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dandelions-143 · 1 month ago

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Fear Play - Minho

Kinktober Masterlist

Word Count: 3600

Warnings: MDNI, 18+ ONLY, sexual content, elements of fear and psychological tension, mild (implied) violence), consensual fear play/ knife play

Authors Note: I’ve had this one in my drafts for a while now. It’s much more detailed than the others. Maybe a little too detailed and wordy but you can be the judge of that! Enjoy babies!

No summary just smut under the cut

The mansion loomed before you, a dark silhouette etched against the inky night sky. Its gothic spires and ornate turrets seemed to claw at the heavens, casting long, ominous shadows across the overgrown lawn. Minho had texted earlier, his message a cryptic plea for your presence, claiming he missed you desperately. As you approached the wrought-iron gates, an unsettling feeling crept over you, raising goosebumps on your skin.

The windows of the mansion were pitch black, not even a flicker of light visible within their dusty panes. It was as if the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for your arrival. Your hand trembled as you input the passcode, the electronic keypad's soft beep sounding unnaturally loud in the eerie silence. The ancient key turned with a rusty groan, the lock's mechanisms protesting as if warning you to turn back.

Minho's house had always unnerved you. It was a relic of a bygone era, its weathered stone facade telling tales of centuries past. The sheer size of it was overwhelming - countless rooms and winding corridors that seemed to shift and change with each visit. The air around it felt heavy, charged with an energy that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. It wasn't just old and huge; it was a place that seemed to exist outside of time, unwelcoming and filled with secrets that whispered from every shadowy corner.

The door creaked open with an ominous groan, revealing a void of darkness so thick it seemed to have physical form. As you hesitantly stepped inside, the oppressive silence engulfed you, broken only by the thunderous pounding of your heart echoing in your ears. The floorboards beneath your feet protested loudly, each step eliciting a series of creaks and groans that reverberated through the empty halls like ghostly whispers.

"Minho?" you called out, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation. His name hung in the air, unanswered, swallowed by the suffocating darkness. Instead of a response, you were met with an eerie whisper of wind, its soft susurration seeming to emanate from the very walls themselves, carrying with it the musty scent of age and secrets long forgotten.

A bone-deep chill crept up your spine as you ventured deeper into the bowels of the house, each step feeling like a descent into some nightmarish realm. Pale slivers of moonlight filtered through grimy windows, casting elongated shadows that danced and writhed across the walls, their movements seeming to defy the laws of nature. The darkness grew more intense with each passing moment, as if actively resisting your intrusion.

"Minho, please," you pleaded, your voice now quivering with unmistakable fear, "this isn't funny anymore." The words echoed back at you, mockingly, from the unseen corners of the house. As you began to ascend the stairs, each step felt like a monumental effort, as if the very air around you was thickening, becoming more resistant. The staircase seemed to stretch endlessly before you, a twisted path leading into the unknown depths of the house's upper floors.

Suddenly, a sharp crack pierced the silence - a floorboard creaking directly behind you. Your heart leapt into your throat as you whirled around, eyes wide with terror. But instead of finding Minho or any other presence, you were confronted with an impenetrable wall of blackness. The darkness seemed to pulse and writhe, alive with malevolent intent. You stood frozen, your breath coming in short, panicked gasps, as the shadows around you seemed to close in, threatening to swallow you whole.

Without warning, a hand clamped over your mouth, muffling your scream. An arm like iron wrapped around your waist, pulling you against a solid form. The sudden contact sent a jolt of adrenaline through your body, your heart racing wildly in your chest. A voice, low and menacing, whispered in your ear, "I've been waiting for you." The hot breath against your skin made you shudder involuntarily. Your blood ran cold as you realized this voice, though familiar, held none of Minho's usual warmth. It was colder, darker, almost predatory. As you struggled against the grip, your fingers clawing at the arm holding you, a chilling thought gripped you: what if this wasn't Minho at all? The possibility sent a wave of terror through you, your mind racing with horrifying scenarios.

Suddenly, you felt Minho's grip loosen ever so slightly. It was barely perceptible, but in your heightened state of awareness, you sensed the opportunity. Taking advantage of this moment, you summoned all your strength and wrenched yourself free, your elbow connecting with something solid behind you. You didn't wait to see the result. You bolted down the dark hallway, your feet pounding against the wooden floor. The darkness seemed to press in on you from all sides, making each step feel like a leap into the unknown. Your heart pounded in your ears as you ran, a deafening rhythm that almost drowned out the sound of pursuit behind you. A potent cocktail of excitement and fear coursed through your veins, making every nerve ending in your body sing with tension. You could hear Minho's footsteps behind you, steady and unhurried, a stark contrast to your frantic pace. His low chuckle echoed off the walls, the sound seeming to come from everywhere at once, disorienting you further. The playful menace in that laugh sent shivers down your spine, a reminder that in this game of cat and mouse, you were very much the prey.

"Where are you going, baby?" His voice called out, a mixture of playfulness and menace that sent shivers down your spine. The sound seemed to come from everywhere at once, echoing off the walls and making it impossible to pinpoint his location. You darted around a corner, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. Your eyes, now adjusted to the darkness, frantically scanned the shadowy corridor for any sign of movement.

The house seemed to come alive around you, creaking and groaning as if it was conspiring with Minho to trap you. You don't know why, but a part of you loved these random menacing games he would play. The thrill of being hunted, the adrenaline coursing through your veins - it was intoxicating. He never actually hurt you... yet. But the possibility, the danger, made every nerve in your body sing with anticipation.

You stumbled into what felt like a study, the musty smell of old books filling your nostrils. Your hands frantically searched for a lock on the door, fingers trembling as they traced the smooth wood. Finding none, you ducked behind a large, ornate desk, its polished surface cool against your heated skin. You tried to quiet your ragged breathing, pressing a hand to your mouth to muffle the sound. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the thunderous beating of your heart.

The sound of Minho's footsteps grew closer, slow and deliberate. Each step seemed to echo in the empty room, a countdown to your inevitable discovery. "I can hear your heart racing," he called out, his voice closer than you expected, rich with dark amusement. The hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as you realized he was in the room with you. "You can't hide from me forever," he purred, the predatory tone in his voice making your stomach flip with a mixture of fear and excitement. You held your breath, pressing yourself further into the shadows, wondering how long you could prolong this exquisite torture before he finally caught you.

Suddenly, a strong hand grasped your shoulder, yanking you up with unexpected force. You found yourself face to face with Minho, his eyes glinting with a mixture of mischief and something darker in the dim light. The moonlight filtering through the dusty windows cast eerie shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his features. Before you could fully process what was happening, he pulled you close, his body heat radiating through your clothes.

Minho's lips crashed against yours in a passionate, almost desperate kiss that left you breathless. At first, you melted into him, your body responding instinctively to his touch. Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart beneath your palms. As the kiss deepened, Minho's hunger seemed to grow. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, the slight pain sending a shiver down your spine. His kisses became more demanding, more intense, bordering on bruising. The taste of him - a mixture of mint and something uniquely Minho - filled your senses, making your head spin.

Overwhelmed by the intensity, you shoved your hands hard against his chest, breaking the kiss with an audible smack. Your chest heaved as you gasped for air, your lips tingling from the force of his kisses. Minho stumbled back a step, but quickly regained his composure. His eyes, now dark with desire, roamed over your form, taking in your disheveled appearance and flushed cheeks. A soft smirk played on his lips as he murmured, his voice low and husky, "So fucking pretty when you're scared."

Before you could fully recover, Minho closed the distance between you again. His strong hands found your waist, fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled you flush against him. You could feel every hard plane of his body pressed against yours, the heat of him seeping through your clothes. His breath was hot against your neck as he leaned in, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below your ear. "Did I scare you, baby?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent vibrations through your body.

You shivered involuntarily, caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The lingering adrenaline from your fear mixed with the undeniable desire his touch ignited in you. Your heart raced, but whether from fear or excitement, you couldn't tell anymore. "You're terrible," you whispered, but there was no real anger in your voice. Instead, it came out breathy and weak, betraying the effect he had on you. Your words held a mixture of reproach and anticipation, your body trembling slightly in his arms as you waited, with bated breath, for what was to come next.

He chuckled, a low, menacing sound that sent your heart into overdrive. "You know I can be way worse," he purred, his voice dripping with dark promise. Your eyes widened as you turned around, heart pounding in your chest. His words sent an electric jolt straight to your core, your clit throbbing with arousal. As you finally got a good look at your boyfriend, your breath caught in your throat. Minho was holding a knife - a large, wicked-looking blade with a matte black finish that seemed to absorb the dim light. He gripped it tightly in his right hand, the muscles in his forearm flexing with the motion.

"What the hell are you doing with that thing?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The words tumbled out before you could stop them, a tremor of fear evident in your tone. Minho stayed silent, his only response a slight tilt of his head to the side. His eyes, usually warm and inviting, now held a predatory gleam as they raked over your form. You felt exposed, vulnerable under his intense gaze, as if he was assessing his prey before making his move.

You felt a shiver run down your spine, goosebumps erupting across your skin. Minho's eerie silence and posture only heightened your anxiety, yet you couldn't deny the growing wetness between your thighs. The playful atmosphere from moments ago had evaporated, replaced by a tension so thick you could almost taste it. It was thrilling and unsettling in equal measure, your body caught in a paradox of wanting to flee and yearning to stay.

"I smell you," his melodious voice suddenly pierced through the silence, startling you. The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Minho's nostrils flared slightly as he took a deep breath, his eyes darkening with desire. "You're wet for me, aren't you, baby?" he continued, his voice low and husky. "It turns you on that I scare you so much." The amusement in his tone was evident, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. Your cheeks flushed with heat, embarrassment warring with arousal as you realized he could sense your body's betrayal. The knife glinted in the dim light as Minho took a step closer, the anticipation of what might come next making your breath catch in your throat.

Suddenly, Minho's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping tightly around your wrist. With a swift, forceful tug, he pulled you closer, the sudden movement causing you to stumble slightly. His handsome face was mere inches from yours, his warm breath fanning across your cheeks. The intensity of his gaze bore into you, dark eyes glittering with a mixture of mischief and something more sinister. You could see the muscles in his jaw working, as if he was barely restraining himself.

"Let's play a game," he whispered, his voice low and dangerous, spreading goosebumps all over your skin. The words hung in the air between you, heavy with promise and threat. Your breath caught in your throat, a potent cocktail of fear and excitement coursing through your veins. Despite the alarm bells ringing in your head, you found yourself nodding, utterly captivated by Minho's dark charisma.

Without warning, Minho tugged you forward again, his grip on your wrist unyielding as he led you deeper into the shadowy hallway. Gone was the gentle touch you were accustomed to; this Minho was all rough edges and barely contained aggression. Your heart raced wildly in your chest as you stumbled after him, your free hand reaching out to steady yourself against the wall. The darkness seemed to press in around you, making each step feel like a plunge into the unknown.

As Minho led you through the luxurious house, your pulse quickened with each step. The floorboards creaked ominously beneath your feet, and you could have sworn you heard whispers echoing from the shadows. "What are you doing?" you asked, your voice trembling with a mixture of uncertainty and fear. The words came out as barely more than a whisper, almost swallowed by the oppressive silence of the house.

Minho remained eerily silent, his only response a slight tightening of his grip on your wrist. You winced at the pressure but didn't dare pull away. His face was a mask of indifference, any hint of emotion carefully concealed behind those dark eyes. You found yourself wondering what thoughts were swirling in the depths of his mind, what plans he had in store for you.

As you rounded a corner, a faint red glow caught your attention. Your eyes widened as you spotted a door slightly ajar, the crimson light spilling out into the hallway like a river of blood. The sight sent a fresh wave of trepidation through you, your imagination running wild with possibilities of what lay beyond that threshold.

Minho pushed the door open wider, revealing a room bathed in a soft crimson light. Your eyes widened as you took in the sight before you: black candles flickered on every surface, casting dancing shadows across the walls. In the center of the room stood a large, ornate bed, its dark sheets a stark contrast to the red glow surrounding it. Your breath caught in your throat as Minho's hand slid from your wrist to the small of your back, gently guiding you into the room, the knife held in his hand still unused but very much in the forefront of your mind.

At first you thought this looked romantic until you took another look noticing that the bed had black steel handcuffs at each corner. Your eyes darted between the bed and Minho, uncertainty, excitement, and fear evident in your face. The sight of those cuffs made your clit throb with anticipation. As he guided you further into the room, the door clicked shut behind you, sealing you both in this crimson-lit sanctuary of desire and fear.

You didn’t dare speak At first, your eyes fixed on Minho's steely face. The tension in the air was palpable, the warring mix of fear and excitement making your skin tingle as if you were vibrating. You watched, heart racing, as Minho slowly approached the bed, his fingers trailing along the silk sheets. “Minho…what is this?” You whispered, your voice trembling slightly. Minho's head tilted, the expressionless mask he made sure to keep up hiding any feelings behind his dark eyes as he turned to face you. His silence was unnerving, but there was an undeniable electricity in the air. Slowly, he reached out, the tip of the knife gently tracing your jawline. It was a gentle steely caress by the blade, not enough to cut you but enough to make you shiver.

The cold metal against your skin made you bite your bottom lip to suppress a whimper, your teeth digging into the soft flesh. Your eyes, wide and filled with a mixture of fear and desire, remained locked on Minho's intense gaze. His eyes, dark as obsidian and just as hard, held a promise of both danger and pleasure that sent a shiver to your core. You felt your breath quicken, coming in short, shallow gasps as he traced the knife down your neck. The sharp edge of the blade barely grazed your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. The cool metal contrasted sharply with the heat radiating from your flushed skin, heightening every sensation.

Without warning, Minho's free hand lifted, gripping the collar of your white shirt. With a sudden, forceful tug, he ripped it in two, the sound of tearing fabric echoing in the room. You gasped, the mixture of shock and excitement evident in your face as your chest heaved with each rapid breath. "Minho!" His name escaped your lips in a breathless yelp, a mixture of protest and arousal. His response was a dark, rumbling chuckle that reverberated through his chest and into yours. The amusement dancing in his eyes nearly infuriated you, but the heat pooling in your core betrayed your true feelings.

The cool air of the room hit your newly exposed skin, sending a violent shiver down your spine. Your nipples hardened instantly, the sensitive peaks straining against the fabric of your bra. Minho's hands, calloused and warm, found their way to your bare waist. His touch was electric, leaving trails of fire in its wake as he pulled you closer. The heat of his body contrasted sharply with the chill of the room, making you acutely aware of every point of contact between you.

Just as you thought he was going to pull you in for a kiss, his lips hovering tantalizingly close to yours, he surprised you once again. With a swift movement, he spun you around, pressing your back firmly against his chest. His face found the crook of your neck, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive skin. Each exhale sent a new wave of shivers through your body, your pulse quickening with every passing second. You could feel the solid planes of his chest against your back, the strength in his arms as they encircled your waist.

His hands began to roam your exposed torso, fingers tracing patterns on your skin that left you trembling. Every so often, the cool metal of the knife would graze your skin, a sharp reminder of the danger that lurked beneath the passion. The juxtaposition of the warm, rough skin of his hands and the cold, smooth metal of the blade had your senses in overdrive. Your breath came in short, ragged gasps, your body caught between the instinct to flee and the desire to press closer.

As Minho's exploration continued, your eyes darted to the bed once more. The sight of the cuffs, gleaming ominously in the crimson light, sent a fresh wave of anticipation coursing through you. Your mind raced with possibilities, each more thrilling and terrifying than the last. What did Minho have planned for you in this crimson-lit room? The uncertainty only added to the intoxicating mix of fear and desire that consumed you, leaving you dizzy with want and trembling with anticipation.

He pulled your pants down slowly, leaving you standing in just your underwear. The cool air of the room raised goosebumps on your exposed skin, making you shiver involuntarily. Minho's eyes raked over your body, dark with desire, as he twirled the knife between his fingers. Without warning, he hooked the blade under the elastic of your panties, the cold metal a stark contrast to your heated skin. With a quick flick of his wrist, he sliced through the fabric, letting it fall to the floor in tatters. Your breath hitched as he repeated the process with your bra, the sharp edge of the knife barely grazing your skin as he cut away the last barriers between his gaze and your naked form.

You couldn't deny the thrill that ran through you at the sight of Minho wielding the knife with such precision and control. Your body betrayed your arousal, your pussy clenching as you felt your juices coating the apex of your thighs. Minho's nostrils flared slightly, as if he could smell your excitement, a predatory gleam in his eyes. His hands ghosted over your hips, fingers splaying wide as they traced up your torso. The calluses on his palms created a delicious friction against your soft skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. As his fingers traced the curve of your breasts, you couldn't help but arch into his touch, silently begging for more.

You shivered, feeling exposed and vulnerable under his intense scrutiny, but loving the way he gave all of his attention to your body. Every touch, every glance felt like it was setting your skin on fire. Minho's grip returned to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he tightened his hold on your waist. With a forceful tug, he guided you towards the bed, the metal cuffs gleaming ominously in the dim light, seeming to beckon you closer.

"Babe... why won't you speak? This is scary and-" The words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them, your voice trembling with a mixture of fear and excitement. Before you could finish your sentence, Minho's hand shot out, gripping your throat firmly. His long fingers pressed against your skin, not enough to cut off your air supply completely, but enough to make you gasp. The sudden assertiveness in his actions sent a jolt of electricity through your body, your pussy throbbing in response. You could feel his face close, his hot breath fanning over your ear, causing you to shudder. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous, barely above a whisper, "No more talking. It's time to play."

With those words, Minho firmly pushed you onto the bed, your back hitting the soft sheets with a soft thud. His face remained an impassive mask, but his intentions were clear in every touch, every movement. The weight of his body pressed you into the mattress, his muscular form a cage of flesh and bone that both thrilled and terrified you.

As you lay there, bound and exposed, a potent cocktail of anticipation and vulnerability coursed through your veins. Minho's fingers trailed down your body with exquisite slowness, his touch a paradoxical blend of gentle caresses and possessive grazes. Each brush of his fingertips sent electric shivers rippling across your skin, causing you to arch your back involuntarily, pressing into his touch, silently begging for more.

Your eyes darted frantically between Minho's handsome face, etched with intense concentration, and the menacing knife still clutched in his hand. The blade ghosted over your skin, following the path of his fingers, its cool metal a stark contrast to your feverish flesh. Your heart hammered in your chest, a primal fear of being cut warring with an overwhelming desire for his touch. You wanted to scream, to beg him to put the knife away, but your voice seemed trapped in your throat. Instead, only pleading whimpers and desperate gasps escaped your lips.

"Minho... please..." you finally managed to whimper, your voice barely above a whisper. In an instant, his hand moved, gripping your jaw with bruising force. He yanked your face towards him, forcing you to meet his smoldering gaze. "Didn't I say no more talking?" His voice was low and dangerous, each word dripping with stern authority. Your mouth snapped shut immediately, teeth sinking into your lower lip to stifle any further sounds. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, a mixture of fear and arousal making them glisten in the dim light.

Minho's hands resumed their torturous exploration, alternating between feather-light touches and firm, almost painful grips. The unpredictability kept you teetering on the edge, your body taut with tension, never knowing what sensation to expect next. Suddenly, his fingers found your nipples, pinching them tightly between his thumb and forefinger. The sharp pain lanced through your body, but it quickly transmuted into a jolt of intense pleasure. A strangled gasp tore from your throat as you arched your back, pushing your breasts further into his merciless grasp.

His fingers continued their relentless assault on your sensitive flesh, twisting, pulling, and flicking your hardened peaks. Each touch sent waves of sensation coursing through your body, the mixture of pain and pleasure so intoxicating that you felt dizzy. Your breath came in short, ragged pants, chest heaving as you struggled against your restraints, desperate for more contact yet simultaneously overwhelmed by the intensity of it all.

With deliberate slowness, Minho reached up and grasped your hand, guiding it towards the headboard. The cold metal of the handcuffs bit into your wrist as he locked it in place, the click of the mechanism echoing ominously in the room. He repeated the process with your other hand, effectively immobilizing your arms. The vulnerability of your position sent a fresh wave of both fear and excitement coursing through you.

Minho's strong hands then moved to your legs, gripping your thighs firmly. With a swift, powerful motion, he spread them wide, exposing your most intimate area to the cool air of the room and his hungry gaze. You felt utterly exposed, completely at his mercy. Minho's face tilted as he observed you in this compromising position, his dark, devious eyes roaming over your glistening folds. The intensity of his stare made you feel as if you were being devoured visually, your pussy throbbing under his scrutiny.

"Fucking delicious," he groaned, his voice husky with desire. The knife in his hand glinted as he slowly dragged it up your inner thigh. Your breath hitched, a mixture of fear and anticipation causing your body to tremble uncontrollably. The cool metal of the blade traced a path dangerously close to your aching core, but Minho kept his touch light and teasing, never quite making contact where you desperately wanted it.

Your chest heaved with each ragged breath as Minho leaned down, his face hovering mere inches from your engorged clit. You could feel his hot breath fanning over your sensitive bundle of nerves, the warmth a stark contrast to the cool air on your exposed skin. The combination of your complete vulnerability and the mounting excitement had your heart racing at a frantic pace. Your body trembled with desire, every nerve ending alive and singing with anticipation of what was to come. In this moment, suspended between fear and ecstasy, you had never felt more alive, more aware of every sensation, every breath, every beat of your wildly pounding heart.

You watch, transfixed, as Minho slides off the bed with feline grace. His heated dark honey eyes never leave yours as he begins to undress, the intensity of his gaze making your breath catch in your throat. Your eyes hungrily follow every deliberate movement as he slowly peels away each layer of clothing, revealing his sculpted form inch by tantalizing inch.

The dim red light bathes his body in an otherworldly glow, casting deep shadows that accentuate every curve and plane of his muscular physique. His golden skin glistens with a light sheen of sweat, emphasizing the definition of his abs, the sharp cut of his hipbones, and the powerful lines of his thighs. A small scar on his abdomen catches your eye, appearing darker than the rest of his skin in the crimson lighting. The sight of it awakens a primal urge within you - you desperately want to trace it with your tongue, to taste the salt of his skin and feel the slight ridge of healed tissue.

As Minho steps out of his last piece of clothing, you can't help but suck your bottom lip between your teeth, your eyes widening at the sight of his fully aroused state. His cock stands proud and thick, so hard that it curves slightly towards his stomach. The veins along its length pulse visibly with need, and a bead of precum glistens at the tip, catching the red light. Your mouth goes dry at the sight, and you feel an answering throb between your legs. Involuntarily, your thighs fall open wider, your body's silent plea for his touch.

Minho stands at the foot of the bed, his head tilted as he surveys your bound form. His eyes rake over you with predatory intent, drinking in the sight of your naked, vulnerable body. The anticipation builds to an almost unbearable level as he slowly approaches, like a panther stalking its prey. One hand ghosts over your ankles, leaving goosebumps in its wake as it trails up your calves and along your inner thighs. The other hand, still clutching that damned knife, follows a parallel path up your body. The flat of the blade glides over your skin, the cool metal a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from your core.

Without warning, Minho presses the knife to your throat, the razor-sharp edge biting into your flesh but never quite breaking the skin. Your pulse races beneath the blade, each heartbeat a reminder of your complete surrender to him. "That's my good girl... so tame for me," he coos, his voice a low, dangerous purr that sends shivers down your spine.

Minho's free hand brushes against your drenched core, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from you. You bite back a moan, too scared of the blade at your throat to make a sound. He explores your folds with agonizing slowness, his touch a maddening combination of gentle caresses and purposeful strokes. His fingers dance lightly over your throbbing clit, barely ghosting over the sensitive bundle of nerves before dragging down the length of your folds. They circle your creamy entrance with painful slowness, gathering your arousal but never dipping inside where you need him most.

You struggle against your restraints, desperate for more contact, for anything to relieve the aching need building within you. But Minho keeps his movements measured and controlled, a stark contrast to the wild, frantic energy thrumming through your body. His eyes, dark with desire, watch your every reaction - the flutter of your eyelashes, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your hips cant upwards seeking more pressure. He drinks in your desperation, savoring every moment of exquisite torture he inflicts upon you.

"So wet for me already," he murmurs, his voice low and husky behind the mask. His fingers circle your most sensitive areas again, building the tension in your body with each passing moment. You whimper, biting your lip to keep from begging as he'd instructed earlier. Your hips involuntarily buck upwards, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of him. The ache between your legs intensifies, a throbbing need that consumes your every thought.

Suddenly, Minho withdraws his hand, leaving you trembling and desperate. A small, needy sound escapes your throat as you begin to open your mouth, but he silences you by pressing the cold blade more firmly against your skin. "No," he growls, the single word filled with dark promise. You feel the sharp edge of the knife trailing down your neck, leaving a path of goosebumps in its wake. Minho shifts, positioning himself between your spread legs. His face looms over you as he leans in, his breath hot and heavy against your ear. "Remember," he whispers, his lips brushing against your sensitive skin, "no talking. But I want to hear every other sound you make. Cry for me, little one... let me hear how scared you are." His words send a shiver down your spine, a potent mixture of fear and arousal coursing through your veins.

With agonizing slowness, Minho slides his smooth, hard cock through your slick folds. The feeling of him gliding over your aching clit is so exquisite that a loud, uncontrolled moan escapes your lips. Your eyes flutter closed at the overwhelming sensation, your body arching off the bed, seeking more contact. You can feel every ridge, every vein of his length as he teases you, the pressure both too much and not enough. "Jesus..." you hear Minho bite out, his usual composure cracking. The sexual tension in the air is palpable, crackling between you like electricity. You can feel the desire radiating off him in waves, his muscles taut and hard against your soft curves. His breathing becomes more ragged, matching the frantic pace of your own. The anticipation builds to an almost unbearable level as you wait, trembling, for his next move.

Then, with no warning at all, Minho enters you in one swift, powerful thrust. You gasp sharply, the sensation overwhelming every nerve in your body. His thick length stretches you wide, the delicious burn of the initial penetration mingling with waves of intense pleasure. Your eyes roll back in your head as he fills you completely, the feeling so exquisite it borders on painful.

Minho shows no mercy, no gentleness. His hips snap back, almost withdrawing entirely before slamming forward again with bruising force. Each thrust is deep and hard, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the room. You cry out loudly, your voice a mix of pleasure and pain as he sets a punishing rhythm.

The handcuffs bite into your wrists as you instinctively pull against them, your body arching off the bed with each powerful thrust. The metal restraints hold you firmly in place, leaving you completely at Minho's mercy as he takes you with animalistic intensity. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, urging him impossibly deeper.

Pleasure builds rapidly within you, your body responding eagerly to Minho's rough treatment. Each thrust sends jolts of ecstasy coursing through your veins, the pain only serving to heighten your arousal. You can feel yourself getting wetter, your inner walls clenching around him as he drives into you relentlessly.

Through it all, Minho's grip on the knife never wavers. The cold, sharp edge remains pressed against your throat, a constant reminder of the danger, the fear, the exhilarating thrill of surrendering control. The blade moves with each of your frantic breaths, the threat of it cutting into your skin adding an extra layer of intensity to the overwhelming sensations assaulting your body.

Minho's carefully placed expressionless mask finally cracks as his plump lips part and a guttural groan escapes them. The sound sends shivers down your spine, raw and primal. Your heart races, pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat, right where the cold blade still presses against your skin. The biting pain of the knife's edge and the overwhelming desire coursing through your veins create an intoxicating cocktail of sensations, each amplifying the other.

Despite the fear - or perhaps because of it - you find yourself arching into his touch, your body betraying your desperate need for more. Every nerve ending feels electrified, hyper-aware of Minho's presence above you, the heat radiating from his skin, the slight tremor in his muscles as he fights for control. The tension between you is palpable, thick enough to cut with the very knife he wields.

"More..." you whine, the word escaping your lips before you can stop it. You tug hard at the handcuffs, the metal chafing your soft skin, leaving angry red marks that only fuel your arousal. The pain blends seamlessly with pleasure, until you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins. "Let me touch you, please!" you nearly cry out, your voice a broken, pleading whisper. The desperation in your tone surprises even you, but you're too far gone to care. All you know is that you need to feel him, to run your hands over his sweat-slicked skin, to pull him closer until there's no space left between you.

Minho silences you with a searing kiss, his teeth grazing your lower lip with just enough pressure to elicit a gasp of mingled pain and pleasure. The metallic tang of blood mingles with the taste of his tongue as it invades your mouth, dominating and possessive. His free hand releases the knife, the clatter of metal on wood barely registering as it hits the floor. Both hands now tangle in your hair, fingers twisting in the strands until your scalp tingles with the exquisite pain.

With a sharp tug, he wrenches your head back, exposing the vulnerable column of your throat. You can't suppress the yelp that escapes you, the sound a mix of surprise and arousal. Minho's lips ghost over your pulse point, his hot breath fanning across your hypersensitive skin. "You know I love you," he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous growl that sends shivers down your spine, "but I'm going to fuck you like I hate you."

True to his word, Minho begins to drive into you with relentless force. Each thrust is deep and punishing, the angle allowing him to hit that spot deep inside you that makes your vision blur. Your cries echo off the walls, a symphony of pleasure and pain that only seems to spur him on. His grip on your hair never wavers, keeping you pinned in place as he takes you with animalistic intensity.

The pleasure builds rapidly, coiling tighter and tighter in your lower abdomen. Your body trembles uncontrollably, every nerve ending alight with sensation. Minho's hands finally release your hair, only to grip your hips with bruising force. He pulls you closer, somehow managing to drive even deeper. "Fuck," he growls, his usually controlled voice rough with desire. You can hear the strain in his tone, feel the tremor in his muscles as he fights for control.

The intensity of the moment is overwhelming. Your body is slick with sweat, the crimson light casting an otherworldly glow on your skin. Tears burn in your eyes, threatening to spill over as Minho fucks you with an intensity that borders on too much. You're teetering on the edge of begging him to stop, yet craving more at the same time. Every nerve in your body is singing, alive with sensation in a way you've never experienced before.

Minho's presence looms over you, his powerful body caging you in. His own grunts and moans of pleasure mix with your desperate cries, creating a primal chorus that fills the room. You can feel the coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter, ready to snap at any moment. Minho's thrusts become more erratic, his rhythm faltering as he chases his own release. The air between you is electric, charged with the intensity of your shared pleasure as you both hurtle towards the precipice of ecstasy.

Suddenly, Minho's movements become more erratic, his grip on your hips tightening almost painfully as he nears his own climax. The tension in your body reaches its peak, and with a final, powerful thrust, you're both sent over the edge. Waves of intense pleasure crash over you as you nearly scream, your body arching off the bed despite the restraints. Your inner walls clench rhythmically around him, milking every last drop as he spills himself deep inside you.

As the intense waves of pleasure subside, you lie there panting, your body still trembling from the aftershocks. Tears of overwhelming emotion slip from your eyes, trailing down your flushed cheeks. Minho collapses beside you, his chest heaving as he catches his breath. His body glistens with a sheen of sweat, the crimson light accentuating the defined muscles of his torso. His cock, still semi-hard, shines with the mix of your combined juices.

With a gentle touch, Minho reaches into the nightstand and retrieves a small key. He carefully unlocks both of your restraints, his fingers lingering on the reddened marks left behind. Your arms, limp with exhaustion, fall to the mattress. Despite your fatigue, you manage to languidly reach over and caress his handsome, sweat-dampened face. His eyes meet yours, dark pools filled with a mixture of love, lingering desire, and a hint of concern.

A small, tender smile plays on his lips as he leans in to place a gentle kiss on your forehead. His fingers, now impossibly soft compared to their earlier roughness, wipe at the tears on your skin as he moves closer. "Are you okay?" He murmurs, his voice a low, affectionate rumble. His hands gently grasp yours, bringing them to his lips to place feather-light kisses on the raw spots encircling your wrists.

You don't answer right away, mesmerized by his gentle ministrations. You watch as he kisses up your arm, his lips leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. He moves to your shoulder, then up your neck, his touch now reverent and soothing. He lingers on the small red mark the knife left behind, licking over it with his soft tongue as if trying to erase any trace of harm.

"Yes..." you finally say, your voice slightly hoarse from your earlier cries of passion. A mischievous glint enters your eyes as you add, "But next time you're going in these fucking cuffs." Your fingers trace the metal restraints still attached to the headboard, emphasizing your point.

Minho's laughter bubbles up, a rich, warm sound that fills the room. His eyes crinkle at the corners, softening his features as he gazes at you with unbridled affection. The tension from earlier melts away, replaced by a tender intimacy that wraps around you both like a cocoon.

With deliberate slowness, he leans in, his breath ghosting over your lips. The first brush of his mouth against yours is feather-light, a stark contrast to the passionate frenzy of before. His lips move languidly, savoring every moment of connection. One hand cups your cheek, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your skin, while the other arm snakes around your waist, drawing you impossibly closer.

As he deepens the kiss, you can taste the lingering sweetness of his earlier laughter. His embrace tightens, strong arms enveloping you in a cocoon of warmth and security. The solid planes of his chest press against you, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against your own. In this moment, wrapped in Minho's loving embrace, you feel utterly safe and cherished, the fear and intensity of earlier giving way to a profound sense of belonging.

Taglist: blogs in blue cannot be tagged for whatever reason

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radioactive-reactions · 8 months ago

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How would the companions react to discovering not only Vault 111 but also the frozen Sole Survivor

Whether they saw it as a potential treasure trove, a nostalgic relic, or just a safe, quiet refuge, Vault 111 always seemed to attract the odd scavenger or adventurer. After slipping past the door, however, this particular intruder would end up stumbling upon something far stranger than they could expect...

Cait hadn't really taken the time to scope out the Vault before diving into it headfirst- having a pack of feral dogs nipping at your heels will do that to you. Coming face to face with the frozen Sole Survivor down there is freaky enough to give her a heart attack, but as the perfect audience for her rambling stories and a nonjudgmental drinking buddy they soon become the centerpiece of her impromptu hideout. As for actually getting them out? Fuck if she knows how.

Codsworth knows full well what the Vault up the hill contains, of course. How could he not? Much of the aging robot's time is spent tending to his owners' pods: tightening every bolt, polishing the glass, keeping the steel casing free of even a single speck of rust. The only thing that keeps him going is the thought that on some level, under that thin layer of frost, they might know he's there for them.

Curie's unbridled excitement at making contact with another Vault is quickly tempered once she actually sets eyes on the denizens of said Vault. With nothing but time and centuries' worth of medical expertise to work with, she immediately sets to the task of bringing Vault 111 back to life- not just the Sole Survivor, but everyone consigned to a cold and inglorious fate in those cryopods. This is a mission worth spending another two hundred years on.

Danse has been assigned to scour the Vault as part of a routine sweep for useful technology- a task entirely beneath a Paladin, but what he finds there more than makes up for it. Immediately, a whole field research team is dispatched to the vault and the cryopods are airlifted out one by one. The Sole Survivor's first memory of the new world is waking up to the harsh white light of a Brotherhood lab, bombarded with questions and shoved blearily through a battery of tests. Not a great first impression.

Deacon still thinks the Vault would make an ideal fallback hideout, even with the rows of corpsicles. The eerie blue glow and residents in cryosleep are pitched to Desdemona as enhancing the ambience, but the suggestion is soundly denied for the Vault's visibility. Even so, Deacon maintains a post outside, just in case one of those poor bastards stumbles out one day.

When Hancock inexplicably wakes up in the Vault after partying a little too hard, he immediately assumes he's still hallucinating- that, or he's been picked up by Zetans. It takes him hours of trying to pry the Sole Survivor's pod open in a hungover haze to finally give up, writing the place off as another of the Old World's many sins and decent subject matter for his next speech.

MacCready almost feels at home in the vast underground chambers of the Vault. Almost. No matter how convenient the Vault is as a last-ditch hideout, its residents creep him out too much to stay there for any real length of time. He tries his hardest to avoid their frozen stares, endlessly grateful that it's them in there and not him.

Valentine relates to the frozen Sole Survivor a little more than he'd like to admit. Two abandoned relics, used to serve a greater purpose and then thrown out like so much junk when they were done. He knows more than anyone what a harsh awakening they're going to have- if they do wake up. Every so often, he'll wander back to check on them, sharing a yarn about his latest case and watching for any progress. On the day that pod does unseal, he'll be there to lend a helping hand... but until then, all he can do is maintain a file. It's one hell of a cold case.

Piper feels a little guilty that her first thought is how good of a story this will make. 'Pod people slumber among us', maybe? She doesn't want to risk the Sole Survivor's life by touching anything, but maybe if she spreads the word someone out there will be able to help them. That's how she justifies it to herself, anyway- now if only there was some concrete link to the Institute she could work in...

Preston has been surveying the area around Sanctuary for potential threats to the burgeoning settlement... and he still isn't entirely sure that this doesn't count as one. It takes a moment to line up the resident registry with the names on Sanctuary's rusted-out mailboxes, but once he does, he has the Vault sealed up again out of respect for those who came before. If he and his scant resources can't help them, he can at least let them rest in peace.

Strong hammers away at the pod to no avail before stomping off in a huff to seek his next victim somewhere else. Canned food clearly isn't his thing.

X6-88 is here for a routine checkup - nothing more, nothing less. Although the Director had been cagey about what exactly he wanted to be kept safe down here, there was nothing X6 wouldn't be prepared for... so he thought, at least. The sight of a person, frozen and contained, gives him a rare moment of pause and elicits an uncomfortable, involuntary comparison to the dormant synths rolling off the assembly line. Nevertheless, he makes sure the cryopod is still functional and returns home, all the while trying to forget their strange resemblance to the Director.

#fallout #fallout 4 #fo4 #fo4 cait #codsworth #fo4 deacon #fo4 curie #paladin danse #john hancock #rj maccready #nick valentine #piper wright #preston garvey #fo4 strong #x6 88 #reactions #the april fools joke is me being active #who else is looking forward to that fallout 4 remaster? i am #despite myself

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psychotrenny · 1 year ago

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I really do think this is the end for Israel. The beginning of the end at least. They're essentially a relic of an earlier time, a time when, through a complex confluence of factors, the military power of Europe was so far beyond the rest of the world that it could openly keep the world in shackles. The Imperial powers of Europe could do as they wished and respond to any resistance with overwhelming violence that, no matter how costly in money or lives or how many years it took, would eventually force open resistance to come to a (temporary) end. You saw exceptions of course, such as Ethiopia's successful repulsion of Italian invaders in the 1890s (although even that victory is somewhat undercut but Italy's more successful invasion about 40 years later), but in the majority of cases even the most brave and intelligent of resistance fighters would see themselves worn down and defeated. Just off the top of my head you have figures like Samori Toure, Omar al-Mukhtar, Samuel Maharero; all inflicted numerous defeats on their European Imperialist enemies but in the end couldn't overcome the sheer force that was arrayed against them.

Of course such supremacy was never absolute even at it's apex, and this height was so very short lived. Resistance never fully stopped; outbursts of violence were frequent and various forms of passive resistance like migration, tax evasion and industrial slowdown were ubiquitous. Resistance movements learned from past failures, acquired the weapons of modern war and soon proved a credible threat to the Imperialist forces that by the middle of the 20th century had exhausted themselves through in-fighting. Whether evicted through direct violence or choosing to leave under the inevitable threat of it, the European powers largely ended their direct domination over the colonised world. That's not to say Imperialism was over, far from it, but it mostly took on subtler forms; more soft power with only the occasional resort to hard. Imperial domination is now more than ever exerted through various local proxies and the broader forces that keep them in check as direct subjugation just isn't especially viable.

In the parts of the world without substantial settler populations this withdrawal was accomplished smoothly enough; most of the Europeans present either left without a fuss or found some sort of niche under the new order of things. But the liberation of colonies with large settler populations was a longer and bloodier process; just compare the French withdrawal from Indochina to that from Algeria or the fate of Northern Rhodesia (now Zambia) to Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe). A large number of Europeans were heavily entrenched in these colonies and had both their material wealth and sense of pride tied to the maintenance of white supremacy. Many politicians back in Europe were less willing to abandon such settler colonies, while with or without support from back home the colonists engaged in their own bloody wars of oppression against indigenous people.

But in the end they all fell. Algeria, Rhodesia, Angola, South Africa, the list goes on. Even as these places continue to suffer under the yoke of less direct Imperialism they can take pride knowing that the scourge of direct setter subjugation was defeated. Exploiting people is one thing; there are many ways you can accomplish this without the exploited truly catching on. But the sort of violence it takes to brazenly steal control of a people's land, settle yourself on it while keeping the original inhabitants as second class citizens is going to engender the fiercest resistance no matter what. The only remotely stable settler colonies are those where the indigenous peoples were already decimated by disease before being subjected to centuries of genocidal policies, reducing their current population to a small minority of the nation. And even then the survives continue to resist fiercely. In places where the settlers remained the minority there was simply no chance of such regimes surviving for long.

Israel as a state is among the last of its kind, and I see no reason why it shouldn't meet the fate of all other such colonies. The way I see it the end of Israel is inevitable. The only question is just how much bloodshed and suffering it'll take. The struggle has been ongoing for so very long. I truly hope that we're seeing the final stages of it, but I suppose only time can tell. All I know for sure is that from from the river to the sea, Palestine will be free

#stella speaks

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myster-roca · 25 days ago

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La Pelle del Diavolo: A Halloween Special

The night air in the hills of Tuscany was thick with the scent of earth and wild herbs, but a chill crept through the wind, slipping from the shadows cast by ancient oaks around the estate. Marco Romano, a seasoned thief, felt the familiar prickle of excitement as he approached the villa.

Dark whispers and superstitions tugged at the edges of his thoughts, but he pushed them aside. Danger was an old friend, and tonight, it had led him to the mysterious Villa Tenebra.

The locals had spoken of the villa’s hidden treasure in hushed tones over dark wine, only daring to mention it in shadowed corners of Florence’s oldest bars. It was a relic of myth, known as the Corpus Noctem, the key to immortal life. Marco had dismissed it as folklore at first, but the lure of such power was impossible to resist.

He had slipped into Villa Tenebra with the help of a map from a cryptic dealer in Florence—a strange man eager to be rid of it. The map was faded and worn, but it revealed something extraordinary: an old smugglers’ passage hidden in the villa’s foundations, built centuries ago to let noblemen move treasures in and out undetected.

The entrance to the passage lay hidden behind a statue in the villa’s overgrown gardens, its base concealing a narrow stone door. With a grunt, Marco pushed it open, revealing a winding staircase descending into the earth. The air was cool and damp, and each step echoed, punctuating the silence with a heavy, ominous beat.

At the bottom, the passage twisted into a dimly lit stone hallway. Shadows flickered on the walls, worn smooth by years of forgotten footsteps. Marco moved forward, his senses sharp, adrenaline building. The air was thick, carrying an old, metallic scent, as though it held memories of things long past.

A few meters down, he found himself in a corridor and saw something he had never encountered—a perfectly sculpted muscle suit that looked like leather, coated in wax, and painted red. The closer he got, the more he felt an odd pull, a magnetic force that made his skin tingle and his pulse intensify.

The suit looked like leather but felt too smooth, too alive. It beckoned to him.

“This is it. The Corpus Noctem. The Flesh of the Night,” he whispered, his voice thick with greed. “The key to youth and eternal life.”

His fingers hovered over the material, and as soon as he touched it, a rush of heat surged through him, like electricity flooding his veins. His fingertips tingled as he traced its sculpted lines. The sensation was intoxicating, almost erotic. His breath quickened, and an unfamiliar hunger stirred deep within him.

With the suit clutched in his arms, he moved quickly down the hall, rounding a corner, his breathing quickening as he felt its warmth intensify. The heat from the suit seemed to throb, mirroring his own pulse, sending waves of anticipation rippling through him.

He knew he couldn’t wait any longer—he needed it on his body, needed to feel it enveloping him.

Setting the suit down, he hurriedly removed his clothes, pulling off his sleek, dark outfit and kicking off his boots. His legs trembled as he reached for the red muscle suit once more, pressing himself against it and feeling heat spread through his body.

He removed his pants, standing completely naked before the suit, savoring the rich red sheen of the leather.

Without hesitation, he began to put it on. The moment it touched his skin, a wave of pleasure and power flooded his senses.

As he slid the suit further up his leg, he felt an incredible tightness around his calf, a strange, thrilling tension as though the suit were pulling at his muscles. And then, to his astonishment, he felt his calf muscle expand, swelling against the material as though infused with newfound strength.

He continued, slipping his other leg in, feeling the suit tighten around his thighs. The same sensation of growth surged through him, his quads and hamstrings expanding, hardening, becoming thicker, stronger.

Marco’s hands trembled as he pulled the suit up over his hips, feeling the snug embrace of the material. He slipped his arms into the sleeves, and as the suit enveloped his torso, a wave of heat exploded through his chest and back.

He watched in awe as his pecs rose, filling out, becoming solid and powerful, each muscle now perfectly defined. His shoulders broadened, the suit tightening around them, forcing them to grow, to harden, until they were as strong as stone.

His arousal surged as he ran his hands down to the calves and then up to the chest, pressing his palm against the sculpted abdomen. It felt perfect—hard, tight, like a muscular man was inside.

Eyes closed, he traced his hands over the biceps and around to the triceps, savoring every sensation.

“You shouldn’t have touched that.”

The thief spun around. An old man stood in the hallway, his silver hair gleaming in the dim light. On his right hand, a tarnished silver ring caught the faint glow, intricate symbols etched into its surface.

His eyes, sharp and full of something the thief couldn’t quite place, bore into him. The air between them crackled with tension.

“This is your treasure, old man?” the thief sneered, masking the tremor in his voice.

The old man stepped forward, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Treasure? No… it’s a curse. You should strip it off and leave while you still can. That suit… The Corpus Noctem… was never meant to be worn by anyone who values their soul.”

The thief chuckled darkly, reveling in the waves of pleasure and power coursing through him as the suit clung tighter, molding to his body like a second skin. “You’re just trying to scare me. It’s mine now.”

But then, something shifted. The warmth he’d felt before began to change, becoming suffocating, as though the suit itself was tightening around him, digging deeper into his flesh.

The initial rush of pleasure twisted into something unbearable, a heat that clawed at him from within.

His chest heaved as panic seized him. “What… what is happening?”

The old man’s gaze was steely, his voice soft yet filled with grim satisfaction. “You wanted to own the suit, to wield its power. But now, it owns you.”

The thief’s hands flew to the suit, trying to rip it off, but the material wouldn’t budge. Panic clawed at him as he realized the truth—this wasn’t just a myth or legend. This was real, and he had fallen for its trap.

“The suit was crafted centuries ago,” the old man continued, his voice soft yet laden with dark knowledge. “A coven of sorcerers, desperate for immortality, summoned an ancient demon—the Harrower of Flesh—who bound its essence into the hollow skin of a man, creating the Corpus Noctem. Whoever wore it would gain eternal youth and beauty, but at a cost: for each year they lived, they’d need to drain another’s essence, leaving behind a lifeless skinsuit. To bypass this, the wearer must cloak themselves in the flesh of another soul—only by donning this skin over the Corpus Noctem can one remain whole.”

The thief’s vision blurred as the suit constricted around him, merging deeper into his skin. His body tingled with a sensation that was equal parts pleasure and terror. It felt as if the suit were feeding on him, consuming his very essence.

The old man’s frail form shifted, and with deliberate slowness, he raised his hands to his face. He pulled it off, revealing a lifelike mask, and beneath it, a strikingly youthful, handsome face emerged—features sharp, jawline strong, eyes dark and piercing. Smirking, he removed his clothes piece by piece, casting off the disguise of age.

As the last layer fell, the old, fragile illusion was gone, replaced by a chiseled, muscular figure that looked as if it had been carved from marble. His back straightened, shoulders broad, and every inch of him radiated a powerful, youthful energy.

“You see, I was once like you,” the man said, his voice now rich and powerful. “I, too, was lured by the suit’s promises. But unlike you, I learned its secrets and made it my own. I’ve lived for centuries, wearing this skin, draining life from those foolish enough to fall into its grasp.”

The thief stumbled back, his body no longer his own. The suit tightened again, and he felt his skin loosen, as if separating from his bones, becoming pliable and empty. He was now little more than an outer shell waiting to be filled.

“You’ll be perfect,” the man murmured with a predatory smile. “I’ve been needing a new face. And your body… it will serve me well.”

The man reached down, his fingers trailing over the thief’s hollowed form, savoring the warmth and fresh pliability. He lifted the emptied skin carefully, feeling its readiness to be inhabited. Pausing, he slid a tarnished silver ring from his finger and set it gently on the floor beside him, a faint smile crossing his lips, as if the gesture held private, ritualistic meaning.

With a sigh of satisfaction, he began donning the suit, the thief’s former identity slipping over him like a glove. The skin conformed to him, tightening and sealing with a sensation that sent shivers through him—a seductive merging of flesh and power.

He ran his hands over his new form, relishing the strength beneath his fingers. This body was everything he’d hoped for—youthful, strong, and ready to endure another century. He reached down, rubbing his hands over Marco's abs, feeling the muscles tense beneath his touch. His hands drifted lower, gripping Marco's cock, heat radiating from it. Wrapping his hand around the shaft, he began to stroke.

“Do you like it?” he asked himself with a smile.

He began to laugh as he continued stroking, feeling Marco grow harder. On the verge of climax, he still sensed remnants of Marco's essence, and his smile grew even wider. Reaching up, he massaged his new face.

But he wasn’t done. He turned to the Corpus Noctem, lying on the floor like a crimson shadow. With practiced ease, he slipped it on, layer by layer, feeling it fuse with his stolen body, amplifying his strength, fortifying every fiber. The suit melded seamlessly, completing his transformation.

Reaching down, he retrieved the silver ring from the floor and slid it back onto his finger, a final touch that signified the bond. He looked into the grand mirror, admiring the flawless reflection. Turning sharply, he traced a hand along his new jawline, savoring the unfamiliar yet perfectly familiar contours. The face of a man he had consumed, a youth he had stolen, now belonged to him entirely.

With a slow exhale, he ran his hands over his abs, savoring each hard, sculpted ridge beneath his fingertips. The suit hugged every contour perfectly, every muscle honed, every line exact.

“Magnificent,” he whispered, his voice low with satisfaction, echoing through the empty hall like a dark promise. Only his faint laughter remained, drifting through Villa Tenebra’s silent halls, waiting for the next soul to fall prey to the Corpus Noctem.

--- ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ---

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#male bodysuit #male body transformation #male body suit #male skinsuit #male body swap #male bodyswap #male transformation #male shapeshift #male disguise #male impersonation

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bagelfyre · 5 days ago

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Deep in the heart of the human lands, past the walls no Fae have crossed in centuries, tucked away in the royal gardens of one kingdom, lies a statue.

A relic from many generations ago, it has survived remarkably well. They— the studious groundskeepers and few nobles who come upon it— say that little is known about the curious monument with no known names or titles. Most suspect it to be a statement to the near-immortal race the humans had fought and won their freedom from in the War. Some even boasting that they knew it to be stolen from the Fae before the Wall went up. A trophy with a message carved into the stone should those cursed creatures ever set sight upon it again.

But it was none of those things.

A secret commission by Queen Andromache shortly after returning home from victory, the task went largely unnoticed during the extensive reconstruction period in the kingdom. Only she knew what her intent behind the memorial had been and only one other could ever understand— was the only one who ever had.

When choosing what words, if any, should be engraved, many titles came to mind: warrior, ally, queen in her own right, ambassador, friend, love. They all fit, but none encompassed her unresolved feelings or the person at the root of them.

So these words spilled forth as a silent-yet-defiant declaration to the world (to her) and a reassurance to herself as the years passed.

Maybe she wasn’t blessed or cursed with immortality, but this… this memory will remain.

@morweekofficial

#if Sarah Janet can have Feyre call their language ENGLISH WITH NO EXPLANATION FOR THAT #or have leggings #I can put Sappho poetry in Prythian/theContinent #SO THERE #day 829394: help #I don’t even know if this is legible atp #it’s so late I’m so sorry 😭#day 7: free #????#morweek2024 #mor week 2024 #acotar #mor acotar #acotar theory #acotar art #acotar fanart #The Morrigan From The War™#follow me on wattpad ig

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cosmicsevils · 2 months ago

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Luis fascinates the HELL out of me - he's both a relic and a survivor !

As someone who studies European history from the Reformation to Italy to the Spanish Inquisition (which was awful T-T), Luis as a character fascinates me, just as much as Valdelobos. Luis is in a sense, a relic. A person whom, until he left Valdelobos, was connected to centuries of deep culture that had not changed for hundreds of years. Valdelobos was a Catholic town at first, and they still recognize their Castllians as leaders over that of the modern world. Again, as a history geek, Valdelobos was probably pre Vatican II, in short, Luis can probably speak Latin as well. Luis, was not a normal Catholic. Luis' catholicism was very much like what we saw in Medieval times. And also, his form of Spanish.

In Spain, they do not speak the same dialect of Spanish as they do in other places in Latin America. Luis probably speaks Castillian Spanish, which is the European dialect of Spanish, that is not mixed with Indigenous languages or anything of the sort. Because that Spanish existed pre colonization of the Americas. But it gets even CRAZIER with Luis, because even the dialect of Spanish spoken in Spain today, would probably be much different from the dialect spoke in Valdelobos because they are isolated. They probably speak a less modern version of Spanish, probably still tied to the 1600rds.

Meaning that, aside from knowing English and Latin, Luis probably also knows various dialects of Spanish. He knows various dialects of Castillian spanish, he also has to LEARN how to speak Spanish when he got to the states so that people, who are of Latin American origin could understand him.

Luis is a relic, because he exists in various time periods. He exists in a town that is probably stuck somewhere between the 1500rds - 1700rds, yes like Tudor times! A town that was probably very much involved in European events and a town that has not grown past that. He exists in a town where an ancient dialect of Spanish was spoken , and where a very different form of Catholicism existed so that Luis learned Latin growing up because he had to so he could say his prayers. But he left ALL of that behind and modernized himself.

And he did it so well to the point where he easily passed for someone stuck in Valdelobos that doesn't belong there. He literally just looks like some guy when we meet him. When Leon sees him, you can't tell that this man is not really different from the cattle farmers who still speak in ancient languages, or who might not even know what a cell phone is, or who are hundred years behind. You don't know that Luis was at a point, disconnected like they were. He is literally just some guy. We don't even learn about how hard it was for him to adjust to this new life, but how he mastered it!!

A whole game, no a whole nOVEL could be made off of him.

anyway i refuse to believe he is dead lol. this man didn't survive cultural shock, being a relic, being exposed to new cultures, new ideas, etc., just to be killed by krauser lmaoooo

#luis sera #luis serra navarro #luis sera navarro #resident evil #re 4 #re 4 remake #resident evil 4 remake #i am also obsessed with spanish medieval - renissance history and valdelobos fits into that kinda #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy

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goblins-riddles-or-frocks · 2 months ago

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If fighting vampire nazis, gore and guns wasn’t the focus of hellsing, what do you think the actual plot/main conflict could have been? I came across a post where you said alucard is wasted potential so … what kind of plot would show his potential? Also, what kind of a character arc do you think he should have had in a better and more thoughtfully plotted hellsing

Well I wouldn’t say the story isn’t thoughtfully plotted out :C

Like yes, it’s an over the top, campy, gorefest that makes no sense, but it succeeds in what it’s trying to do basically. I think it is genuinely, astonishingly good in a few ways. Hirano is fantastic at pacing and using his panels to give the impression he wants— when he bothers. And it’s surprisingly sound when it comes to structure and thematic motifs? The external plot is bonkers, but the way it handles these characters dealing with/being consumed by their pasts, and the way it uses vampirism/monstrosity as a metaphor is really solid.

Hellsing’s main thematic argument is one of comparing monstrosity and humanity, and pitting them against each other.

All the relevant monsters in Hellsing are presented to be unmoored, destructive, and unable to cope with the present in a meaningful way. They are defined by being incapable of moving beyond their pasts, so they seek out as much destruction as they can until they finally find something that can destroy them in turn. (This is consistent throughout the series but most clearly stated in volume 9)

All the monsters presented in Hellsing grapple with the inability to move on. Explicitly, Millennium’s entire raison d’être is bringing about a final “glorious” war they can die in because the modern world has no place for them anymore. They fight with fucking zeppelins. They’re relics.

Seras’ fight with Zorin hinges on a flashback, digging up all the trauma she never confronted. Walter and Alucard’s final battle is entirely about their history, and it has both of them looking like they did during the Dawn era.

Meanwhile, when Anderson uses the Nail of Helena (directly following the unraveling of Iscariot, and the death of Maxwell, who may as well have been his son), that is him refusing to cope. That is what drives him to monstrosity, to self destruction. That’s why he dies.

And Alucard, as the de facto protagonist, has spent the entire plot with the single motive of finding someone worthwhile to defeat him. He has no personal motivations outside of doing whatever Integra/Hellsing tells him to, and just… killing things for the love of the game until he eventually, finally dies. And his past hangs heaviest on the series. The entire present state of the series basically hinges on the shit he did as Dracula. The one thing we know about this guy is that if he could, he would very much like to die while killing things lol.

Anderson is meanwhile his main foil and most strongly represents the past/the siren song of death to him. He’s suspiciously similar in appearance to Van Helsing in the Bela Lugosi movie (despite Van Helsing looking different in the series itself) Meanwhile each encounter with him is immediately followed by a flashback, and then in that final fight Alucard ends up confronting his past human life.

And he almost gives up during that last fight, until Seras (a representation of the present and future) rouses him out of it. That’s his first real choice to move on. But it’s also established that eventually his past is going to catch up to him, and outweigh his future. It’s treated as a foregone conclusion, even if he’s not to that point yet.

So the Schrodinger thing at the end is really interesting. Because bullshit anime logic or not, the point is that he explicitly has to kill every single familiar he’s accumulated over the centuries, in order to exist in the present. Even then he’s “everywhere and nowhere” (lmao. whatever) which basically gives him the option to fizzle out of existence? So the epilogue existing at all, despite my various annoyances with its writing choices, is an interesting culmination of his arc! He chose to come back to his silly little found family when he really didn’t have to! I like that as an arc.

And in any sort of restructure I would want that preserved, even if the entire plot isn’t conveyed through boss battles. Anyway I’ve said for ages that I would want a monster of the week version of the series, so probs something like that.

Something with like the BTVS (or Supernatural lol) classic structure of small fry enemies per episode that culminate in a season arc/big bad. The ideal tonal and stylistic comparison would be X Files, but their overarching narratives famously sucked lol. Anyway I just would’ve liked a procedural vibe like that. I think the implications of Integra taking over the Badrick situation in the first volume is really interesting. And Seras being a police officer who was super not in the know— when higher ranking people are— was something that could’ve been explored in much more depth. I would’ve loved to see her as a recurring character in their like procedural episodes who keeps brushing up against this weird paranormal leaning stuff she doesn’t understand, until she finally gets involved in something that goes wrong and has to be turned into a vampire (ostensibly to save her life… but maybe to keep her quiet)

I also would love more intra organization drama that doesn’t result in immediate blood shed lol. We’re told that Iscariot and Hellsing have clearly mapped out jurisdictions based on majority religion, and treaties and diplomatic relationships, however strained. Maxwell going “fuck your treaties” is apparently a new thing, so like how does that go! What are the repercussions! What brought this on! And like are there any other similar organizations abroad? Are there team ups? I would like there to be team ups.

Meanwhile the existence of the round table implies that… the entire UK government.. is a sham? That they’re actually living in a secret feudal society? I want to know about the families and the politics and the very likely cartoonish degrees of corruption! The original Studio Gonzo show, very poorly, implemented a plotline where Hellsing became too much of a liability and the Queen specifically decided (lol) to have them publicly labeled as a terrorist organization and arrest everyone involved, pretending that they never had any government ties. That was fun! I would like a good version.

Or like it’s set in the 90s, let’s talk about how much harder it’s going to be to keep the supernatural quiet with the rise of technology, and the Internet. Like idk there’s room for a lot! I would basically just love to see a more sprawling version of this story and world.

My main issue with Alucard also is just that he’s so overpowered physically, that it seems like a waste to always put him in fights where he is 100% no question going to win. Putting him on a ship because the plot simply wouldn’t happen if he was there is 😭😭😭 I think we can have some boss battles, gore, and body horror, bc that is fun. But he just needs more restraints. I’d put more focus on him answering to Integra, who in turn answers to the slow moving machine that is bureaucracy, and just not let him do as much, and with severe consequences if he gets too out of line to maintain some stakes. Meanwhile, having a more mystery procedural approach would’ve balanced things out a bit more imo!

#hellsing #hellsing ultimate #long post #i ramble sometimes #all the bendy punctuations #a mysterious stranger has appeared #meta

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redjademilktea · 9 months ago

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Okay one of the few times that whole "PhD student in history" thing is going to be relevant to anything I post here but last night's C3 episode has me feeling some sort of wayyyyy.

Specifically the part where they found those incredibly ancient elven ruins within the cave they were exploring. After barely escaping near-death, and Laudna fresh from deliberately channeling the darkness within her, they stumble across these ruins. Deep within a dark cave where they sought refuge from the harsh storms that plague the unforgiving Ruidian surface. Geodes full of sharp and jagged crystal jut out from the walls of cold, ancient rock. A river coming from some unknown source pouring into a rushing waterfall, leading away further into the depths. Matt did a phenomenal job painting the scene.

There, in those ruins - in that tomb, that crypt - they run across a hauntingly serene sight. Bones from the presumable inhabitants are crushed into the walls, unmoving. Frozen. Sharing the same space in a wonderful, striking, tragic, serendipitous juxtaposition is an enchanted garden. There, in the derelict remains of this once-vibrant space, the vestiges of that past life hold strong. A small bastion of life and healing amidst the monument of death and destruction.

It's within this space of dizzying contrast - air thick with the practically tangible weight of past tragedies - that Laudna finds a doll. A simple doll, devoid of features beyond the bare minimum that helps identify it. A toy, a companion? A relic of some child from so long ago. Laudna likes dolls. She decides - after asking permission - to keep it.

Now within her possession is a ghost. Not a literal ghost, mind you, considering those are in fact a very literal thing in the world Laudna lives in, but a ghost all the same. Through that doll, a child from untold centuries before is reaching, grasping at Laudna. This child, whose entire life, history, and experienced are lost to time - trapped in the past - has managed to pierce that temporal barrier and make themselves known to her.

In addition to this framing of a ghost, the doll can represent another type of haunting. That of a reencounter. Through this doll, this mundane object that often is filed away under the folder of insignificance, Laudna is confronted with the complicated web of violence, trauma, and grief that wraps around both her and the space around her. Laudna loves children. She has a childlike innocence that constantly bubbles at the surface. Yet beneath that is 30 years of unfathomable pain and loneliness.

Laudna, much like the ruins, is at times also frozen. Both physically in her unaging visage and mentally in the way she seems to revert in response to intense trauma.

So, within the confines of this long-forgotten space, the woman who just hours before channelled 30 years of darkness, anger, and hurt into a spell that served to strengthen her tormentor, picked up a doll. A doll that in so many ways symbolizes the innocence and joy that Laudna embodies, surrounded by tragedy.

It was such a beautifully haunting scene.

**If folks are interested, I am referencing the wonderful works of Avery Gordon in her book Ghostly Matters (1997) and Crystal Baik in her book Reencounters: On the Korean War and Diasporic Memory Critique (2019)**

#critical role #cr spoilers #Laudna #c3e85 #okay I kinda got carried away here #but those ruins just GRABBED me #i'm with imogen i live there now

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toodelusionalforreality · 27 days ago

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Azriel x OC | Chapter 6

History

Both his brothers are mated. Both his brothers are happily in love. But after five centuries of rejection, Azriel doesn’t hope for such luxury in his life. When he meets the bar owner who is too mysterious even for the spymaster to decipher, his intrigue turns into more. Lines between mystery and secret blur. The closer he gets to her, the more his instincts warn him to stay away.

Previous Chapter: Relic

Word count: ~4.0k Warning: None [not enough editing/formatting]

A/N: This is an experimental piece of work. I'm testing a writing style, so feedback is welcome. This is a fuck-it version as my brain doesn't seem to be working right now.

Since Nyx was born, House of Wind lay empty most days and nights. Azriel preferred his old room still, for the familiar privacy, for only the skies, the winds, and the moon to keep him company. But at times like these, when the laughter of his family filled the house and his brothers pretended to be better than an infant, he didn’t mind the city after all.

Despite the constant ruckus, he welcomed this distraction, especially after what he had done two nights prior. Ayla, for some reason, had trusted him and he ruined the first chance he had with her. She had offered him her kindness and in return, he proved her he was deserving of everything vile and cruel in the world. Every blessed moment they shared, Azriel tainted it by forcing himself onto her.

He had hoped Ayla would ask him to stay, or at the very worst, threaten him again. Instead, she stared at him. She stared at him like her entire being wasn’t consumed with desire as his, like it was one of those meaningless kisses she granted other men she took to her bed. How the light in her eyes flickered out, he couldn��t erase it from his mind. Nor the taste of her lips, or how his own tingled hours after he returned home.

Guilty as he was, Azriel was more ashamed for not regretting the kiss he stole from her.

‘I know how to hold my son,’ hissed Rhys. He walked back and forth, cradling his child in his arms, round the sofa for the fifth time in the past fifteen minutes.

Nyx loved to torment his father whose perpetual cockiness crumbled under the pressures of parenthood, and Azriel loved him for it. He leaned against the window frame and kept out of the way, for offering advice only made Rhys lose his mind.

But Cass was oblivious to this sentiment. He reached to take Nyx into his embrace. When his calloused fingers scraped against the tender wings, Azriel winced. Add it to their natural sensitivity and they had a crying babe in their arms. Literally. The tiny wings posed a greater hindrance with their involuntary flexing than the three brothers imagined them to be. Though they understood the plight as Illyrians, they were equally pathetic when it came to a suitable remedy.

Cass backed a step, his hands in the air. It wasn’t his first ordeal facing the wrath of the new parents, yet his biggest challenge was the fervour of their outbursts. Some days, Feyre threw everyone out of the room, and on the others—well, once Nyx’s talon clawed into the wood of the cradle, and Rhys bawled while all his child did was stir in his sleep.

A tendril of shadow tickled the babe’s nose before rising to whirl above his head. Fragile silence settled in the room as Nyx watched, his blue eyes wide and filled with wonder.

‘You can’t keep doing that,’ said Cass through his teeth.

Azriel grinned. ‘It’s not my fault he likes me better.’

‘If I did parlour tricks, he’d like me too.’

His tricks include getting piss drunk and fucking Nesta, said Rhys in his mind and Azriel snickered.

Cass looked between them. ‘What did he say?’ He asked Azriel before grunting at Rhys, ‘Tell it to my face, you coward.’

‘You’re making him antsy,’ warned Azriel quietly.

It was too late. Nyx’s lips trembled on cue as though he knew to milk their predicament to his advantage. Rhys’s spawn indeed. With a nervous smile, Cass took a step towards him wagging his finger in the air. But the wails grew louder.

Shadows rushed back seeking the quiet around Azriel.

When the doors flung open, Cass took three steps back. But Feyre’s eyes were only on her child—one touch from her and Nyx babbled like a portrait of innocence tugging at her shirt. Nesta walked in with a smirk on her lips, knowing well the cause of distress, and with Mor in her tow.

Slumping into the chair next to the fireplace, Rhys draped an arm over his eyes. ‘I’m learning to respect my mother more. No wonder she bit our heads off as much as she did.’

‘I swear,’ grumbled Cass as he sat across him, ‘if you’re making him do it—’

Rhys peeked over his arm, anger darkening his eyes. ‘Why would I make my son cry?’

As the two bickered, Nyx laughed at his accomplishment, convincing Azriel he might have inherited more than his father’s theatrics.

Feyre chuckled and rocked her babe in her arms. ‘You lasted an hour. You’re making progress.’

Rhys shot a glare at Cass. ‘I would’ve lasted longer if not for a moron.’

‘I’m sure she was talking to Nyx,’ said Azriel.

Sensing the attention slipping from his pudgy fingers, Nyx spewed more gibberish. Mor let out a gasp and leaned over him, matching him with her own nonsense. But, he reached for Nesta instead.

Mor placed her hands on her hips and turned to her cousin. Her blond hair whipped dangerously in the air. ‘How does he not find me adorable?’

Rhys grinned. ‘Clearly, my son has standards.’

Nyx snuggled against Nesta’s chest and grasped at the wisps of shadows that deigned safe to approach him again. Mor smirked, ‘Well, clearly. He prefers Az over you.’

A dark power enveloped the corners of the room swallowing the light and warmth from the hearth.

‘Not funny now, are we?’

When Mor made a grab for Nyx’s hand in the air, he squirmed away. Amusement replaced the jealousy in Rhys’s eyes. ‘If only you could hear what he thinks of you.’

‘He thinks of me already! He likes me.’

While the rest of his family flocked wherever the babe was, Azriel always found a corner for himself. And Feyre seemed to notice. ‘He really likes his Uncle Az.’

‘More like Uncle Ass,’ grumbled Cass, still sore from the rejection, earning a glare from both parents.

‘You still won’t hold him?’ Feyre asked with a softness that bordered on pity.

In the beginning, it was easy to make excuses blaming it on the care needed from a mother, or on his tender body. With months passed and everyone grown comfortable with handling a babe, it became clearer that Azriel stayed away the most. And somehow, Nyx was fascinated by him the more he distanced himself. It couldn’t be his shadows for Rhys was the night sky incarnate, or perhaps Nyx sensed a familiar darkness in them.

‘I did when Rhys—I did,’ he sighed offering a smile, however strained it was.

Mischief lurked in Feyre’s eyes as she walked over, ‘You better begin your training now,’ and looped a hand through his arm, ‘You might not have time to prepare.’

Azriel choked. Him with a babe? He had hardly spent minutes with Ayla. Besides, he forbade himself from indulging in such fantasies. He did once and suffered the consequences for centuries. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. With Ayla, it would be different. It had to be different.

The sisters’ laughter worsened the heat rising up his neck. His eyes shifted, darting to look anywhere but their faces, and he caught the glance shared between Mor and Rhys.

Cass swivelled in the chair, ‘What about us? Nes and I are still ahead of him.’

Nesta went rigid. Feyre looked to her mate for help who merely grinned instead. Fortunately for her, Nyx yawned and she rushed to him. ‘I should take him to bed.’

Mor stomped over to the couch, ‘You owe me a night, Feyre.’ She pulled Cass to his feet and held onto his hand. ‘You all do. I’m leaving at dawn again and who knows when I’ll be back.’

Right, Vallahan teased her for months with the prospects of a successful alliance, only to test her patience.

‘I’ll stay with him,’ Nesta said quietly, tearing her eyes away from her mate. Cass only shook his head with a dramatic sigh but he didn’t argue or pull away from Mor.

Feyre and Rhys were silent for a while staring at each other, Azriel assumed, arguing over who got the honour to care for their son. Finally, she said, ‘Elain said something about pruning before sunrise. She won’t mind watching him.’

It was then Azriel realised the third sister hadn’t joined them since dinner.

Mor slowed as she took in her surroundings, a frown tugging her lips. ‘I thought we were going to Rita’s.’

‘After last time,’ Rhys shared a secret smile with Cass, ‘they’ll appreciate not seeing us for a while.’

Azriel didn’t know what trouble his brothers had stirred this time, but he resisted his words as he followed them down the cobblestone path he knew all too well. Without sparing even a courteous look at him, his family entered Pharus and went to his usual table as though it hadn’t been their plan all along, as though his mate wasn’t sitting on the dais right in front of him.

Ayla was alone that night. She strummed a tune on her lute, and at the first sound from her lips, every conversation died in the room, every patron straining to listen to her instead.

Pretty things that did pretty things.

Azriel was convinced he had learnt everything about her from his secret visits. But every time he met her, Ayla surprised him. What else could she do? Who was she beneath the stories he had gathered those months? He couldn’t tell if they were careless gossip from his server or curated tales from her loyal friend anymore.

Her fingers fluttered along the strings, light and nimble, every note a perfection. With each delicate stroke, her body moved with the music like she couldn’t hold back, and as she did, her hair swayed too, teasing the corner of her smile.

One day, Azriel imagined, he would take her in his arms and brush those treacherous strands away. His heart tightened at the vision—the intimacy of being so close to her, to touch her so gently, to reveal her beautiful face to him inch by inch.

If only he had used his mind for once instead of acting like a lustful prick.

Ayla had laughed for him. She had shown him a side of her that only a few were privileged to witness. She had extended a ray of hope with her truths, and he snuffed it out with one kiss.

When the fog of guilt and shame cleared later that night, Azriel realised he had failed once again. For each of his questions resolved, plenty more arose. How did she end up in Velaris? What of her family? With Hamra safe and away, was Ayla safe from the mystery woman too? If he had another chance, he might coax some answers from her without her games. But she wouldn’t let him close to her again, let alone trust him.

In a twisted way, he wasn’t surprised. When had he ever made right when it came to love?

Azriel almost laughed. He was mated to Ayla. He didn’t love her. He couldn’t, not yet. He wasn’t sure he knew what love was. His half-brothers had ripped his heart away when he was a boy, long before he learnt what the word meant. All his life, he only ever ‘loved’ one woman and she rejected him. She chose his brother over him for she saw what lurked under the surface, recognised what he was—a shroud disguising the darkness within.

Now his mate, would she reject him too if she knew the true scars deep under his skin?

Ayla took a breath between verses, and he shuddered. Her voice reeled him out of his fears. The weight in his chest loosened its grip with her every word, yet Azriel held onto the ache. What was he without his burdens? What could he be without this longing?

Slowly, as her song came to an end, his swirling thoughts settled too. For long minutes, not one spoke. Silence embraced the void her voice left behind.

Feyre and Cass looked away first, then Mor. When a gasp escaped Nesta, everyone turned to her, except Rhys. Silver sparkled in her eyes beneath the unshed tears as she clutched her chest. Cass spoke her name but her eyes remained on Ayla who padded down the steps. It was only when he placed a hand on her thigh, that she met his gaze with a smile.

His shadows awoke from their trance too. They slithered up his neck and chanted Ayla’s name in his ears. But Azriel’s attention was elsewhere. As conversations came alive and servers went around the room, Rhys watched Ayla. When she stopped in front of her office and talked to a female among a band of four, his violet eyes shone bright.

‘Rhys.’ Azriel called, interrupting him had he chosen to invade his mate’s mind again. Still, his brother didn’t tear his eyes away from her.

A frown creased between his brows before Rhys blinked. He turned to Feyre first—it had been she who pulled him out of his reverie—and then, Azriel. Neither of them spoke, aloud or in their minds. But a tension lingered in their stares. Feyre ran her palm down his arm and it brought a smile to his lips. He looked away first.

With the risk of other courts seeking someone from Velaris, Rhys was bound to get involved sooner or later. With the fae gone, he would have nothing to focus on except Ayla. And so, Azriel kept Hamra’s whereabouts to himself. As far as his brother was concerned, she was hiding somewhere in the city.

The faerie bowed her head and apologised, holding Ayla’s hand in hers, her cheeks flushing red, while her companions set up on the podium. Ayla nodded with a gentle smile—ever so gracious. She blinked and her eyes pinned on Azriel as though she’d expected to find him there, and his breath caught in his throat.

Once the faerie left, she went to the bar.

‘Come with me.’ Nesta dragged him along before he had the chance to protest, and he swore his shadows aided her. She perched on a stool at one end of the counter, close to the office, making it impossible for Ayla to leave the room without walking past.

It was Raya who approached them though. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Could she serve us?’ Nesta glanced at Ayla. ‘She made me a drink last time and it was delicious, but I can’t remember its name. We were hoping she’d make it for us again.’ With her smile so earnest even Azriel found himself convinced.

Raya cut him a glare but spoke to Nesta, ‘Tell me how it looked. I’ll make it for you.’

‘I’ll take care of them,’ said Ayla softly, not looking up from the drinks she stacked on a tray. While Raya began to protest, Uri urged her with his eyes, then picked up the tray and waded through the crowded tables.

Watching the defeated bartender shuffle to the other end, Nesta remarked. ‘I thought they liked you here.’

‘Not anymore.’ He ignored her expecting gaze and sat beside her.

No one was privy to what had transpired between him and Ayla, and he preferred it that way. When his family meddled, she seemed to slip away from him.

Minutes passed. She catered to every patron at the counter, ignoring him and Nesta, including the ones who came after them. Azriel glimpsed over his shoulder and found the glasses empty at their table. Cass hollered to Uri, yet the server turned around and talked to a couple who sneaked wary peeks at the ridiculous male waving his arm in the air.

Azriel smiled at his mate. Keeping liquor from his family was one, and very efficient, way to encourage them to leave the bar.

At last, with no one else left to tend to, Ayla turned their way though she refused to meet his gaze. ‘What would you like to drink?’

‘You have a beautiful voice,’ said Nesta, her words whispered with a touch of awe.

‘Thank you,’ smiled Ayla. She stared for a moment and then blinked twice. ‘You sound good too.’

Nesta sucked in a breath. Compliments weren't meant for her. Everything she did was expected and never deemed worthy of praise. As though remembering her manners, she dipped her chin in a graceful nod.

‘How often do you sing?’ She inhaled sharply, ‘I mean, if I wish to listen to you again, when is it likely for it to happen, again?’

‘You can request to my bartender or the servers. If I’m here, they shall let me know.’

So, Azriel hadn’t been special. Yet, seeing her offer kindness to his friend without hesitation was endearing. Nesta pursed her lips as Cass came to stand beside him. The scent of citrus smothered him before Mor wedged herself between the two and wrapped an arm around him. ‘What are we having?’

Shadows scattered back to his wings. Azriel shifted in his seat, the hold on his shoulder growing unbearably heavy with each passing second. He peeked at Ayla but her focus remained on the glasses she was readying for them.

‘Not the one from the other night,’ Mor leaned over the counter and spied the ingredients she mixed. ‘I still haven’t forgiven you for that.’

Ayla offered the first drink to Nesta. ‘I don’t remember apologising. But, alright.’

Azriel shook with silent laughter and his shadows skittered down his arms. Mother, how had he gone two whole days apart from her?

‘Don’t worry about her. It’s easy to get into her good graces.’ Cass snorted, earning a vicious glare from Mor, but she soon smiled brightly when Ayla served her. ‘Just don’t take her wine from her.’

‘And why would I want to be in your graces?’

A laugh escaped Azriel. When he looked up, none of his friends were laughing with him, they only watched.

‘So,’ drawled Mor, ‘what do you think of our Az?’ Her arm tightened over his shoulder as she pressed closer.

Azriel glared at his brother silently cursing him for unleashing their disaster of a friend.

The next drink was for Cass. Ayla poured another four and began setting them on a tray, ‘I don’t know enough about your Az to make a judgement.’

His name rolled off her tongue in a smooth caress. Blood rushed to his face, and between his legs.

‘Would you like to know enough?’

Azriel whirled to his other side where Nesta sat wearing a smirk. Why did they leave Rhys and Feyre behind? Why didn't they bring the whole entourage and embarrass him in front of his mate?

But then, Ayla said, ‘He can ask that himself.’

Ask, his shadows urged. Ask. The words merged and weaved until all he heard were incoherent whispers. Ask.

Azriel was never at a loss for words, he simply chose not to say them aloud. But with her, he often found himself speechless. Nesta nudged him with her knee, a reminder that he still hadn’t spoken. He cleared his throat, and his friends had the decency to scramble. Cass ruffled his hair, making him hiss under his breath, before he and Mor wandered back to their table.

Nesta made to leave as well, watching them for a breath before staring into her drink. Almost a year had passed since she accepted them as family, yet she felt no less an outsider.

Ayla noticed Nesta’s hesitation and watched the two once they joined Rhys and Feyre. Laughter erupted, drinks flowed, and their eyes often drifted to Azriel.

‘You should dance,’ said Ayla. Nesta’s eyes snapped to her as she watched the ones swaying in front of the dais with a smile. ‘The band loves when people do.’ Right then, Uri appeared behind them with his usual smile and she nodded at him, ‘If you’re shy.’

How she knew about his friend or the server materialised at that very moment was a mystery.

While Nesta sat contemplating the offer, Ayla set a drink for him. ‘You two have a history.’

She was looking past him, where his family was, and Azriel knew who she meant.

A glass shattered across the bar, and Raya darted to the kitchen mumbling about needing a broom, although the smirk on her face was unmistakable.

Nesta choked on her drink. She quickly got to her feet and patted him on the back, ‘Don’t ruin it,’ as walked away with Uri.

Alone at long last, free from prying patrons and his meddlesome family and her vigilant friends. Yet, Azriel felt no relief. His shadows retreated behind him, barely peeking over his shoulders. Now that he was in a bind, they were silent as the dead.

‘Do you regret it?’ she asked quietly.

All night, Ayla wouldn’t meet his gaze, and now it dawned on him—she believed he regretted the kiss he’d dreamed of for months, his one true glimpse of boundless happiness in ages. And with Mor acting like Mor. . .Azriel couldn’t breathe.

‘I don’t.’ Her words nearly drowned in the chaos around them as she fussed with empty glasses on the counter. ‘Although I’d prefer you didn’t run away next time.’

His shadows fluttered around him, emboldened by her admission. Azriel let out a shuddering breath, the need to explain the past tightened in his chest. ‘It’s not how you think,’ he began. What were he and Mor if they were barely friends in name? What remained to say when nothing had existed between them? Instead, he settled on, ‘It was a long time ago.’

Her face was bare and calm. ‘How many long times ago are there?’

When he thought it couldn’t get worse, it did. It wasn’t a conversation he was willing to have with his mate in a bar, with his family undoubtedly listening in on them.

‘Two.’ His shadows hissed in his ears and sank behind him again.

Ayla took a slow breath. ‘And not long times ago?’

She pressed her lips together and they quivered.

Azriel was a fool—an absolute, blind fool.

‘Well?’ She finally looked at him. The light in her eyes returned, brighter than ever. ‘That many, huh? How about in the past century?’

Azriel held in his smile.

Her eyes widened as Ayla faked a gasp. ‘How about the last fourteen months?’

Fourteen months ago, Azriel walked into Pharus for the first time, he saw his mate for the first time, he saw her smile for the first time. While he tortured himself with the misery of being invisible to her, she had remembered him.

Even the ones he called his friends didn’t know this part of him. And Ayla was unravelling him in mere seconds. A voice in his mind warned him to stop, to think, to run away. But he saw the grin on her face at his unease, the unbridled amusement on her face.

‘Eight,’ he said and waited for an insult but none came. ‘What about you?’

‘One.’

Azriel’s brows rose. He knew there were more—more than eight—male and female, none she invited again. His shadows had whispered so during his secret trysts, and that was before the bond snapped for him.

His mind refused to believe her, yet his craving heart did. For a sweet moment, he tasted relief, then she ruined it.

‘Doesn’t sound fair, does it? Perhaps, we should get even.’

Next Chapter: Sinner

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