You kiss up his shaft and he thinks his soul is about to leave his body and ascend to heaven. He’s been to about every plane of existence fathomable, but this is like a spiritual calling. The sight of your tongue swirling around his red tip, your lips stretching around his head as you begin to slowly take him into your warm mouth.
You let him place his hand on top of your head and hum in approval as his fingers run across your scalp. His actions are tender as he lovingly wipes some of your hair out of the way. He can’t help but grasp at it, especially when you hollow your cheeks and suck.
Your name falls from his lips like a prayer, putting angel’s choirs to shame
After a second, you force your jaw to relax further and waitingly look up at him. While Dean would never want to hurt you, he takes the cue and pushes your head down more — gently, but definitely to the point of your eyes getting glassy with tears.
You nearly sputter around him and his grip loosens.
“Shit, sorry,” he hisses through his teeth. “Did I hurt you?”
You hum a negational “mhh-mm”, that pretty little mouth of yours still stuffed with his thick cock. You take him even deeper, until he almost slips down your throat and your nose bumps against him.
You know exactly how to snuff out any doubts of his. Whether or not he thought about pulling you back, now he can’t help meeting your head halfway with shallow thrusts of his own as it bobs up and down.
“So good f’me, sweet girl,” Dean praises and strokes his fingers through your hair. “Takin’ such good care of me, hm? ‘S like your pretty mouth was made for me. Taking me. So. Damn. Well.”
Each word is punctuated with another thrust, making you — and him, consequently — see stars.
Because as much as this is to help Dean unwind, you know you could end every day like this, worshipping every inch of him.
Dean Winchester Taglist (Put a green heart 💚 in the comments to be added to the Dean x Reader taglist):
@ladysparkles78 @winchester-whiskey @whormotional @spacecowgirl126 @zepskies @calibootsgirl @hot-and-confused @spookyfunhottub @berryblues46 @midnight--raine @emmy21842 @whichwitchwanda @foxyjwls007 @lyarr24
#dean winchester x reader#supernatural x reader#spn x reader#dean winchester x you#spn x you#supernatural x you#dean x reader#dean x you#dean winchester smut#dean sc#spnsc#spnsmut#chevroletdean writes#dividers by cafekitsune
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MELOS (PART ONE)
main masterlist / Azriel's masterlist / Melos masterlist
Azriel/female reader Part one of four (part two here) - 8.5k words - AO3
Tags: 18+ mdni. Torture scene, asphyxiation (not the sexy kind), angst. Azriel hates himself. Feelings of despair, fear, panic, longing. Amren uses "boy/girl" so I can too. Mention of spanking. Trauma. Post ACOSF, HOFAS, canon-compliant. Cassian is a meddler. Azriel doesn't like surprises.
In the woods just inside the confines of the Middle, Azriel finds a puzzle.
More aptly, Azriel finds you, bathed in the glow of the sunset, iridescent snowflakes from the first snow delicately falling to your shoulders, your hair, the tip of your nose.
There’s magic on the wind carrying your scent, something different he cannot place, tang of petrichor sitting on the tip of his tongue.
Strange, beautiful creature, the shadows whisper. He’s inclined to agree.
Strange indeed.
For a moment, he thinks of Bryce. He remembers her entrance into this world, her stories of her home, things both he and Nesta have no concept of. The star on her chest.
She is of no threat to us.
That’s not for you to decide.
He slips into the caliginous wisp curling around his shoulders, a shroud of darkness allowing him a closer look, just as a persistent huff at the edge of his mind pulls his attention.
Where are you?
Working.
Working where?
South. There’s a snort.
One-word answers, how sufficient. You’re not a pariah. Come home.
Once I’m finished.
The conversation eclipses his focus until you slip on the frozen riverbank and he tenses, gaze swinging to where you’ve caught yourself with a squeak, one hand behind your back, palm slicked with mud.
His wall falls entirely, distracted, and Rhys' curiosity piques.
Who is that?
No one. I’ll report to you later. With that, the conversation ceases, Azriel’s walls of tenebrific smoke rising to block out the irritated hiss of his brother.
The edge of the Middle is considered somewhat safe, though not without risk, a perplexing fact that spurs him closer for a better look as you rise from the river, frozen blades of glass crunching under the sole of your boot. Your ears are pointed, limbs elongated, both markers of High Fae, but something unknown still lingers, a natural, earth rich sillage left in your wake. Your hips swing from the effort of pushing up the bank, backpack in hand, and the sway distracts him. It’s hard to ignore the shape of you, the weight of your breasts, the pert bow of your top lip. Gods, at full height, you barely reach his shoulders, and his body reacts in a way that’s out of his control.
Rhys’ warning is ice between his ears, a wound still fresh even though it's old. If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, but stay away from her.
He’s long let her go, but the command from his brother still sits bitterly in his stomach, along with untended desire. That's all this is, misplaced salacity.
Still, even your calves draw his eye.
Lovely little female, the shadows croon. He grits his teeth and falls into step behind you, cautiously allowing inky tendrils to sprawl across bramble laced ground. One licks too close, just barely caressing the edge of your heel, and you freeze.
So does he. An unnatural stillness falls over the wood, culminating into a quiet so loud it shatters as you fix wary eyes on the space where he stands. He holds his breath, ice crystal laden cirrus clouds parting overhead, drawing back the curtain on a star filled night sky, silver light shimmering across fallen leaves.
The night's splendor shines on you like a blessing from the Mother herself.
You blink, lips parted, quizzical, anxious expression bringing your brows together. “Hello?”
You can’t… you can’t see him, can you?
Your reaction puzzles him. How is it you are out here, in the Middle, so brazenly, so recklessly, calling out to a place filled with such sinister, monstrous magic and monsters?
You tilt your face to the break in the clouds, downy white snowflakes sticking to your eyelashes and dotting your cheeks in such a way it’s seraphic. The shadows, his shadows, vibrate with frenetic, enchanted energy.
Beautiful, they coo as they reach for you, nearly finding the bend of your neck before he snaps them away.
You shift the backpack hung from your shoulders and take one last look around, confused, until you shake your head, spinning on your heel to head into the forest. The urge to follow you is too great, your presence here is now a riddle requiring answers, if not for his own curiosity, then for the safety of the Night Court, his family. Who knows who you are, what you are, what your business is in this place-
Shadowsinger. Nuala’s whisper halts his pursuit. The fox is here with news of Koschei.
With one more long look at your retreating back, he reluctantly steps into a pocket of a shadow, leaving the Middle and its new mystery for another time. Soon.
Azriel does not like surprises.
In fact, he prides himself on rarely ever being surprised, at least in Velaris.
So to stumble upon you at the Palace of Bone and Salt, to see you in the midday sun, boots and muddied cloak replaced by a plum stained linen dress, hair pinned up in various places off your neck and holding a large canvas bag at your side, stops him in his tracks. He falls behind Cassian and Nesta without a single word, slowing his steps to mimic how you drift through the stalls and storefronts, nodding and smiling to others as if you belong here. As if this is your home. The wary look in your eyes from the other day has been replaced by a radiant, celestial glimmer, one drawing those around you closer, and something squeezes around his heart at the sight.
Our sweet girl.
Stop it.
“Az?” Nesta turns, noticing his absence, Cassian following suit almost immediately.
“Sorry,” he replies smoothly, running a hand down the buttons of his shirt. Even from paces away, the scent of your skin fills his nostrils, dampened wood from rain and freshly fallen fruit. Foolishly, his gaze lingers too long, long enough his brother notices, and breaks out a broad grin.
“See something you like?”
Cassian plants himself directly in your path, pretending to look on absentmindedly, perusing a stall piled with fresh cuts of meats. You try to move around him, but the flow of bodies stalls your momentum, and you nearly trip over your feet, giving Cassian an opportunity to reach out and steady you.
“I’m sorry!” You grip the straps of your bag, righting yourself after recovering from the stumble, and Azriel closes his eyes, resisting the urge to pinch his brow.
“That’s alright. I’m Cassian,” he grins, extending his hand. There isn't a male, female, or child in this place that does not know them, but the introduction is polite, at the bare minimum. At its depth, it's a way for his some time insufferable brother to stick his nose in a place it doesn't belong, and when you don’t reciprocate, he breezes right past, ignoring the awkwardness of your refusal. “This is Nesta, and Azriel.” Azriel inclines his head, and you look from Cassian to him, before settling on Nesta.
Most in Velaris look away from Nesta, like they’re staring at a star so bright it hurts their eyes, but not you. You meet her head on, studying curiously, and her lips quirk to the side in a barely-there smile.
“Ignore him. He’s an oaf sometimes.” She playfully nudges Cassian with an elbow, and you relax slightly. His brother doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone however, and clears his throat.
“This is the part where you tell us your name. It’s customary.” You’re taken aback for a second, a micro-expression of unease no one else tracks save for himself before recovering with a tepid smile.
Your name rings like a bell, a chime of music, strings and key perfectly played in harmony. The shadows sigh.
“Do you live around here?” Cassian pushes, and teeth sink into your bottom lip.
“Yes, I- I work at Moonflower.”
“The apothecary?”
“That’s the one.”
“Maybe we’ll see you there sometime. Nesta’s always in need of a new elixir.” She raises a brow at her mate, who flashes Azriel a mischievous smirk.
“Oh, I work in the back.”
“You’re the apothecary.” They're the first words he's said to you, and they're wrong. They slip off his tongue too cold, too calculated, and he doesn't miss the way you frown in confusion.
“I’m an alchemist, but… yes.” Your voice is a shade above a whisper, quiet beneath the bustle of the market, and his eyes meet yours, circling in your inescapable gaze like a spider in a web. Cassian coughs, breaking his reverie. “I uh… I should get going, I’ve got a lot of work to do. It was nice to meet you all.” He wants to disappear into the crowd of the market after you, but he dreads the weight it would carry with his brother, the unrelenting questioning and pestering it would produce.
“You too!” Cassian hollers, and then faces him with a wide grin. “Well, she’s-“ Nesta smacks the middle of his chest, and Azriel glowers.
“Don’t.”
He finds you again in the Middle, same backpack and boots, diligently picking through a patch of chartreuse moss. He swallows his scowl. Why are you out here alone, again? It frustrates him. Why put yourself in such danger?
He's struck by a fantasy, one of you with your pants pulled down your ankles and bent over his knees, sweet cries filling the room as you take your punishment for such recklessness, his open palm raining smack after smack down onto your ass.
Madness. He shakes the vision away, coming to stand at your side.
“Hello.” You whirl, startled like a rabbit.
Nice, the shadows groan, and his wings flex.
“H-hi.” Music again, a melody on the breeze, and shadows flutter around his shoulders, scrawling across the ground to where you kneel. He orders them back, wielding a sharp-edged command that cuts, but they stray farther, stretching for you, carefully floating across your forearms.
He’s stunned, briefly, and then gathers his wits, yanking them away. They’ve never, never behaved this way. Born for him from desolation, tamed from darkness incarnate, he’s shaped them into obedient spies, tools spread across Prythian, ethereal wisps capable of things others cannot comprehend. Always in service, always compliant.
You look up with a little bit of wonder in your eyes, pretty little smile tugging at your mouth. He should say something reassuring, something kind or friendly to ease you, but such sentiment fails him, and he scowls, snapping at you instead. “Why are you out here by yourself?” Your face falls, effectively chastised like a child who’s been caught in a cookie jar.
“I’m… I need things. Ingredients.”
“And you need to come out here to get them?”
“The plant life is more vibrant here, more uh, c-concentrated? The magic is stronger. It’s hard to explain…”
“The Middle is a dangerous place.” He replies flatly.
“Oh, I don’t have problems here. I never travel too far from the boundary.” You glance at your bag at the edge of the clearing, eager for an escape he imagines, though he’s not willing to let you go.
“You’re quite far from Velaris.” You nod, but offer no explanation, and he raises an eyebrow.
“I winnowed.” You rock back on your heels and stand, shuffling closer to your backpack. He doesn’t move to stop you, just stands in the center of the moss patch, studying your every move. “I've got to get back,” you explain, offering him a nervous smile, one he doesn’t deserve, or return. You wilt.
It strikes a chord in the pit of his stomach, and in a last-minute moment of weakness, he sends a shadow to ride the coattails of your winnow, issuing a stark warning to reaffirm the mission.
Observe and report to me. Do not make yourself known.
Always.
Our sweet looks beautiful tonight, the shadows report in a whirlwind of excitement, and he pauses mid cut as the male in front of him whimpers, twisting, trying break free from the chains.
That is not worthy of a report. He blatantly ignores the possessiveness, the pet name. For now.
She’s going to Rita’s with a friend. He bites down on the inside of his cheek. Her dress is blue. Cobalt.
Why are you reporting this?
We’re acting as instructed.
This is a futile information, he chastises, and the answer is resounding silence as he shakes his shoulders and turns back to his prey, the crying, bloody Fae strung up by his wrists.
“Where were we?”
Outside of Rita’s, Azriel lurks in darkness.
His family is inside, unaware he’s in the alley, tucked away from prying eyes. He’s freshly showered, blood scrubbed out from beneath his fingernails, blackened door in his mind firmly shut and locked away, just like its twin in the dungeon.
It’s been too long since he’s gone out, always choosing to slink away just before the conversations turn to plans, separating himself from Mor, and Elain, distancing himself from scrutiny or worse, pity.
Tonight, he couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t shake the idea of you here, so close, so tangible.
He slides from the shadowed pocket, and Fae step around him, eyes going wide and inclining their heads as a sign of respect.
Respect. A joke. The city cannot fathom what he has done in his lifetime, and if they did, respect would be the furthest thing from their mind.
He dons his mask, cold indifference, severe gaze, and slips inside.
Cassian knows he’s here before he’s in view. A brother’s intuition, an instinct that has served them well in battle and elsewhere, since they were young.
Tonight, he greets Azriel with a wide, knowing grin, dragging his gaze to the other side of the room and Azriel has no choice but to follow, spotting the obvious immediately.
You.
You’re perched at a table, legs crossed, smiling, laughing, holding a too full glass of wine. The dress is cobalt blue silk, delicate lace stitched on the hem, thin straps exposing your neck, your clavicle, your back. For a moment, he imagines his mouth on those places, he dreams about what you might taste like, how smooth you’d be against him, the contrast of his ruined hands and your satin skin.
His cock throbs, sense and composure momentarily slipping away before he regains control.
The shadows sigh. Our beautiful girl.
Stop calling her that.
Why? She is beautiful. And she is ours.
“Az!” Feyre is delighted, trying to wave him over. He’s always had a soft spot for his High Lady, endlessly impressed by her resilience, her love and commitment to both his brother and the Night Court, her kindness. “It’s been so long,” she teases as he slides into the seat at her left, pointedly ignoring Cassian’s smug expression.
“I’m sorry, I’ve been busy with work.”
“We miss you. You haven’t been at dinner in weeks.”
“It’s true,” Mor says softly at the other side of the table, brows creased in concern. He gives her a small, reassuring smile, one he hopes conveys the truth. It’s not your fault. She visibly relaxes.
“So, Az,” Cassian stretches, too big for the booth, arm coming around Nesta and tugging her close. “What brings you out this evening?” Fucking. Hel.
“I’ve missed you all.” It’s not a lie, not exactly, even if he’s been keeping his distance, it doesn’t change how he feels about his family, how he loves them in his own way. How it’s easier sometimes, to love others from afar, how envy has infected his lungs and every time he takes a breath, he wonders why the Cauldron chose not to give him what his brothers have. A bond. Love.
At night, when he’s alone in his bed, he accepts the truth, the reality of being unworthy, of being a bastard, of being malevolent and repulsive. It was so easy with Mor, to long for someone so beautiful, so close to his heart but still unattainable, to dream of himself as a male one could love, could be proud of, a love who would choose him, again and again, even if it wasn’t true. Even if he knew for a long time, it would never be true. A fantasy like Mor is an easy escape from the nightmare in his head.
And Elain. Elain. A vision with big doe eyes and caramel hair, a beautiful girl whose life was lost, and a new, confusing one was born in its place.
A perfect obsession.
She too, was a dream. Something to cling in the longest hours of the night when sleep wouldn’t come.
But he was a monster, and he was undeserving.
Not true.
Feyre catches his eye and gives him a warm, knowing look. “I’m happy to see you.”
“As I am you.”
You’re drunk.
He doesn’t need the shadows to confirm it, it’s clear from across the room. You teeter on the edge of the stool, giggling, radiant in the wash of dim lighting.
He’s not the only one who notices. Around you, other males watch from the corner of their eye, letting their gazes sweep from head to toe, lingering too long on your breasts, the curve of your waist. A male brushes his hand across your shoulder, another offers to buy you a drink. Rage curls in his stomach, jealously flooding his veins with vigor.
They’re touching her. The shadows are frustrated, hissing and snapping angrily, rattling around him like a black cloud.
I know.
His teeth might shatter from the amount of pressure coming from his clenched jaw.
The male following you out the side door at the end of your evening is the straw that snaps him in half. He abandons the table, his family, slipping away into the crowd as Feyre calls his name.
“Let him go.” Cassian rumbles on the last wind of a chuckle, and he loses the parting words as he pushes the door wide, cool Velaris air stinging his cheeks.
“No need to run off.” The male’s arm is slung around your waist, your face twisted into a sour swirl of intoxication and discomfort. Incendiary anger licks up his spine, flames violent and desperate to lash out. "Let's go back inside, have another drink."
“No,” you straighten, but both Azriel and offending male catch the liquored wobble in your voice as you hold your jacket to your chest. “No, thank you.” He tugs you closer.
“Come on, I can-“ It’s all Azriel can stand. He’s gone in one moment and by your side the next, fingers digging into the male’s arm.
“She said no.” You look up into his face, eyes wide and unfocused, but he doesn’t miss the way you relax with relief, like you’re happy he’s here. Happy, an emotion rarely felt by those who encounter the Spymaster, happy like you’re soothed by his presence. It’s unfamiliar to him, just another suprise dealt by your hand. The male’s eyes go comically wide, blood draining from his face, sputtering something Azriel is deaf to. He's too focused on the pulse rapidly fluttering beneath your jaw. “Are you alright?”
“I’m… yes.” You lurch, half stepping back, half stumbling, and he steadies you. When you don't pull away, the shadows chirp.
“You’re drunk.”
“Yup.” You punctuate the single syllable with a hiccup, inky tendrils curling around your wrist, petting, soothing. He braces for your fear, the uptick in your heartbeat, shallow respirations, but they don’t come.
You giggle instead.
The shadows preen and purr with glee. Our girl.
His shreds of control are slowly slipping away, deteriorating in your presence, and he lets the mask fall away to reveal a small smile. You suck in a sharp breath. “Are you sure you’re okay?” You nod rapidly, but your balance is still askew. “You’re too drunk to winnow.”
“I wasn’t going to. I live a few blocks that way.” You nod to the east and then pivot to the west, unsure. “Or that way. I’ll know once I get to the street.” He frowns.
“You’ll walk?”
“Well, yes. That’s what those of us do if we don’t have those.” You point at his wings, gaze lingering before you look away sheepishly.
“I’ll walk you.” You blink, surprised, confused, just as he is. The words were not planned, they appeared, conjured from the cold air, pushed from his mouth by some unknown force.
There’s a twist beneath his ribs, a small piece of him rapidly stretching and spreading, pulling him apart to make more room.
“What? I- I can walk fine, I’m fine.”
“It’s cold.” His voice is soft, softer than he’s ever heard, and it must be enough to quiet your protests, because you purse your lips and relent with a sigh.
“Alright then.”
It’s odd, to want to know another, to want to understand another outside his family. This throbbing ache, freshly blooming in your presence, is different compared to the festering desiderium he’s held for Mor, for Elain, the pining turned fetid, foul in its taste across his tongue, infatuation, obsession, anything to avoid focusing on the darkness constantly closing in around him, the black tar filling his lungs, drowning him. He was born, molded, embraced by the bleakest parts of this realm, and there’s not enough water in it to douse the rage and disgust burning in his soul. His people are monsters, and so shall he be.
The shame of it all, punctuated by his infatuation with Elain, the necklace debacle, is fire in his veins, but the iridescent halo shining onto your shoulders from your porch light quells it somehow, gentles the heat. “How often do you visit the Middle?”
You give him a sheepish look. “Often, lately. I’ve lost my main supplier.”
“Why is that?” The Sidra saturates the breeze, briny and sweet, teasing your dress into a flutter at your knees, his shadows hovering over your skin, craving to cloak you in their darkness, shield you from wandering eyes.
“Most of my plants and powders come from the Spring Court, and I can’t really afford the… inflation.” Inflation is a polite way to put it. Tensions between Spring and Night have resulted in rising costs of goods, and total derailment of trade in some cases.
She’s worried her words offend you.
“That’s understandable.” He tames his voice, and your shoulders relax by a fraction. “Still, it is a long way from home, if anything were to happen.” An understatement. The Middle holds horrors most cannot comprehend, wicked creatures that would love nothing more than to prey on and devour something as lovely as you. He still cannot wrap his head around the fact that you frequent it in the first place. Even the bravest, strongest of Prythian do not.
“I can handle myself.” He wants to protest, wants to ask if you truly know what lurks in there. “Mostly.” You add as an afterthought, little hiccup, little giggle, fingers fumbling for the door handle. The hair on the back of his neck stands stiff.
“Mostly?”
“It’s not like I haven’t run into trouble,” you’re vague, shrugging it off, and his gut clenches.
“What kind of trouble?” The breeze turns to wind that whips, cold with the sting of frost.
And then you roll your eyes.
It’s so… bratty. His wings twitch, lightning rolling through membrane like a storm on the sea.
Wild one, the shadows chirp.
Too wild, maybe. “How old are you?” You lift your chin with a sniff.
“One hundred and two.” So young.
The High Lady just turned twenty-three, the shadows remind him drily.
Fair.
“So… did you walk me all the way home to hold me hostage on my front step in the cold?” His laugh is a surprise. It comes deep from his chest, a genuine rumble in his ribs, more authentic than the half smiles and nods he’s been giving others for years.
“If I was holding you hostage, you’d know.” He murmurs, stepping into your space, tracking the dilation of your pupils, the quiver in your bottom lip. Normally, these reactions would insinuate fear, but you don’t smell of it. You smell like desire, like you’d succumb to him, bend for him, arch for him. “Are you cold?” Goosebumps erupt across your shoulders and down your arms, and he dips close, closer than he has any right to. He has no right to you. No right to such a strange, beautiful creature, a mystery by all standards. He who deals in death, who poisons all he touches, would stain you. He'd drag his scarred, marbled fingers under your silk dress and taint you.
“Y-yes.” He catches the scent then, the damp foliage from fresh rain crushed under heel, soaked moss at the roots of an ancient tree. It jolts him back to reality, mask settling into its rightful place across his face.
“What are you?”
“What?”
“You’re High Fae… but there’s something else.” Hesitance flickers in your eyes, and you pull away, creating distance. Good. He needs it. You confuse him, cloud his judgement, sowing uncertainty he’s not used to.
And every time he looks at you, his chest aches.
“Nothing important.” He cocks his head.
“Is that so?” You shrug.
“I’m a half-breed.” He hides his disgust at the term, but it doesn’t change the rage it ignites, the disdain.
“Half what?”
She barely knows you; she has no reason to trust you, the shadows sulk, unhappy with the turn of events as you take the last stair and open your door, turning to for one last look at him.
“I’m not a threat, Azriel.”
Truth.
“Any news?”
“No.” The silence is long suffering, and after he offers nothing further, Rhys sighs.
“Azriel-“
“I have work in Dawn this coming week, leaving tomorrow. I expect to be gone for a full seven, even eight days. I’ll report back once I’m home.”
“Okay.” Azriel’s shield is wall of shadow impenetrable by most, and even though the relationship between them is strained, his brother would never force his way into his mind.
If you need to fuck someone, go to a pleasure hall and pay for it, but stay away from her. Or maybe be would.
He was given an order; orders are meant to be followed, something Rhys’ own father instilled in him early on, and though it's been months, it's still too bitter in the back of his throat. Rhys’ father ordered him. Often. Treated him as one would treat an object to be used, a weapon to wield. Azriel was defined by the shadows, for his usefulness, not for who he truly was.
He had never been on the receiving end of this manner of treatment from Rhys, and he could not deny that he had trouble stomaching it.
“Where have you been staying? Your townhouse?” He schools his features, smothering the annoyance at what he knows must be common conversation between his brothers.
They’re worried about you. Cassian misses you at the House of Wind.
We’ve cohabited for over five hundred years; some distance is not going kill him.
“Yes, wanted to give Cass and Nesta some space.” The lie is as flimsy as they come, because he doesn’t care. He needs space. “They’re quite loud.” That isn’t a lie, at least. Rhys studies him.
“Where are you, Az?” It's not a literal question. He and his brother share many things, but the strongest strings are knotted tight around each other’s darkness, bonds forged in agony, in rage, in revenge. There are parts, pieces of each other that match, heinous, wrathful pieces hidden away but never healed. When Rhys asks where he is, it’s to know how deep he is in the gloom that never leaves.
“I’m here.” It’s short, be he cannot give anything more. Cannot give more to the High Lord, Rhys, his brother, the one he has given everything to. The one he has been most loyal to above all. The one who would treat him now, as his father did.
He pities Rhys, in a way, something he’s never held for him in the past, but now… now is different. Rhys is different, his stakes have never been higher. A mate, a son, a realm on his shoulders, he's struggling, in his own way, and the collected High Lord is few and far between these days, in his place a reactive, high-strung male he doesn’t always recognize. He’s not sure Rhys recognizes himself either.
“You won’t get too far?” At the root of it, no matter how turbulent this time between them may be, the bond of brotherhood is the strongest of them all, holds them fast to one another, keeps them close, even if one strays.
And so, Azriel assures him, the words gritted through his teeth. His rage is a tangible thing, a living breathing thing but no matter how angry he may be, Rhys is still his brother, even in these iterations. The realm changes, scales tipping back and forth, but the brothers remain steadfast through times of peace and battle. “I won’t.”
He’s to leave for Dawn this afternoon, but for some reason, he finds himself at Moonflower’s front door.
It’s early, half of Velaris still waking up, and the shop is clearly closed, though it doesn’t matter to him. He knows you’re here, sodden gorse and peeled bark drifting on the morning breeze from a large back window. For some unknown reason, it soothes him to know it, to be able to account for your whereabouts.
He pulled his shadows back from surveillance, convinced he would leave you alone, let this rest-
but he still flew here this morning.
It bothers him, this magnetism, the draw towards your presence.
You’re a mystery needing to be solved, that’s all.
“Shadowsinger,” your head cocks. “What brings you here so early?”
“I wanted to ensure you won’t be visiting the Middle this week.” Your brows knit together.
“I uh… no. I won’t need to go for another two weeks, I think.”
“I’ll accompany you next time.” His patience with this situation is wearing thin, but his agitation with himself spills out onto you.
“That’s not-“
“It’s not a request. You’re endangering the Night Court.” You smother a flinch.
“I’m not, I swear, I’d never do anything to hurt anyone.”
“That remains to be seen.” He’s the Spymaster now, cold and unfeeling, but you’re still not scared. “Your refusal to disclose what makes up the other part of the half-breed in you is reason enough.” He uses the term as a weapon, and it hits his target, as always. Azriel never misses. You wince, glancing down at the floor, shoulders slumping a tad before you right yourself. The barb stings because like Rhys, like Mor’s mother and countless others, you’ve faced the abuse, the vitriol, the torment from those who would crush you beneath their feet if they could.
It hurts, a whip lashing across his cheek, bleeding him for the pain he’s causing you. A consequence, another mark on his soul. You lift your face again, the emotion gone, and you nod.
“Okay then.” An overwhelming urge to reach for you comes over him, to tug you into his chest and shield you with his wings, hide you away from all the ugly, terrifying things in this world-
Including himself.
He shoves it to the side, buries it where it belongs, where the light doesn't touch, and nods. “I’ll be away this week but when I return, I’ll come by.”
He doesn’t say goodbye, and smothers the urge to get one last glimpse of you, even though he wants to.
There’s dirt beneath your fingernails.
You’ve been digging around in the same riverbed for almost an hour now, rifling through rocks and silt, bottom half of your body soaked and muddy, again. “There we are,” you murmur plucking an iridescent onyx stone from the marl and placing it in your bag.
He has… so many questions.
And he’s afraid to admit to himself he finds you… enchanting. Clever, beautiful, kind. He wants more, wants to soak you up, dance to the harmony of your voice.
Ask, the shadows encourage. Talk to her.
He’s been standing on the bank a few paces away for some time now, leaving you to your foraging, but never letting you get too far away. You haven’t said more than ten words to him, and he hasn’t pushed you. The disgrace of the last time the two of you spoke still weighs heavily on his shoulders, another tally in a long list of transgressions.
Try.
“How does it work?” Your head snaps up.
“What do you mean?”
“Your work. Moonflower sells elixirs and potions, but they’re an apothecary, and you’re an alchemist.”
“Well, I am an apothecary too. Contraceptive tea doesn’t make itself,” you give him a mischievous smile before turning serious. “Magic binds better to precious metals. I transmute and mix them together, then pair them with salts or chemical compounds found in herbs and plants. One complements or enhances the other.”
“You’re putting metal in them?” You shake your head.
“No, I extract the minerals from the metal after transmutation and infuse the elixirs. I can make everything from contraceptive tea to…” You trail off, lips pressing into a thin line.
“To?”
“Poison. Faebane.” He hears your heart flutter, pulse ratcheting upward as you give him a cautious look, and every muscle in his body tenses.
“Who do you make it for?”
“I’m not sure, I received an ongoing order request signed and sealed by the High Lord years ago, and I’ve been producing it ever since.” You stand, brushing your hands off on your thighs, mud caked in the lines of your palms, head tipped back to peer at him. “It’s picked up by one of the Wraith sisters each month.”
Does she know? The shadows don’t answer.
“I like them,” you continue, making your way up the bank, “Cerridwen even gifted me a hooded shawl last Solstice. It’s beautiful. I wear it often.”
“I see.”
“I think the Faebane is for the Spymaster,” you peek at him coyly, mouth quirked to the side in a small smile. “Who is also the Shadowsinger, right?” He fights to his expression neutral.
“You know.”
Of course she does. Our sweet is very clever.
“I thought… maybe. I wasn’t sure.” He’s beginning to worry about your instincts. First, he discovers you’re spending time out here in the Middle, alone, and now, he learns you’ve suspected he’s the Spymaster, Rhys’ torturer, this whole time.
“It doesn’t concern you?” He blurts, incredulous. You should fear him. You should be terrified and disgusted. You should be smart enough to recognize his rotten, tainted soul.
“No. I make poison, after all.” You shrug. “I don’t make judgements of others.” Guilt twists like a knife.
“What I said the other day, about being a half-breed…” You wave your hand, trying to brush him off.
“It’s fine.”
It’s not, the shadows hiss. You hurt her.
He pulls up short, turning to face you. “It was cruel, and I am sorry for it.” He’s locked in your gaze, the rest of the woods, this place, Prythian disappearing as he loses himself in you. He hears it again, the mellifluous harmony of a grand orchestra, notes and chords playing together in an intoxicating paragon, richer, more potent than any wine, each one building upon the other, creating a song that draws him in, urges him to reach for you, cup your face and hold you there so he can memorize every refraction of light in the kaleidoscope of your eyes. “I-“
“It’s okay,” your hand brushes his, and he tenses, preparing for the recoil, the disgust, but it never comes. Your touch is gentle, fingers slipping between his, silk on scars sliding together seamlessly. He wants to push you away, wants to tell you not to touch him because you’ll dirty yourself. He’s a monster and you’re something else, something winsome and full of wonder, something not for him. “I forgive you.” You forgive him. He almost laughs at the absurdity. Forgiveness, as if that’s something he could ever earn, as if there was a way to seek and find it. As if he even wants it.
From many it would mean nothing but from you… it’s different. It's a balm, cool water over a burn, sunlight shining down on him in a dungeon.
You don’t look away, and you don’t let go. You hold him there, in front of you, gentle and patient, but unyielding. The throbbing ache that’s become ever present beneath his ribs grows, and it drags him close, a magnetic pull he can’t fly away from leading him straight to you. It’s a power strong enough it could bring him to his knees at your feet, his entire existence whittling down to the sound of your breathing as he carefully cradles your face.
“Azriel,” your whisper is music, heartbreakingly beautiful, a hauntingly familiar melody he may have been hearing all his life and had been none the wiser to. A siren's song on the sea. Captivating. Intoxicating. He strokes his thumb across your cheek and falls away into it, pressing his mouth to yours, drinking you in. The kiss is careful at first, a delicate question posed between two with one waiting for an answer, and when it comes, it comes with a symphony, ambrosian and endless, unleashing a warmth unlike he’s ever felt through his chest. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be marring you like this, staining you, but he cannot stop, and when you tug him close, lips parting to allow his tongue past your teeth and find yours, you cling to him, the purr of a whimper building in your throat.
What is he doing? He's snapped out of the spell. Your throat bobs with a swallow, and you turn your attention to your bag, mindlessly fidgeting with the collection of flora and rock in the bottom, avoiding his eyes. Embarrassed. Shamed by him, rejected by him.
No! the shadows lament. “We should keep going, if you have more things to find?” You nod, looking past him towards the woods.
“Right, yeah.”
“Your dagger is loud, by the way.” It's the first thing you've said in thirty minutes, and it's strange, like you.
“What?”
“The dagger,” you motion to where Truth-Teller is strapped to his thigh, “it’s magic is loud. I can’t imagine what I’d find if I-“ Something cracks in the woods to the north, far enough away to echo, close enough to raise his hackles, spread his wings, and he grabs your wrist, pulling you into his side. The forest groans, turning malicious, wicked power crawling through the brush towards the river.
Leave. He curls a wing around you as a shield.
“What-“
“We’re leaving.” There have been lesson learned here, too many times, and he’s not about to risk you. He conjures a pocket, a corner of star flecked shadow, and tugs you into it, leaving the Middle behind.
He decides to sleep at the House of Wind.
It’s a shield, a technique to combat his desire to be close you. If he’s close to Cassian, to Nesta, if he’s here, he’s not there, with you, where he dropped you off at your doorstep, where the two of you lingered before you disappeared into the house. He’s not battling his instincts, his need to sit on the roof and keep watch.
He’s here instead. Where he should be.
Cassian grins from his spot on the couch at the sight of him, Nesta casually looking up from her book. “Out with your witch again?” He pulls up short, blood turning frigid, freezing through the veins in his wings all the way to his heart. “You didn’t know?” Cassian’s head swings towards her.
“I thought we discussed waiting for proof, Nes.” Azriel shoots him a murderous glare.
“Having discussions about my life, then?” It’s a small rock in an ocean at this moment, but it adds fuel to the roaring fire of rage curdling his stomach. Nesta raises an eyebrow.
“No,” his brother protests, “I thought- Nesta suspected something, but I didn’t want to tell you until we knew without a doubt.” He emphasizes the last few words, and she shrugs.
“She’s a witch, or at least, partially. The power is unmistakable. She has that smell, too. Old trees.” She's lost for a second, in a memory, silver fire crackling and then gone, and he knows she knows, where you've been, where he's followed. You don't just smell of old trees, you smell like the Middle.
The shadows coil around his shoulders, peeking out at Nesta like she’s personally offended them.
It’s not what you think.
You knew? And kept this from me?
He’s rarely, if ever, is so irascible, but this information ignites an anger so fierce his siphons hiss and glow cobalt blue, power straining against his control, desperate to be unleashed.
“What are you going to do?” Cassian shouts at his retreating back, and he caresses Truth-Teller’s hilt.
“Find out for myself.”
Your words pound in his head like a drum.
“The magic is stronger. It’s hard to explain…”
“Oh, I don’t have problems here. I never travel too far from the boundary.”
His mind spins as he flies through the night, shooting across the sky fast enough for the wind to prickle at his cheeks. A witch.
Witches are dangerous creatures. They’re power hungry, desperate to collect as much magic as this realm will allow, and then use it as they see fit, whether it be for good deeds, or evil ones. This unpredictability combined with their thirst for young blood, a compulsion fueled by the corrupted core of their stolen magic, makes them a threat.
Makes you a threat.
Your house is small, but comfortable. A narrow townhome nestled in a row of others with wide plank wooden floors and variations of dark colored paint on the walls, cozy and calm. Bookshelves overflowing, large worn velvet couch, bundles of herbs on your living room table, in your kitchen. You have an assortment of mugs, mismatched wine glasses and china, clothes haphazardly draped over chairs. To someone who doesn’t know you, it would seem messy, but to him, it’s fitting. It makes sense.
It's the only thing that makes sense in this moment. The rest of it, his ignorance, the disobedience of the shadows, his blindness, all bear down upon him. He failed to recognize a threat to this Court, his family, he allowed himself to be distracted, again, by a female, he succumbed to an enchantment, a bewitching. The strange pull he felt towards you, the music in his head, the throbbing behind his ribs, all a spell set upon him, by you.
You’re stunning in your sleep. Wrapped in sweet dreams, lashes feathered against your skin, rolled onto your side. You’re only wearing a nightshirt and underwear, the curve of your hip visible from where your sheets are half kicked off. Lovely.
He lets you linger in a last moment of peace. If you wake before he’s ready, he doesn’t know what magic he’ll face, what creature he’ll truly encounter, and he wants to hold onto to this, to you, before it all changes.
He brushes your cheek with the backs of his fingers and that thing inside him weeps, something agonizing trying to claw its way forward, but he buries it deep.
By the time you’re awake, it’s too late.
“Azriel?” Your voice is weak, confused, and you blink blearily at your surroundings, stone wall, stone floor, small light at the roof of the chamber that’s too far away. He keeps the space lit by fae lights instead, flickering and low, illuminating the space just enough to see him, and a table in the corner.
You're trapped in Faebane cuffs and chained to the floor. Fragile, weakened by your own creation.
When you become fully aware of your surroundings, you thrash, fear thundering in your heart. “What is this?”
“Thought you might like to see how the product of your hard work is used.” You tug at the cuffs to no avail, and then look up at him with eyes so sad, so frightened, it stops him in his tracks.
Why does this feel so wrong?
Think, Shadowsinger. The shadows beg but he banishes them, still enraged by their betrayal.
“I don’t know what’s happening.” He shrugs. Casual indifference, cold regard. The Spymaster, the torturer.
“No?”
“I haven’t done anything, I haven’t, I swear.” He bends shadow over your eyes, marring your sight, plunging you into darkness and you gasp, twisting and turning, looking for the light you won’t find. “S-stop.”
“You’ve been keeping something from me, haven’t you, little half-breed?” He mocks you with it, drenches it in disdain, and you shake your head weakly.
“I haven’t… I swear, I ju-just wasn’t ready-“
“To tell me you’re a witch?”
“I’m not!” You cry, and he covers your mouth with insidious tendrils, cutting off your airway. You can’t see, you can’t breathe, and your panic is ripe, flooding the room, its acrid scent making him nauseous.
The gag holds for a minute or two, and when he releases, you slump over, gasping. Truth-Teller burns in his hold.
“Tell the truth, and it’s over.” Please.
“There’s n-nothing to tell.” Frustrations mounts and he cuts you off, this time for longer, long enough he registers the slowing of your heart, the lack of tone in your muscles. Shadows wrap around your throat, pressing on your windpipe so hard you’re whistling, slow leak of air turned tea kettle as you try to breathe.
He allows you a moment, and then resumes, pushing you to the edge, walking a slow, measured circle around you like a wolf stalking prey. There’s a pull deep inside him, something tugging at him, a desperate plea he does not understand.
Please. Stop this.
He releases, you relent. Finally. “It’s my mother,” you rasp, tongue darting out to lick your lips, “she- it was her. She was a witch, and my father is Hi-gh Fae. He had an affair, and then banished her to the Middle. It’s wh-where I was born. Everyone would b-be so afraid of me if they knew, but I’m not- I’m not a witch. I’m ju-ust a half-breed." You’re sobbing now, each heave increasing the agony inside him, broken, raw sound echoing throughout the chamber. His mother’s face flashes in his mind and his stomach flips as he breaks out in a cold sweat. “I use that side of my to make things. Th-the alchemy, that’s all it’s good for. It’s not even that strong, I swear.”
Truth.
It’s all truth. Every word. Every broken, desperate, frightened word.
He is a fool.
He pulls the shadows from your face and you stare at the floor, small against the stone until you finally look up at him, cheeks soaked, eyes-
Something snaps.
Threads of brilliant cobalt blue spin from him, each string plucked in celestial succession to create perfect harmony, and the shadows sing. They sing for you, they sing to you, they sing the song he should have known all along. They sing of the path laid before him, the bridge that would carry him to you, the chords and notes coming together in a crescendo of souls, a blazing bond sealed by fate.
Mates.
The threads stretch and strain, the music rising, but your side, your part, is missing. It’s dark, thickened by bramble and bracken, sharps and flats, lost to him in this moment.
This moment, where he has broken you. Tortured you.
He feels it all. Your terror, the agony. The sense of hopelessness overflowing and soaking the threads.
“I-“ He falls to his knees, shadows twisting around the cuffs to unlock them, “I’m sorry.” You’re trembling, curling in on yourself and he wants so badly to pull you into his arms, to hold you close, wrap himself around you and beg for forgiveness. He wants to promise he’ll protect you; he’ll care for you; he’ll keep you safe. He’ll be worthy of you. He’ll fix this.
But how can he after what has been done. After what he has done.
“I w-want to go ho-ome.” The words are covered by sobs, and his hands shake as he gently takes hold of your shoulders, pulling you out of the dungeon and back into your bedroom.
He stands there, helpless and lost as you crawl away from him into your bathroom, the handle locking with a resounding click. The bond is alive and open on his side, your distress and fear and despair radiating down into Azriel, the strength of your emotions ripping him apart.
You don’t want him here, that much is clear.
Cassian is still awake when he returns, and his brother ripples with shock at the sight of him.
He knows how he looks.
Crazed. Devastated. Possessed.
“What happened?” He lurches forward, still dressed from evening training, siphons gleaming, scanning for a threat, a fight, a reason for Azriel’s agony.
He’ll find none. Only Azriel is responsible for this horror.
As always.
“She…” He can’t say it, can’t force the words. Can’t accept the truth, the terrible, painful truth. “She’s mine.” The blood drains from Cassian’s face. “She’s mine.”
“No. You didn’t.”
“I- I didn’t… I didn’t get very far but I still… I still-“ He chokes on it. “She was so scared, Cass. She never… she was never afraid of me; from the day we met. She always, she looked at me differently. She trusted me. She… held my hand.” Cassian’s eyes slipped close. When they reopen, they’re determined. Strong.
“You’ll fix it. I know you will.” Azriel doesn’t hear him.
“I don’t deserve her, or this bond. When she realizes, she will sever it, and she’ll be right to. I have never been worthy, and the Mother knows. That’s why this happened.”
“That is not true. You made a mistake, and you were trying to protect your family, your court. She will understand… in time.”
“How?! How could anyone understand this? Excuse it?” He yells, and a door down the hall opens, Nesta appearing in the room, sharp and assessing.
“What’s going on?”
“Go back to bed,” Cassian growls, and though she glares, she listens. “Az, listen to me. It will be alright. You can fix this, you can.”
“I don’t know how.”
“You will figure it out, and we will support you, we’ll help in any way we can. It will be okay.”
“She will never forgive me.”
“And you’ll never know that until you try.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair and then fisting it at his side. “This is Nesta’s fault.”
“Cassian,” Azriel snaps, patience shredded. “Not everything is your mate’s fault, for fucks sake. Stop projecting your guilt over your own transgressions onto Nesta. I’m sick of it.” Silence falls between the brothers, and after a long moment, Cassian nods.
“I deserved that,” he eyes him cautiously, “what do you want to do?” He needs silence. Solitude. Cassian knows, but he’ll still say it out loud, if only to make it clear. Don’t follow me. Don’t send others to check on me.
“I need to be alone."
#she doesn't even go here!#<- me#peaches writes#azriel x reader#azriel x you#acotar fanfiction#acotar#azriel acotar#azriel shadowsinger#azriel
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bereft of grace
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Summary: Defeated by Messmer, you find that his plans for you, a mongrel tarnished, are far different than what you might expect.
(tw: non-con, humiliation, forced stripping, restraints, mild tit torment, rough sex, size difference, stretching, vaginal fingering, creampie, overstimulation, pain)
Fic Masterlist
Link to AO3
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You feel the infernal chill of his helm pressing against the side of your face as he lowers his head to your own. His words, soft-spoken and laced with cruelty, brush across your ears as your naked back remains pinned to his chest - restrained by both the strength of his arm pulling tightly across your stomach and the unshakeable wrap of the snakes which lace across your wrists to keep your hands useless and pinned against your sides.
"Mongrel tarnished." He growls the words like a slur, silken hatred pairing with the predatory knowledge that you were truly helpless in his arms. "Thy kind are good for naught."
A serpentine tongue slips free of his lips to stroke a languid line across your neck, tasting the sweat of your battle and the fear that had long since laced your skin since he had deprived you of your torn clothing; the shredded materials laying in a discarded pile below your suspended frame. His tongue is warm, wet and the sensation of it brushing along the sensitive skin of your throat is as arousing as it is repulsive.
"Stripped of gold."
Thin fingers force their way between your legs, widening your thighs as they push at and grope the skin there so roughly that you know small, circular bruises will be left in their wake. His hand slides further, your breath hitching with despair as he presses against your most private flesh; lengthy digits stroking along your slit to test the skin there as they tease your slightly-wet hole before slipping up to graze across the ultra-sensitive nub of your clit.
"Stripped of grace."
Gasping as he pushes two of his fingers within you with little preamble, the sudden stretch of the intrusion burns like hellfire and you cry out as he starts to pump them inside your walls. Your body responds despite itself, his long digits stroking areas which were quick to ignite a warmth in your cunt that made your brain feel fuzzy despite the hollowing discomfort.
"Stripped even of thy paltry linens."
The heat is oppressive, the flames which he was able to conjure in an instant making his body feel like a furnace where it touches your own - even through his armour - and it pairs with the shameful warmth which rolls from your own body as you find yourself pressing down into his hand like a bitch in heat.
As soon as he had robbed you of your weapon, you assumed death was to swiftly follow and a genuine fear of being impaled like so many of the corpses which littered the road to the Shadow Keep immediately made you compliant to his commands. You had dropped to the floor and awaited a swift death which was not to come as his hand had stayed, something almost like amusement playing in his drawn face as he noted the instant submission and ordered you to approach him.
He had ripped your clothing from you, tearing it with a demigods strength as you shivered and ignored the hot shame which paired with the fear in your heart. His snakes followed their masters will without verbal instruction, the infernal heat of them as they slid across your skin making you gasp as forked tongues tasted their way across your shuddering frame to lock your hands in place.
After that, it didn't take long for Messmer to make his move. His gaze, split between hues of gold and the abyssal void, had taken its time in your appraisal - peering into your anguish and fear-laced expression before roving across your ample breasts and lower half. A rail-thin hand had struck like one of his many serpents, harshly gripping at your upper arm to spin you in place and allowing him to scoop you close as inhumane strength lifted you from the floor as though you weighed nothing.
Nothing in the face of a demigod.
Thoughts snapping back into the moment as a third finger breaches your hole, a pained howl slips free of your lips as you writhe in place - attempting to pull away from the pleasurable pain with a futile struggle. Sex and bodily pleasure wasn't unknown to you, but the sheer power which rolled from the demigod who seemed determined to amuse himself with your flesh made it difficult to focus on anything outside of the humid air and the sensations he was forcing upon you.
"Thy kind are fit for use as a fleshly pleasure. No more. Strip all thoughts of lordship from thy desires before my hand is pushed to strip thy skin from such soft flesh."
Fresh snakes slither across your chest, the thin bodies wrapping around the globes of your breasts and tightenening to the point of true discomfort - the rope-like restraints making a wicked pressure quickly build up in your abused chest. Sinking their fangs into the sensitive skin just below your chest, the snakes showed no sign of letting up their firm hold and you almost sob with relief as Messmer's thick fingers pull free of your cunt.
It's a short-lived peace though, as his slickened fingers are quick to establish how tight the hold his snakes have achieved and a guttural cry breaks free of your throat as his large hands move to pinch at your chest roughly. Nipples perked due to the pressure and arousal which is rolling through your stimulated frame, he's careful to snatch the sensitive nubs between his fingers, one at time, until fresh tears spring into your eyes and your back arches violently into his chest while your lips form a constant stream of pleas and whines.
"For one so cursed and devoid of all, thy voice is surprisingly sweet." And although you cannot see his face, you can hear the predatory arousal which accompanies the words.
He was enjoying himself, attempting to force you to do the same.
"You are the cursed one."
Finding your voice, you yelp out the words like an accusation - arousal, shame, and mild horror sparking a momentary boldness which you immediately regret as his body stiffens and a sharp chill replaces the cruel warmth of his earlier tones.
"True, little tarnished. My curse is borne in the void of the abyssal serpent. Naught more than a monster, I will force thee to embrace thy oblivion and know such suffering."
Something blunted presses against your hole and your panicked struggle renews as you feel just how big he is, the girth making genuine fear lance your spine as you realise that his earlier rough treatment with his fingers was a necessity more than anything else. Aside from the stretch which his fingers provided, you were horrified to feel just how wet you were as his cock grazed along your slit; collecting your arousal to ensure an easier entry as he forced himself inside such a tight-fit space.
The noise that slips free of your throat is inhumane, guttural and raw, as the head of his cock breaches past your hole. It feels like it's going to split you apart and the sheer burning ache of the merciless stretch instantly overpowers any other feeling in your body - your toes curling as a wracked sob shakes your trembling frame.
"Please! Please, st-stop." The words are a babble, stuttered and broken, as you try to force yourself to relax around him, to adjust to his infernal size. "My lord, please."
The unexpected use of his title earns a rumble of approval and his lips are hot against your neck once more as his sharpened teeth graze across the sensitive flesh while he considers the plea with a low hum.
"Thy slickened folds tell of a differing desire, little tarnished." Messmer growls, keeping his cock still as he allows himself to acclimatise to his gripping tightness of your spasming cunt. "But I am not a rutting beast, devoid of all mercies. Ask it of me and I shall see to thy own pleasures."
Fresh shame flushed through your frame, adding another layer of heat to the already sweat-slicked skin as you listen to his offer. He would force you to ask this of him. To make you accomplice to your own unmaking. A cruel mercy, but a mercy which you would take him on as the alternative seemed impossible to bear.
"I beg you, my- my lord. Please, use me."
His chuckle is victorious and wicked in its joy as Messmer pulls you lower on to his cock, forcing another two inches of him within your aching hole. However, true to his word, his free arm, the one not pinning you to his chest, slips down between your legs and you gasp as his finger circles itself at the top of your cunt, seeking out your most sensitive flesh.
He knows he has found it when you jerk in his arms, an electric bolt of pleasure arcing across your skin as his calloused finger grazes your swollen clit. It sparks him to pick up a slow pace, his cock breaching your hole until it presses flush against your cervix before pulling free until only the head remains. A slow pace, but a brutal one as every thrust makes it feel like he is pulling your walls free with him - the friction immediately sending your body into overdrive.
His finger never lets up the pressure on your clit; alternating between grazing along it directly and gently thumbing circles around it as the dual manipulations forced your legs wider, your body seeking more pleasure to offset the ache of the stretch. Pain and pleasure, both sensations at war within your tortured flesh until his thumb presses just a little too roughly against your nub and you came undone.
Clenching around his cock, your release brings with it a low scream as waves of pleasure roll across your body. Messmer seems to appreciate the forced pleasure, if the growing pace of his cock is anything to go by, but the continued stimulation of his thrusts only serves to make your orgasm draw out until your body twitches from the aftershocks.
"So easily pleasured. Were it not for thy warriors garb and weaponry, I would have assumed thee a courtesan. A temptress, well-versed in the pleasures of men."
Messmer grunts the insult as he continues to fuck you without mercy but his humiliating words barely register within your overstimulated mind as your whimpers fill the large room. His voice is full of excitement and you can hear the slight gasps which exist between the words and how they speak of his own coming release.
His cock having ruined your most sensitive walls, the dull ache of the stretch now only serves to enhance the pleasure and you cannot help but clench around him, pulling him to his finish as his cock twitches within you.
The arm around your stomach tightens, as do the snakes which remain bound across your suffering frame and you feel the heat of his release as it scorches you from the inside out, much hotter than any man you had been with before. Seeking his own pleasure, Messmer pulls you tight, forcing his cock up hard against your battered cervix as his mouth buries itself into your neck - teeth and tongue making a mess of your skin as he marks the territory like a beast.
It all proves too much and you come again, your cunt fluttering and squeezing his cock as low, animalistic noises break free of your lips. Your strength leaves you in an instant after the initial high and the loose limbs of your frame are only supported by his arm and snakes as he keeps you suspended like a puppet until he's finished with you.
His cock pulls out, the movement slow and certain, and the moment his cockhead slips free you feel the heat of his release trickle down your thighs as a gaping emptiness seems to fill the space between your legs. Despite the heat, you feel cold and you whimper anew as his snakes unlatch themselves from your chest and retreat back to their master.
Messmer's breathing is heavy and his chest feels as hot as ever against your naked back, even his armour having lost its metallic chill, as he continues to hold you in place. Aching, twitching, and thoroughly fucked you lay passively in his arm, your entire body feeling loose and untrustworthy.
After a minute has passed, Messmer speaks once more and his hoarse words are delivered to your ear as he lifts you slightly higher.
"My vague amusement with thee requires further consideration." As silken as before, you shudder at the close proximity as you rub your mess-slickened thighs together. "And so my offer is thus: remain in the Shadow Keep as a personal courtesan to myself, a role in which no other man nor beast shall lay hand on thee, or choose to return to ash and I shall grant thee a swift death until thy body is restored by the grace of gold which thee are unworthy of."
Your breath hitches, both options relaying in your mind as you recover from the shock of the unexpected offer. Messmer, however, did not appear to be a patient man and his arm jostled you slightly as he instsntly pushed for a response.
"Well, little tarnished, what is thy choice?"
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