#formal lucien west

[fortnite-headcanons]

The high stakes club are all in a loving poly relationship

Fortnite Headcanon #468

[lucilassie]

Her songs eased his pain. 🦇🐺

[separatist-apologist]

They Say I Did Something Bad

Then why's it feel so good?

Summary: Eris Vanserra is in the house

Chapter 3: They Love Me

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Read on AO3

for @sjmkinkmeme

The estate Lord Vanserra possessed was nothing like Elain imagined. She���d pictured some backwoods cabin half buried in the ground. In truth, it was a sprawling marble thing that looked as if it ought to belong to royalty. The sun glimmered off the stone, reflecting outwards in a rainbow of colors scattered over the hilly lawn. The inside was just as lovely, open and airy which Elain preferred. No heavy curtains obscured the natural light and the furniture was arranged in such a way to maximize that sunshine. Lucien left her bags with his staff, lined up outside his home to meet their new mistress. She’d never seen so many people responsible for maintaining one household and the sight reminded her that her home probably ought to have just as many people. They could not afford it.

It was why she was Lady Vanserra instead of Lady Archeron. Absently, Elain wondered if her father had already begun to rebuild his empire or if he had turned his gaze towards his other daughters, having had such good luck with her? 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Lucien murmured, gesturing towards his housekeeper. The woman was much younger than Elain had expected, and lovely to boot. Her blonde hair was twisted neatly against the nape of her neck, her blue dress modest despite the unusually warm autumn day. 

“Lady Vanserra,” his housekeeper murmured, glancing at the other staff. Lucien’s steward and butler trailed after him, likely interested in updating him on what had happened in his absence. “This way, if you don’t mind.”

The housekeeper was typically an older woman, someone in charge of the female staff of the house. This woman couldn’t have been five years older than Elain’s twenty-two. “My name is Arina.” Elain smiled. She needed allies here, if nothing else. Everything she knew about Lucien centered around making his body feel good. Here was a woman who likely had known him her whole life, who had grown up on this estate and risen quickly through the ranks because she’d proven herself trustworthy. Elain didn’t want to make an enemy of her.

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” Elain assured her, following her through the halls. 

“How is Velaris?” Arina asked, making small talk as they began the tour of the rather large estate. Lucien had not lied when he called it large.

“Unchanged, I’m certain,” Elain reassured Arina. “Please, tell me everything I need to know about…”

“The Forest House,” Arina supplied. “Absolutely.”

Elain didn’t expect this woman to tell her all of Lord Vanserra’s secrets. Arina, carrying a clipboard in her hand, seemed far too professional to risk making an enemy of the new Lady, besides. Instead, Arina walked Elain through a typical day in the house as she showed Elain all the most interesting places. A ballroom big enough to host at least two hundred guests, a formal and informal dining hall, depending on her preferences. A drawing room with a piano that led to the back gardens and even a library that would have made her eldest sister weep with satisfaction. 

As they walked, Arina introduced Elain to everyone, from laundresses to gardeners, Arina knew them all. Elain could not keep track of the names and wished they wore name tags, or, at least, she had thought to write them down. As they walked, Arina passed Lucien’s study where he already sat, peering at a stack of papers with studious interest. He didn’t look at her at all, even when she paused and came to the doorway. Arina kept a respectful distance and when it was clear Lucien had no intention of acknowledging her, Elain pressed on.

“Do you require anything?” Arina asked, only stopping once they reached Elain’s chambers in the west wing of the house. “Where does the lord reside?” she asked. Arina nodded.

“On the opposite end of the house, lady. The west had traditionally been the domain of Lady Vanserra. Would you like me to move your things to his suite?”

“No,” Elain assured her. “No, I just…I was merely curious.” “Of course. If you need anything from me, I am at your beck and call.”

Elain was unaware of just how truthful the words would prove to be. She did not see Lucien for a full three days in any true capacity. She walked past his office every day to find him working. He never acknowledged her and Elain, unsure what, if anything, he required of her, didn’t bother to intrude. Instead she became Arina’s constant shadow. Arina managed household expenses, among other things, and with no prodding at all, offered to let Elain see the ledgers. No one had ever let her so close to figures and yet Arina cheerfully declared it was Elain’s right to know how money was spent.

Arina took Elain to the nearby village on her second morning. “In truth, we probably should have asked the Lord to accompany you,” Arina admitted. “But he’s been gone so long, I imagine there is much to consider.” “He said he did not like this house,” Elain confided, wondering if it was wise to tell a servant a secret. In the city, household help was notorious  for gossiping , trading information like currency. Arina didn’t seem the type and still, Elain ought to have assumed she was, if only to protect her and her husband from scrutiny.

“I imagine not,” Arina interrupted Elains’ thoughts. “My mother was a housekeeper before me and I grew up in that house. The Duke was a cruel man, which I guess you must have realized and all his children were afraid of him. He brought them every winter for Christmas and departed each Spring. We were relieved when he passed the estate along to his son,” Arina added, her cheeks flushing. Elain wondered if Arina didn’t think him handsome. THe thought sparked the tiniest prick of jealousy in her chest.

“What was he like as a boy?” Elain couldn’t help but ask. Arina smiled.

“A menace. That’s what my mother used to say, anyway. You’ll forgive me for being so–”

“No need to apologize,” Elain assured her as they walked the dusty streets of the village market. Elain paused to examine a lovely bushel of red apples. “You can speak freely.”

Arina clearly did not believe that, if her narrowed green eyes were any indication. Still, Arina plucked a few coins from the pouch on her wrist so Elain could purchase what she liked. “He was wild. His mothers favorite. His father loathed him, of course—”

“Because he was her favorite?” Elain questioned. Arina’s brows knitted together. 

“They informed you so poorly. How did you meet Lord Vanserra?”

“It was arranged for me,” Elain admitted, placing five pretty apples in her basket. She was resolved to make Lucien a pie and draw him from his work, if only for a moment. “We did not meet before our wedding.”

A pretty lie but Arina did not need to know everything. Arina nodded, sighing softly. “There have always been rumors, though I think if the Duke could prove it, he would have banished his wife long ago. Lucien does not look like his father, don’t you think?”

“That is a blessing,” Elain was quick to retort. Arina nodded her agreement.

“Yes, everyone thinks so, just as they believe he is likely not Beron’s son at all. A bastard,” she added, as if Elain was too simple to understand.

“But his father claimed him,” Elain protested, strangely outraged on the exhausted-looking Lady Vanserra’s behalf. 

“Yes. To do otherwise was to admit his wife cuckolded him. I don’t think the Duke could bear the shame. He has always been particularly cruel to his youngest son, though, and this estate is proof of that. Lucien has made it prosperous once again, but when he inherited it, the village was impoverished and there was risk of true rebellion.”

“They seem to like him well enough,” Elain murmured, wondering if it was safe to be there. Arina nodded.

“Well…you’ve seen him. Lord Vanserra is kind. He has not raised rents like many others do and allows the farmers to sell outside of just this village. Taxes are also reasonable. In exchange, we get a much fairer price on meat and dairy. Everyone is very excited he’s brought home a wife as well. It means he’ll be around more often.”

Elain nodded, drinking in the cute little houses with their pointed red roofs and the cheerful little planter boxes now empty with impending winter. She pulled her silvery blue cloak a little tighter around her neck.

“Did you ah…” Arina trailed off, her cheeks pink again. “Did you happen to see Eris Vanserra before you left?”

“For a brief moment,” Elain admitted, studying the woman carefully now. “You know him, too?”

“Barely,” Arina insisted quickly, despite the blush of her cheeks. “He was older than me when I was growing up. He ah…how has he settled into marriage, then?”

Elain frowned. “Eris isn’t married.” Arina’s hands twisted nervously in front of her stomach. “No?”

“He was engaged and it ended. I’m told he was not kind about it,” Elain added, thinking perhaps she had been wrong as to which Vanserra Arina found to be handsome. Elain could not imagine it. To be fair, she had not studied the eldest of the Vanserras, given her focus was on the youngest. Perhaps Arina had an ill-placed crush that had never quite abated. 

“Oh.” Arina said nothing more regarding Eris and Elain was not stupid enough to push. Chatter shifted towards other families and matters. Arina informed Elain that Lord Tamlin was rumored to be looking for a wife and wondered rather openly how he had managed to avoid Elain. She imagined, though she didn’t say it, that Tamlin lacked the money of the Vanserras.

Lucien was proving to be decent enough. On her third night, she heard his boots echoing down the hall late into the night. The handle to her door turned and Lucien stepped inside, shrouded in darkness. He was still dressed in one of his fine coats though his hair was unbound around his face. She did not move and after a moment, Lucien stepped out as if he’d thought better of the entire thing. 

In the morning, Elain anticipated another breakfast alone. She was surprised to find Lucien waiting at the rounded table, the newspaper propped up on the mahogany surface. A plate of eggs and meat was half touched and a ceramic mug of coffee curled steam towards the unlit chandelier overheard. He looked over the top of his paper when she stepped in.

“Good morning,” he offered, gesturing for her to come sit beside him. Elain did, nearly tripping over her lilac dress as she did so. “Did you sleep well?”

“I–yes?” she asked, looking behind her at the open windows. Was she still dreaming? “Did you?”

“Leave us,” Lucien suddenly ordered the room, his voice clear and punctuated with cold authority. The servants immediately obliged, closing the wooden double doors behind them. Elain took a breath, wondering if this was the moment the other shoe dropped. Perhaps now that she was firmly entrenched in his life, Lucien felt comfortable treating her however he liked.

He set his paper to the side, pushing the food away from them so he could lean on the table. There were no fine clothes today. Lucien wore a white shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a pair of well-fitted brown trousers.

“I sleep terribly,” he told her, eyes searching her face. “I have been neglecting you and by the time I realized you were living in my house, unfucked, you were fast asleep.”

“Oh,” she breathed, truly unsure where he was going with his little speech. Lucien studied her for a moment.

“I took myself in my hand instead and all the while, all I could think of was you,” he continued, unaware of how each new word was filling her with heat. “I decided I would have you for breakfast.”

“I’m sorry?” she replied, certain she must have heard him wrong. Lucien’s mouth curled upwards with amusement.

“Come here, Elain. Come sit on the table for me.”

“You’re mad,” she whispered, glancing towards the windows. “Anyone might see us.” “It is hardly a secret what happens between husbands and wives,” Lucien replied with a lazy smile, pushing his chair backwards across the swirling blue and green rug. “Please, wife. Don’t make me beg you.” “You wouldn’t beg,” Elain retorted just a shade too hotly. Lucien shook his head.

“Oh, but I would.”

Elain took a large gulp of air. “Then do it, Lord Vanserra. Get on your knees and beg.”She had the sense he’d say no. That it was a game she had taken too far and now he’d simply have his way. Lucien stood, the muscles in his forearms flexing, and Elain braced herself to be hauled up onto the table anyway, to be spread out for his amusement. Their eyes locked—Elain in her chair practically clutching the wooden arms and Lucien standing above her without an ounce of humor in his expression—before he sank to one knee, and then the other. Elain knew he heard the soft gasp of air expelled from her lungs.

“Wife,” he murmured, sliding the hem of her dress up her shins. “Please let me eat you for breakfast.”

Elain turned in her chair, raising her leg until her slippered foot was pressed against his throat. He was enjoying himself far too much. “You’ve been ignoring me,” she complained softly. 

“Get on the table, wife,” Lucien said for the second time. Elain dropped her foot and Lucien, realizing what she was about to do, shook his head.

“I’ll catch you,” he warned just as she flew from her chair. Elain didn’t know what prompted her to do it. The thought of him racing her down the halls, of tackling her and having his way was so disturbingly arousing that Elain scrambled backwards, shoving the chair between them as she ran for the door. She didn’t make it. Lucien was faster, wrapping his arms around her torso and lifting her feet off the floor. His mouth was immediately on her neck, licking from her collarbone to her ear as he walked her deftly back to the dining table. Lucien dropped her on top of it, one arm pressed against her chest.

“I begged, just like you asked,” he complained, his eyes glittering with want. “And still you run from me.”

“Next time I’ll be quicker,” she whispered. Lucien grinned, tugging at the neck of his shirt before pushing apart her knees.

“Next time you should do it on the lawn,” he replied, sinking back into his chair. He pulled her to the edge of the table and for a moment, Lucien truly did look as if he were about to eat breakfast. Fascination crept through her stomach as Lucien wrapped his arms around her legs and dipped his head. He hadn’t bothered to remove her underthings—Lucien just licked straight through the fabric, apparently determined to tease her.

“Am I being punished?” she asked, writhing when he didn’t her underwear off her body. She wanted more, was hot and needy, had all but forgotten anyone might wandered by the side of the house and find the Lord of the estate taking his time with his spread out wife. 

“Why don’t you come to see me at night?” he asked, his breath hot against her skin. Elain moaned.

“Because I hate you, remember?” “You hate my cock?” he questioned, licking another stripe over the cloth that covered her. “I don’t think that's true.”

“Is your cock independent of you?” she gasped, reaching for his hair. Lucien groaned softly when she yanked at the strands of his hair, pulling it from the leather strap he’d bound it with. 

“Yes,” he murmured, hooking his finger through the band of her panties. “It has its own thoughts and opinions on things…you may insult me, but my cock is very fond of you and if you do not reciprocate its feelings, it will be very put out.”

He dipped a finger into her body, crooking it until he found the exact spot he was looking for. Elains back arched involuntarily and Lucien chuckled with satisfaction. “Say you like my penis, Elain.”

“I like it,” she panted. 

“And they say romance is dead,” he murmured, kissing her cunt sweetly. She shoved his face closer.

“Stop talking,” she whispered, squeezing tight around his finger. Lucien obliged, utterly compliant whenever it came to pleasure. Suddenly, it didn’t matter who might see them or if it was wrong to desecrate the breakfast table as they were. It took a breathless minute to realize she was having fun. It was fun to be pinned beneath his mouth, his tongue taking its time swirling lazy circles over her clit. He was treating her like the finest meal and something about it made Elain happy.

Perhaps it was the attention he was suddenly paying her. He was busy, likely had other things he needed to do and yet there he was, carving vast pockets of time from his day to see her. He could have simply demanded she make herself available to him later that evening. She’d seen her father do that far too often when she was a child. Her mother would pale for a moment while she and her sisters immediately scattered to the wind, desperate not to get caught in her mothers resulting storm. 

She always knew when Lucien’s control began to fray. His once patient, slow mouth became faster, more frantic, more concentrated on the nub of flesh apexed at her thighs. It was as if he were suddenly overwhelming hungry and could no longer control how he went at her. She liked his best this way, though she never would have admitted it. Elain moaned in encouragement, her orgasm cresting in bright white sparks just behind her eyelids. Lucien’s eyes snapped open, meeting her gaze and with a quick hook of his finger, Elain came with an embarrassing scream she was certain the whole house must have heard.

Lucien scrambled upwards, flipping her to her stomach as he fumbled with his pants, 

“You can’t truly mean to…” her words died when he all but slammed himself into her body, using his booted foot to spread her legs as he bent her over the breakfast table.

“I mean to have you everywhere,” Lucien grunted, his hips snapping against her body. The union of their sticky flesh echoed around the room, shaking the silverware beneath them. “On the table, on the floor, against the wall,” he continued, fingers digging in her hips as he drove into her. “This house shall be haunted with the memories of it.”

Elain pressed her forehead against the cool table, her body still convulsing from his mouth. Lucien groaned loudly, his fingers likely leaving dimpling bruises against her skin. “I need you at night,” he continued when Elain began to move with him, angling herself so his cock continued to slide over the sensitive place inside her body. Lucien was always demanding she use him and she’d become far too accustomed to coming multiple times. 

“You know where I sleep,” Elain replied, so close it was almost painful. “Wake me up if you must.” “I fucking will,” he whispered. They came within a second of the other, the squeeze of her body likely setting off his own. She liked when Lucien came. It was erratic and messy, so at odds with how controlled he seemed to be. It was as if he became a slave to his baser urges, driven purely by need and instinct.

Lucien pulled himself from her body, yanking her with him into the chair.

“What are your plans for the day?” he asked, his heart hammering against his skin. He was flushed, messy and undone. Handsome, she decided. Utterly, and impossibly handsome.

“I was going to bake a pie.”

That seemed to amuse him. “My wife can bake, can she? How charming.”

“No need to tease, Lucien,” she replied, some of her good will slipping into uncertainty. Lucien kissed her cheek.

“I am not teasing you. Not this time,” he assured her. “Bring me a slice when you finish?” “I would hate to bother you,” she hedged, catching the flash of disappointment in his features.

“You are allowed,” he offered. The post-glow of sex was wearing off, reminding them they were not friends. They were merely strangers with a bargain between them and would, at some point, be merely two people sharing a last name. It would be foolish to get too attached to him. Elain willed herself to ice as she nodded.

“I was also going to invite your brother down.” 

Lucien went still beneath her. “Eris?”

“Yes, Eris. And your mother…my sisters, too? If you don’t mind hosting–”

“What do you need of Eris?” Lucien gingerly set her back to her feet, his distrust plain. Elain didn’t want to admit she was inviting him to see if he, too, had a little crush on her housekeeper. She was certain Lucien would not find it half as charming as Elain did. 

“Am I not allowed to get to know your family better?” Elain asked, sitting in her chair from before. Lucien hesitated, his jealousy both obvious and absurd. She was married to him, was dripping his come down her leg, and he was stewing in the possibility that perhaps she meant to sample his brother, too.

It was offensive and it irked her. “It’s your house,” he finally dismissed. “Do as you like.”

“I have your permission?” she questioned. Lucien frowned.

“One day you will sit me down and tell me the truly ugly details of your fathers marriage. Until that day, however, please hear me when I assure you that I do not care who you invite to our home…so long as it is not my father.”

“So…don’t ask your mother?” Elain questioned, biting her bottom lip. Lucien exhaled, setting his fork back to the table.

“Their marriage is complicated and I don’t want him here…I don’t want him around you.”

That stung. “You truly think I am so depraved I would–”

“Not you,” Lucien interrupted, his expression dark, ugly. “Him. He cannot be around you.”

Elain swallowed. “Oh.”

“I will write to Eris and see if he cannot bring mother himself. Father likes to lose himself in his little affairs. Perhaps it will escape his notice. As for your sisters…perhaps a party to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what, exactly?”

Lucien’s expression shifted from anger to curiosity. “Your father informs you of matters quite poorly, doesn’t it?”

Elain’s stomach dropped. “I am already married.”

“Yes, fortunately for you. It seems Lord Tamlin has made an offer for your youngest sister—” “Feyre?” Elain exclaimed with a laugh. “You jest.”

Lucien chuckled, sipping his lukewarm coffee while Elain pulled a platter of fruit towards herself. 

“I assure you I don’t. I wouldn’t wish the Baron on anyone, not even your feisty sister. We could host an engagement party of sorts.” “She will never marry him,” Elain said with supreme satisfaction. “I know her. She will run away before she ever walks down that church aisle.” Lucien shrugged. “Invite them anyway. Invite all of society. Let them see what a lovely match we make.”

Elain looked at him and Lucien shrugged. “Doting husband, remember?”

Of course. Elain was no longer hungry as she stood. “I should clean myself up,” she told him, watching his eyes drift down her body. “I will see you later.”

“You will,” Lucien agreed. 

Elain didn’t dare to look back.

**

Lucien had hoped marriage would be simple. He could seek out his wife when he wanted her and ignore her when he didn’t. He made it all of three days before his self-control shredded and he fucked her on the breakfast table like an animal. He regretted none of it, other than his original avoidance. Elain was under his skin like a scratch he couldn’t quite itch. How long, he mused, until the urge to have her passed and he could get back to his life?

Never, at this rate. Far from slaking his lust, each new sexual encounter only made him want more. It was a new and not entirely comfortable feeling. He very rarely wanted the same woman more than once and to learn it was his wife currently driving him towards madness did not sit well with him.

Elain was utterly unaware, bouncing around the house without a care in the world. For two weeks she charmed his staff, planning the ball she intended to host in another two weeks. Time was moving impossibly fast even as it felt no time had passed at all. Elain made herself at home as if she’d always lived there, worming her way into his life as if she’d always been a part of it. Lucien could scarcely remember how he’d functioned without her which worried him.

The Forest House was peppered with the horrific ghosts of his childhood. He’d begun exploring the once familiar places, if only to see himself as a boy. He took Elain with him, showing her the path cut through the forest that would lead to the tall, iron gate at the very back of the property or walked her through the garden explaining his mothers careful care while Elain took literal notes on a clipboard.

In the village, men tripped all over themselves to speak to the Lord's wife and Elain indulged it all with a sweet smile. Women were kind, bringing her their problems which Elain immediately turned around and dumped in his lap with a scowl, as if he ought to somehow be able to read each villager's mind. He’d caught her out in the field one particularly chilly day with a gaggle of children, teaching them to braid little flower crowns while they giggled and shrieked. He did not know what to do with her or the knowledge that she charmed everyone else so easily…and had begun to charm him, as well. 

For a well-bred Lady, Elain had no qualms about getting in the dirt. The steward complained she was often up too early digging weeds out of the garden with her bare hands and more than once, Elain had presented him with a beautifully latticed pie made entirely on her own. He found himself seeking her out more often than he wanted to, curious as to what she did and how she spent her time when he was not around. He wasn’t just the sex anymore, though he often found clever little ways to convince her to lift her skirts. 

It was what dragged Lucien from his office that particular night. HIs brother and mother were set to arrive in the morning, which meant he’d have to stop fucking his wife at the breakfast table. The notion disappointed him. He wondered if he might convince her to move into his bedroom, at least until they left, so he could put them in the east wing where Lucien and Elain would not be overheard.

He found her lounging in her bed, dressed in a pretty pink night dress. Lucien’s head emptied of all thoughts at the sight of her clingy little dress just barely hugging the curve of her ass.  “Did you bring the mask this time?” Elain asked, glancing towards the leather straps still hanging casually from her bedposts. He’d let her tie him up again the night before.

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. What was wrong with him? “I saw Arina today.”

“I see her everyday,” Elain replied, setting the book she was reading on the night table beside her bed. 

“Yes, you two are quite the pair, aren’t you?”

“If you’ve come to say we cannot be friends, I will–” “Stab me, yes,” he interrupted impatiently, catching the outrage in her expression. “Be honest with me. Have you asked to invite Eris because you want him and Arina to see each other?”

Elain’s cheeks immediately flushed.

“Of course not.”

“Liar,” he replied, crossing the room to sit on her bed. His fingers twitched with the want to touch her. “And here I was thinking you would be meddling in your sister's life.”

“Feyre can handle herself,” Elain insisted. “You’ll see. There will be no wedding to Lord Tamlin of all people. He’s so…so…”

“Bland,” Lucien agreed. Elain looked at him for a moment, eyes narrowing.

“You assaulted him, did you not?”

Lucien shrugged. “He had something to say about my mother.”

Elain scooted closer. “He said something about your mother?” she questioned. Lucien scowled. Tamlin had implied his mother would get hit less if she spoke more and Lucien, who’d seen the fresh bruises on her face, had lost his temper in a regretful sort of way. It only confirmed the worst rumors about him and his brothers—they were no better than their father.

“Feyre will hate him if he doesn’t respect women,” Elain continued when it was clear Lucien would not be expanding on why he’d spent an evening in the stockyards. 

“Feyre will be given no choice in the matter. Lord Tamlin is well aware of her reputation and claims not to care. She should be grateful–” “Grateful?” Elain hissed, withdrawing from him as though he’d struck her. Lucien ran a hand through his hair, immediately irritated.

“Yes, Elain. Whether you like it or not, these things matter—” “Should I be disappointed, then?” she asked him, so close to the edge of her bed she seemed in danger of falling off. Lucien hoped she did, if only to inject a little comedy to the moment. Why couldn’t she ever assume good intentions? She almost imagined the least charitable interpretation of his words. 

“You are disappointed, Elain. You remind me every single day,” he replied plaintively. “Come sit in my lap.”

“No! Feyre can do better than Lord Tamlin,” she added, unaware that when she crossed her arms over her chest, it made her breasts practically pop out of her night dress. Lucien was openly staring.

“I never said she couldn’t. I only meant she’s unlikely to get a better offer—” “Why does she need one?” Elain demanded. “I got married, did I not? Feyre and Nesta should be allowed to complete the season.”

Lucien shrugged, ignoring the way disappointment slid through his veins. She’d married him because she’d been made to, because she had no choice, and perhaps because she believed it would spare her sisters a similar fate. He wished, strangely, she’d also married him because he was tolerable to her. 

“Perhaps your father ran the costs in his mind and decided it was more economical to marry you all off.” Elain’s anger seemed to melt right off her face, leaving genuine hurt in its wake. “That sounds like him.”

Lucien sighed. “Will you come here now?” 

Elain looked up, dark lashes fanned around her even darker eyes. Lucien gestured for her, letting her see slick amusement and nothing else. She hesitated and he swallowed how much he hated her distrust, his fingers beckoning her. Elain relented, crawling quickly over the mattress until he caught her and dragged her the rest of the way into his lap. 

“Are you happy now?” she asked, too rigid, too grumpy.

“With you?” he teased. “Never.” 

She squirmed, scowling darkly for all it mattered. He merely tightened his hold.

“Tell me the truth, now. Are you meddling in my brother's love life?”

“She seems to care for him,” Elain admitted. Lucien poked her in the ribs. “She is…”

“Don’t you dare say it,” Elain whispered, twisting to look up at him. “She is lovely.” “Beron would kill her,” Lucien finished. “Even if Eris wanted her, which I’m not certain he does, Beron would kill him, and Eris knows it. You should have come to me first. All you’ve done is heap hurt onto Arina’s shoulders. She knows her station, Eris knows his.”

Elain’s eyes were so round and innocent, so utterly sweet he wished wildly for a better world, if only to stop seeing how disappointed she often was. Lucien couldn’t help himself as he caressed her face. 

“I’ll help your sister,” he said despite his better judgment. “If your father needs money, I can send it.”

Elain exhaled a breath, relaxing against his body. Relief flooded his veins when she tucked her head beneath his chin. “That’s kind of you, Lucien.”

He would have done far more, he wanted to say. He was trying, he wanted to remind her. In his own strange, stupid way. He said nothing, unwilling to admit she was having an effect on him he didn’t entirely hate. He needed to get out of his own head. 

“You will stop meddling,” he told her sternly. Elain rolled her eyes, flicking him in the cheek to punctuate her annoyance. 

“Are you ordering me to?” she asked him, her eyes burning with sensuality.

“Be careful, wife,” he crooned, his body immediately taking notice of how she shifted in her lap so she was rubbing against his penis. He wasn’t hard yet, though his hand flew to her breast all the same, pinching her nipple through the thin fabric.

“Or what?” Elain demanded, teeth grazing the stubble on his neck.

“Or I’ll bend you over the dresser and spank you,” he all but growled. Far from fear, Elain offered a breathy little gasp and he wondered if she didn’t mean to run. He kept hoping she would, that he’d see her in the hall and she’d just take off so he could fuck her up against one of those ugly, expensive portraits of a long-dead ancestor.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Elain breathed, grinding herself against him. Lucien pushed her chestnut hair off her shoulders, nipping the skin beneath her ear. “Try me.”

“You’re a coward,” she goaded, the little minx. Lucien chuckled, so immensely pleased. Tightening his grip around her, Lucien dragged them both from the bed. Elain squirmed, playing her little game in which she pretended to resist him. He wondered what it said about him that he liked making her submit almost as much as he liked when she pressed her foot to his neck and demanded he beg to taste her. 

Lucien bent her over the white wood of her vanity, enjoying the sight of her breasts pressed against the surface and reflected back at him through the mirror. He pushed up her nightgown, tired of constantly fucking her in clothes. Writhing against his hold did nothing to stop him from revealing her bare body—it only served to make him harder.

“You asked for this,” he reminded her, palming her curved ass cheek. For only a moment Lucien hesitated, suddenly afraid of what it would mean to strike his wife. Elain turned, looking over her shoulder with a soft expression. 

“Do your worst,” she murmured, her eyes offering silent permission despite the unspoken rules of the game. “I’m not afraid of you.” His knees trembled when she said it. Lucien rubbed again, spreading her apart just enough to look at her, barred and quivering and willing.

He brought his hand down with a satisfying smack. Her whole body went tight for a moment, head dropping against her forearm. He couldn’t see her face, hidden beneath the loose curls of her long hair. “This is what you wanted,” he reminded her, admiring the print of his hand blooming on her cheek. “How many, Elain?”

“Ten,” she whispered, surprising him. “I’ve been so bad.” Lucien’s mouth dried, his eyes rolling backwards in his head. “You have,” he agreed, his other hand holding her waist. He landed another hit on the opposite cheek as his cock solidified in his pants, straining to be released. Elain whimpered, rising up on her tiptoes, legs spread wider. Lucien rubbed the little hurt with his hand, unable to resist sliding his hand along the long seam of her. His fingers brushed against the puckered hole of her ass, eliciting another gasp. He pressed his thumb ever so slightly, gauging her reaction. Would she let him use her this way? Or did Elain have a hard limit somewhere? 

This wasn’t the place to push her, only to introduce her to the concept. He continued down, groaning softly when he felt the gathering wetness. “You’re not supposed to enjoy being punished,” he crooned, slipping his finger inside her all the same. He was a masochist, unable to resist feeling her clench around him.

“I hate you,” she lied, so tight he could feel it burning against his cock. Lucien withdrew without preamble, spanking her yet again. He caught her face in the mirror when she looked up, her cheeks flushed, eyes glowing with pleasure. She was absurd, so obscenely beautiful he didn’t know what to do with her. Lucien would be lucky to get to five, let alone ten. 

“You want me,” he told her, leaning against her back so she could feel his erection. He gathered her hair in his fist, arching her back so he could lick the side of her neck. “You’re already soaked.” 

Their eyes met in the mirror, their thoughts reflected back at them. Elain thrust her breasts forward, gripping the edge of the vanity so he could see the way her pink nipples brushed against the wood.

“Fuck, Elain,” he breathed, shedding himself of his clothes as she spread her legs wider and manuvered her hair so he could have a truly unparalleled view of her. Wishing there was a mirror on the floor so he could watch from every angle, Lucien slicked the swollen head of his cock through her wetness, teasing her clit with his sensitive, soft skin. Elain moaned, eyes fluttering shut. 

It occurred to Lucien, as he pushed into his wife, that he might never tire of her. That there was no novelty to Elain, nothing inherently different that would eventually pass. Perhaps this was more than just lust. That, more than anything, terrified him more than he was willing to admit. Wanting her and knowing it would slow, that eventually he’d get bored and move on, made Lucien feel safe. Secure. She couldn’t hurt him if this was only temporary. He couldn’t lose her to another man, to time, to a cruel and capricious world that might one day decide to take her for simply no reason at all.

Elain moaned, drawing him back to the present. Lucien did what he did best and swallowed his concerns in favor of enjoying himself. There was nothing finer that being buried in her body, of feeling the proof of her arousal dripping against his cock. He was certain there were dozens of men who would have killed to so casually reach for her hip, to pull her roughly against him so he could drive deeper, could feel every glorious inch of her body. He was mesmerized by the sight of her, at her bouncing breasts and her flushed cheeks, her parted lips. 

“That’s it,” he crooned. “Take what you need.” “I need you to touch me,” she panted, still on her tiptoes. Lucien reached for one of her legs, holding it in the air while sliding the other around to rub against her clit. Elain whimpered, clenching so tight he could barely breathe. 

“Come for me,” Lucien demanded, dragging toward the edge despite his best intentions. She’d stolen his stamina like she’d taken everything else. “Elain, sweetheart—”

She screamed, nails scraping against the wood. He exploded beneath the sight of her orgasm, pumping hard release into her body. He was grunting, pulling her too rough against him and still Elain took it without complaint the way he’d once thought she might. 

This was the part he hated. Pulling himself out of her body, the redressing and slipping back into the awkward, unsure pair too quick to fight. He’d leave her here when what he really wanted was to pack her things up and move her into his bedroom. It was not done, unheard of. Men thought it made them weak, stripped them of their most basic rights but Lucien wanted to wake up with her nestled against him like they’d been in the inn. She’d been so sweet, so warm, her cheek pressed against his bicep, her back curved against his chest.

He didn’t dare ask. Lucien merely pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sleep well.”

“You as well,” she agreed, holding her nightdress against her body. Lucien willed himself to walk away.

Willed himself not to think of her at all.

**

Eris Vanserra arrived the next morning with his mother and no one else. As to what Lucien had said to entice him into coming, Elain did not know. The elder Vanserra was nothing like his brother and in retrospect, Elain wondered how she had never noticed. Lucien, who was tall and muscular, greeted his leaner, shorter brother. Not that Eris didn’t dwarf both the fragile-looking Lady Vanserra or Elain, but comparatively, Lucien was just large.

When had she begun appreciating her husband, she wondered?

“Little sister,” Eris crooned, every inch the gentleman. Here was the man who Nesta had rejected, who had the reputation of being just like his father. Lucien, too, had that reputation though over the course of a week, Elain was beginning to suspect the rumors were not as true as she’d once believed. “I hear you’re hosting a party next weekend.”

Elain looked at Lucien, who rolled his eyes behind his brothers back.

“Yes,” she agreed. 

“She’s trying to find you a wife, brother,” Lucien teased, clapping Eris’s shoulder hard. 

“And how is domesticity treating you?” Eris asked, his amber eyes firmly on Lucien as they walked from the foyer to the drawing room. 

“Wedded bliss, as they say,” Lucien replied easily. Elain didn’t know why those words made her heart pound, why her cheeks suddenly flushed with warmth. Beside Lucien, his mother, who clutched his arm for dear life, beamed with happiness. Eris seemed less convinced.

“Better you than me, I suppose,” he argued, looking around the house with a guarded expression. Elain thought of what Arina had said of their childhood. Lucien had been particularly cagey around the details and Elain knew better than to press but judging by the way Eris walked and his paler than usual expression, she didn’t think this place held any fond memories for him.

Elain meant to warn Arina that Eris was coming. She stood by the door, intending to slip out when Lady Vanserra caught her by the hand.

“Sit with me,” she asked, beaming with such radiant happiness that Elain could hardly say no. She’d just dropped to the little floral couch when Arina came in, more familiar than she would have dared had she known they had guests. Eris immediately jumped to his feet as the room fell silent.

“Lady Vanserra,” Arina said with surprise, eyes darting from Eris to his mother. “Lord ah—” “Eris,” he said quickly, an echo of his brother. Elain looked to Lucien who, to his credit, was staring pointedly out the window behind him. Elain also stood.

“Excuse me, for just a moment,” Elain offered the room. She chanced one last glance at Eris, who genuinely looked as if he’d seen a ghost. Elain strode from the room, wondering if Lucien hadn’t been right when he told her not to meddle. Arina’s tanned face was just as pale, her green eyes just as stricken. Elain followed her friend down the corridor, pulling her to the library where Arina pressed her back against the wall.

“I haven’t seen him in so long,” she gasped, sliding to the floor, knees pulled to her chest.

“I’ll send him away,” Elain said immediately, grabbing Arina’s clammy hands. “I’m so sorry, I thought—” “No!” Arina shrieked softly, shaking her head. “No. Don’t…don’t send him away. I’m only surprised, that’s all. I didn’t think he’d truly come.” Arina blinked away the glassy look from her eyes. “Don’t send him away,” she repeated. “I want to see him…I just…I don’t want him to see me.”

“Why not?” Elain demanded. Arina was beautiful, the kind of woman who turned heads everywhere she went. She would have ruined every upstanding man in Velaris, would have brought that city to its knees if she’d ever had the notion. Elain had sent the butcher's son away on not one, but three separate occasions when he’d come inquiring after Arina. Why shouldn’t Eris see her? 

“He is…” she trailed off helplessly. “If you see less of me, that is why.”

“I saw how he looked at you,” Elain insisted. “Like he’d seen a ghost.”

“I’m sure he thought so,” Arina agreed. “He made me swear I would leave this place. I promised, I…”

Arina bit her bottom lip, tugging at the skin with her teeth. “I didn’t know where else to go. I had no money and a poor education, I just…he left and I stayed.”

Elain nodded. 

“Lord Vanserra—Lucien…he made me housekeeper when my mother passed and it’s been a good job. Better, even, since you came and it’s not just boring men traipsing about. I don’t regret it. Eris was just…” Arina’s eyes were dreamy for a moment. “He was, perhaps, better left to my imagination.” Arina stood, smoothing out the blue of her dress. “I shall be fine. Don’t worry about me. Focus on that husband of yours.” “You’ll tell me if anything changes?”

“Of course.”

Elain didn’t believe Arina, though she accepted her friend's promise all the same. Trudging back to the drawing room, she caught the fleeting look of hope that crossed Eris’s face. He was so painfully obvious, so openly apparent.

“No tea?” Lucien asked, one eyebrow raised.

“You know where the kitchen is,” Elain shot back, a plan forming in her mind. Lucien had demanded she not meddle, but if the only thing separating Eris and Arina was class, surely that could be rectified. How badly did Eris truly want to become Duke? 

“Is everything alright?” Lady Vanserra questioned. Eris smoothed his expression into one of supreme boredom. He wasn’t fooling her.

“Perfectly alright,” Elain agreed. “The butcher's son is courting my housekeeper, that’s all. If he keeps this up, we’ll have another wedding on our hands before Christmas.” Lucien scowled from behind his brother's chair, eyes laser focused on Elain. 

What are you doing?! His body language demanded. Elain didn’t care, too busy studying the elder son. His face was moody and dark, fingers gripping the arm of his chair so tightly she could see the whites of his knuckles. 

Lady Vanserra, unaware of Elain’s manipulations, clapped her hands together with delight. “Oh, I remember that boy. You three used to play together. Lucien, Arina, and…what was his name?’ “John,” Eris all but ground out. “He was rather simple, as I remember.”

Elain sat beside their mother, hands in her lap. “Well, boys grow into rather dashing, intelligent men I think. John is wonderful. We are so fond of him.” “Perhaps too fond,” Lucien agreed with amusement. “I didn’t know you spoke so often to him.” “My husband is quite busy,” Elain explained. “Arina and I find all sorts of ways to amuse ourselves.”

Lucien snorted his agreement, turning his gaze back to the window. 

“It’s lovely to see the two of you getting along so well,” Lady Vanserra murmured, taking Elain’s hand in hers. “It makes me happy to see you both radiant and in love.”

Elain swallowed the panic that rose in her chest. Lucien didn’t react at all, eyes moody just like his brother. 

“It is easy,” Elain replied, not daring to look at him as she assured his mother, “To love your son.”

“He has always been a good boy,” she agreed. “A good man, too.”

“Come, mother. Your sentimentality embarasses him,” Eris interjected with more than a little amusement. “Give us a tour of the house brother. I haven’t seen it in ages.”

Elain intended to let them go together as a family, to prepare for her own sister's arrival in a few days and the party that she was wholly unprepared for. As Lucien went to the door, he caught her around the waist. She expected him to offer her snark, to say something hurtful for claiming to love him.

He threaded his fingers through her hair, drawing her close for an unexpected kiss. “Oh,” Elain whispered, looking him in the eyes, nose brushing his own. 

“Behave yourself,” he murmured, kissing her again, softer than before. It was affectionate, touching her in a place she hadn’t known existed. Elain swallowed hard, nodding while wishing he’d keep his arm around her body. He didn’t, releasing her without a hint of disappointment on his end. 

Elain watched him go with a shake of her head, wondering what was wrong with her. It was only Lucien. He touched her constantly without asking, was always pulling her into his lap or pressing his mouth against her own. The air was easier to breathe once Lucien vacated it and Elain busied herself with the morning's preparations. Her sisters were coming early, chaperoned by Lucien who was the only man their father apparently trusted their care to. He had written, stating he was far too busy to do more than drop them off. 

She supposed business had gotten better with Beron Vanserra’s patronage. If it kept Beron out of her home and let Feyre and Nesta run wild in the countryside, Elain hardly cared. The Lady Vanserra—or Amera, as she insisted Elain call her—also seemed to bloom far from her husband's dark cloud. She was all smiles, tucked between her sons as they made their barbed jokes and relived more pleasant days in the house. Elain wondered if she couldn’t keep Lady Vanserra forever. Surely Beron, who Lucien swore was always mired in one affair or another, would be grateful not to have to support her?

It was that thought that pulled Elain from her bed that night. She slipped down the halls, making her way in near darkness with nothing but a candle until she found his room. Lucien’s was the largest in the house, a series of interconnected chambers where he could work and lounge and bathe without having to be bothered. He was in bed, propped up on a wall of pillows without a shirt on. The white sheet was tangled about his waist, one bare leg pulled closer to his chest, offering Elain a mind-emptying view of his muscular thighs. Lucien looked over at her when she appeared in the doorway, setting the book he was reading in his lap.

“Is it my birthday?” he joked, immediately gesturing for her to come to him. Insatiable, was what he was and yet Elain could not help herself. She still remembered waking in the inn, tucked safe against his body. Some part of her still wanted that, though she would never have admitted it. Not when Lucien retreated back to his own bed after coming to hers for sex, not bothering to even look back at her. Elain could not make herself vulnerable in that way. She hesitated, even though she wanted to go to him. She always did, every time he beckoned her. It was a game she played with herself, telling him no. He could not have everything while he gave her so little. He could not have her unguarded affection.

Lucien sighed, running a hand through his lovely hair. “Do not make me beg,” he said, his expression plaintive. “I have been imagining you in this bed since we arrived. Indulge me.”

“When is your birthday?” Elain couldn’t help but ask, taking the tiniest step onto the braided rug his bed sat atop of.

“October thirtieth,” he answered, gesturing again for her to get into his bed. He pulled back the sheet, revealing himself to be utterly naked and this time, Elain could not resist despite her exhaustion. 

“I don’t want to have sex tonight,” she complained, letting him snatch her the moment she reached the side of the bed. Lucien pulled her into the bed and yank the blanket up over her body until merely her face remained open to the dim air. 

“You came all this way to decline my advances?” Lucien asked, brushing hair from her face. Elain swallowed hard, hating the way her heart fluttered at this new softness. When she’d once imagined being married, she had pictured moments like these. Lucien was so good at making her feel cared for. Cherished, even. Sometimes she caught him looking at her with a fondness that made her chest tight. Some part of her wanted it to be real and not the product of a too-romantic imagination.

“I came all this way to ask you if your mother could live with us permanently,” Elain replied, dragging her fingertips over the sparse hair on his chest. Lucien sighed, pressing a kiss to her scalp.

“Ah. Father would never allow it.”

Elain twisted to look at him, desperately trying to ignore how handsome he was in the firelight. “Why not? You say he is having affairs. Would it not be easier with his wife out in the countryside?”

“And who will organize his dinners? Warm his bed when his mistress is not available?” Lucien countered. “She is his most prized possession, Elain.” “She is a woman–” “She was the daughter of the most powerful Duke before he died. Father coveted her, he was obsessed with her…he still is. It would draw far too much attention to the pair of us to beg for mother to live here. When you are pregnant and it’s coming close, I intend permission for her to come and tend to you and that will keep her away for part of the year but it’s dangerous to ask for anymore.” “I do not understand,” Elain complained, settling back against him. Lucien threaded his fingers through her hair, combing softly.

“No, I imagine not,” Lucien murmured, pressing the curls to his nose. “An invitation for mother is an invitation to both of my parents. Beron will not come for the birth of a grandchild but he might just to insert himself somewhere he does not belong…to remind us both that we are still under his care and control. We are far better outside of his awareness and if I am being completely honest, I do not want him anywhere near my wife.”

Elain shivered. “She seems so happy here.”

Lucien nodded, kissing her forehead again. “You are kind to think of her. She had nothing but questions about you when I took her through the house.”

“I miss my own mother,” Elain admitted, unsure if it was wise to do so. Lucien shifted, both arms wrapped around her body. She felt heavy, head nuzzled against his arm so she could better inhale the scent of him. 

“How old were you when she died?” he asked.

“Eleven,” she whispered, dragging her lips over his skin as she said it. She didn’t want to have sex…she merely wanted to touch him without the expectation of anything else. Lucien didn’t make a sound as she kissed the muscles against his ribs, her hand flat against his stomach.

“What happened?” “Influenza,” Elain replied. “It was slow and for a while we thought she might get better.” His hand rubbed against her spine. “I’m sorry.”

Tracing the coarse line of hair from his belly button downward, Elain let herself reflect on that time. “Nesta begged father to take her to the hospital or the countryside…she would get better only to get worse, over and over. It was terrible and…” And he’d said no. He’d ignored them, making his daughters work in shifts to keep her hydrated and fed and cool. Elain had listened to Nesta rage and scream, twelve years old and already far angrier than any child should ever be. Feyre had begun sneaking out of the house then, unable to stand the tension or the way death clung to everything. Elain had been left to smooth it all out, to help in the kitchen, the garden, anywhere her mother would have overseen.

She supposed her father decided it would be easier without the wife who hated him. Nesta was certain he had purposefully let her die and Feyre had been too traumatized to ever consider his motives at all. Elain wondered if her father hadn’t begun setting her up for her own marriage years before. She had no expectation Lucien would ever take care of her, even as she clung to him, desperate that he might. 

“I should go,” she said, pushing away from him. Lucien tightened his hold again. 

“Stay,” he whispered. “I promise no sex, just…”

Their eyes met and she saw her own same pulsating fear radiating through his own eyes. Her chest constricted, heart pounding terribly in her chest. Say no! Her mind screamed it at her, reminding her she would read too much into this evening, would project her own slow blooming hopes onto his actions only to be disappointed. He did not want her, had been perfectly clear the day of their marriage.

People could change, she told herself stupidly. “Okay,” she agreed, watching his relief. “Just for tonight.”

Lucien nodded.

“Just for tonight.”

[cheri-translates]

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a phone call which has not been released in English servers!🍒

Gavin’s Qixi Collection: Date / Call 1 / Call 2 / Records / Event / Special Call ♡

More Qixi Calls: Kiro / Lucien / Shaw / Victor

Gavin: Why are you awake so early? You even sent me a message? 

MC: Thinking about how we’d be going out together today, I woke up very early. 

Gavin: I’m the same as you. If you’re ready, I can head over to pick you up.

MC: Sure, but there’s one thing...

Gavin: What is it?

MC: Actually, I wanted to ask what you’d be wearing today. 

Gavin: The usual. What’s wrong? Are we going to a formal venue?

MC: No no, I was just asking!

Gavin: Why did you think of asking me this? Did you prepare an outfit for me again? 

MC: Hold on, how did you know?!

Gavin: Minor mentioned that you seemed to be preparing something, so I made a guess.

MC: You’re right, I prepared two sets of traditional Hanfu outfits... do you want to try it?

[Trivia] “Hanfu” (汉服) is a Chinese historical clothing style. I’ve included pictorial references at the end :>

Gavin: Hanfu? Why do you suddenly want to wear this?

MC: It’s Qixi, so I really want to experience how people in the ancient times felt when they spent this festival!

Gavin: It’s quite a good idea to observe the Vega and Altair stars together too.

[Trivia] Vega and Altair are the astronomy equivalents of the Weaver Girl and Cowherd.

MC: Mmhmm! The most important thing is, I want to experience something different with you. 

Gavin: Sure. If you want to try it, I’ll accompany you.

MC: Don’t you find it troublesome?

Gavin: If it’s a typical day or if I’m out on missions, it wouldn’t be very convenient. 

MC: Hahaha of course you wouldn’t be wearing it when you’re on a mission!

Gavin: Mm, you should look very pretty when you wear it. 

MC: It’s not like I didn’t wear it the last time...

Gavin: It’s different every time. 

MC: You haven’t even seen it yet. 

Gavin: I don’t have to see it to get the same answer. I’m heading over to pick you up now, then we’ll change into our outfits and go to the West Moon Street. I heard there’s a Qixi temple fair there. It’s suitable to go there in Hanfu.

MC: Do you think we’ll feel as though we’ve travelled through time~

Gavin: Yes. What we will see are actually the same moon and stars as in the ancient times. So no matter how many times we see them during Qixi in the future, we may have the same experience as today. 

-

[fyrapartnersearch]

rEEE writers inbound

hey there! i’m rhys. i am 22, live in the ct, and love ooc chatter! my ooc is pretty lax, but i promise my writing is a helluva lot more formal. i write in third person, past/present tense, and paragraph form. im not a rapid-fire writer, and won’t be able to constantly get replies in every day (i can get responses in anywhere between every couple of days to a week or two). however, i will ALWAYS put tlc into all of my posts and characters! i write anywhere between 300-900 words. it’s definitely alright if you don’t feel up to that amount at any given point, but i do appreciate keeping it somewhere in this range. im very wordy, and can spew out a novel if im excited enough lmao

  my limits are pretty general; i will not do beastiality, pedophilia, vore, or scat. i can indulge in a variety of kinks, but if it’s a little much for any average person, i’m less likely to write it out (i.e extreme ddlg or adult babies, furries, extreme pet play, etc.) but i can be persuaded to lightly touch on certain kinks as long as they’re not 10000% filth lmao i cannot, and will not, do seme/uke or top/bottom dynamics. absolutely not. queer relationships shouldn’t be defined by whose taking the D. i dont want to interact with squeamish little femboys, or awful macho men with downright rapey tendencies. versatility is key, and power struggles are what i live for! i will, however, indulge in BDSM dynamics with certain plots— although, domination isn’t always about penetration, you know?

  give me characters with aspirations, hopes and dreams, and crushing past experiences that flesh them out into who they are. no one is perfect, and we all have things that rear their ugly heads in the dark. problematic characters, male or female or anything in between, are everything. i love lgbtq+ characters, as i am part of the community myself, and will almost always be more inclined in writing queer characters. not to say i won’t write for strictly straight pairings, m/f, but usually i am iffy when approached with it if i am just meeting you.

  i write for all genders, ethnicity, and orientations! you can find a few writings examples of mine here. i am pretty welcoming of most things. smut, of course. some kink a little out there that you want to suggest? let's do it, dude. i am super OOC friendly and i am pretty much a garbled mess when i get to know you!  i’m a social person— i feel like a burden if you’re not into chatting with me, so please, if you’re not looking to be both a writing partner as well as a friend, i might not be the gal for you. i am open to crooked relationships, ones that don't function right, dark/morally corrupt characters, unconditional love, etc. my interests fluctuate! i am down, 24/7, guys! i only roleplay over email, but will ooc chat over discord or hangouts! here's a list of fandoms and pairings below that i am looking to write for atm. i do have many more, but these are just the ones off the top of my head!

_________

  Borderlands

Handsome Jack/Rhys

Handsome Jack/Rhys/Nisha

  Life is Strange

Max Caulfield/Chloe Price

Max Caulfield/Kate Marsh/Victoria Chase

Nathan Prescott/Warren Graham

Rachel Amber/Chloe Price

Frank Bowers/Damon Merrick

  DC

Dick Grayson/Jason Todd

Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson

Dick Grayson/Wally West

Harley Quinn/Pamela Isley

  Batman: Telltale Series

Bruce Wayne/John Doe

Bruce Wayne/Selina Kyle

Bruce Wayne/Harvey Dent/Selina Kyle

  Marvel

Stephen Strange/Tony Stark

Bucky Barnes/Sam Wilson

Thor/Bruce Banner

Peter Parker/Harry Osborn

Peter Parker/Wade Wilson

Wade Wilson/Vanessa Carlysle

Gwen Stacy/Peter Parker/Harry Osborn

Peter Parker/Wade Wilson/Vanessa Carlysle

  Uncharted

Nathan Drake/Samuel Drake

Nathan Drake/Harry Flynn

Chloe Frazer/Nadine Ross

  TTGOT

Asher Forrester/Gwyn Whitehill

Rodrik Forrester/Arthur Glenmore

Mira Forrester/Margaery Tyrell

Gryff Whitehill/Elaena Glenmore

Gared Tuttle/Finn

Gared Tuttle/Josera Snow

  The Walking Dead

Rick Grimes/Negan

  TWDG

Javier Garcia/David Garcia

Clementine/Gabriel Garcia

Clementine/Louis

Clementine/Violet

Marlon/Louis

Javier Garcia/Paul “Jesus” Rovia

  Far Cry (3-5)

Jason Brody/Vaas Montenegro

Jason Brody/Bambi “Buck” Hughes

Ajay Ghale/Pagan Min

Ajay Ghale/Sabal

Ajay Ghale/Sabal/Amita

Rook/Joseph Seed

Rook/John Seed

Rook/Faith Seed

  Punisher

Frank Castle/David Lieberman

Frank Castle/Billy Russo

  Mass Effect: Andromeda

Scott Ryder/Reyes Vidal

Scott Ryder/Gil Brodie

Scott Ryder/Peebee

Sara Ryder/Peebee

Sara Ryder/Vetra Nyx

  Kill Your Darlings

Lucien Carr/Allen Ginsberg

  ____________

Onto original plots!

——————

  Office romances/BDSM/Friends with benefits-turned-lovers

okay, so, i had this type of roleplay with someone a while back. maybe more than two or three years back that i fell out of contact with and i could never really get it out of my head because it was probably one of the best character-building stories i’ve ever taken part of. :’) i don’t remember their name, but i do hope they’ll contact me again if they ever see this. while some of this may seem specific, none of it is concrete and i promise i am very easy to get along with and very accomodating! the plot i remember had three different relationships— completely different people, with different lives and different worlds, with only one common thing between them being that they work in the same building. we can do all three, or we can do a few, or even  one! i dont mind.

  **pairing A; M/F preferred (lol i know broke my own rule, but i adore femdoms! extra: please come with an open mind. this is not a 50 shades AU, and i do not want it to be.) this one is between a CEO and an intern in their senior year of college. The CEO is a femdom, and freshly out of divorce, takes a liking to the clumsy intern who’d spilled coffee on her more than once. The intern has never been in a relationship with an older woman, let alone one running a multi-million dollar company, but hey, isn’t that the dream for some broke twenty-something down on his luck? She introduces him to BDSM, and while he’s hesitant, the idea is as exciting as it is frightening. He accepts her offer— while it’s difficult at times, he begins to learn more about her. Her ex-spouse, her young child, and her unwillingness to develop a sincere relationship with him. She’s had subs before, and while she tells him he isn’t disposable, he begins to feel it was the truth. He grows to have feelings for her, and while she isn’t too keen on admitting it, the feeling is mutual. I’d love to explore their dynamic in and out of sex, and the conflict between the intern and her ex-spouse. I love age gaps, and think it would be awesome to see them develop over time to find common ground to establish a personal relationship and trying to even out their power imbalances. I don’t mind playing either the CEO or the intern, but I am leaning more towards the CEO. :V**

  **pairing B; M/M preferred (this one is waaay more gritty and more dub-con than anything so please beware!) this one is between two higher-ups who have been butting heads for years— and occasionally, sexual tension neither have acted on. A is a snarky, openly gay man, and probably what some would consider shallow and noncommittal. B is a brooding, closeted ‘by the book’ type well into his thirties, and refuses to engage in anything sexual with men despite his obvious attraction; B has younger siblings he takes care of as well as his mother, and being the oldest son and only provider, hasn’t done a thing for himself in twenty years. A lives completely alone, complete with a bachelor pad and, the influx of flings that went nowhere past sex, and has risen to the top with his own sheer will. they have conflicting motives, and while both of them have an intense hatred for each other, they’ve never engaged in physical altercations in fear of losing their jobs. one day, A jabs a little below the belt, and finally, B starts swinging. this fight turns into something way more heavy in the company parking lot. what happens between them in the long run is something desperate, needy, and longing for real affection. it began as a mindless need for sex, angry and mean and formal, with B being especially unwilling to ‘give up’ his masculinity and ever be on the receiving end in fear of losing the control he needs to keep this up. i’d love to see them begin to see each other in a different light, and changing each other for the better. i’d also love to see A showing B that sex doesn’t have to be meaningless, and that he doesn’t need to fear letting A be in control. And B showing A that commitment isn’t as terrifying as it may be, with them gradually going from rivals, to friends with benefits, and eventually lovers. i, again, don’t mind writing for either! **

  **pairing C; F/F preferred. (aaa this pairing is way more fluffy and sweet, with hurt/comfort as a stable of their dynamic.) this one is between two small-office employees in the company. A is fairly tame at work in order to support her sibling(s), of which she has adopted from her father’s custody years ago. she is fairly confident with her sexuality, and while not being the type to frequent clubs, is dragged along by a few friends and there, meets B. B is a young woman who just recently got out of a relationship with an abusive ex fiance— B has only ever been with that man, and was never confident in exploring her sexuality due to a religious upbringing and parents who were dead set on traditional values. she’s never strayed from her ex, and while he wasn’t faithful or remotely good to her in return, she was heartbroken with their split. months after, he returns to the city and B’s close friends decide to take her out on a girls’ night to make her feel better— B coincidently sees her ex, and feeling childish and unattractive, heads off to the bar to get a drink. she’s nowhere near a drinker, and just before she does drown her sorrows, is hit on by A. while initially shocked, B is flustered and finds herself immediately attracted to A. they have a one-night stand, and while B believes that A would just leave in the morning, A instead lays with her until she wakes up, and leaves her number. B is too anxious to text her. they bump into each other at the elevator that Monday. they agree to be just friends, until B knows what she wants. A is willing to wait. B might have a crush, and A is intent on building B up to love herself and her body. i would overall prefer to write for A, but if you’re dead set, no prob!**

  Serial killer/1960’s/Small town sheriff

no preferred pairing! would love, love, love to see something between a serial killer and a small town sheriff in the mid-to-late sixties. we could make up a new little town, or find one to our liking! A is the sheriff who had been born and raised in this town with a good home life, loving parents, and a steady moral compass, albeit trapped in a loveless marriage. they know everyone, and every nook and cranny of the place like the back of their hand. this is the type of place where people don’t have to lock their doors at night, or constantly watch their kids when they’re out in the yard playing. that is, until people start going missing and horrifyingly mutilated bodies began to pop up around town. B is a well-liked baker in town; known to be genuinely friendly and kind, B has a very corrupt past. both of their parents were heinously abusive, and as a child, B developed sociopathic tendencies. B was inherently spiteful of the town and the people in it, for leaving them to rot in hell for eighteen years, and for never reaching out. B formed a god complex, his intentions to ‘purify the corrupt’. they keep tabs on almost everyone in town, and the victims they do take are put in the soundproof basement of his home to be ‘baptized’; tortured, beaten, and mutilated beyond recognition. A and B are friendly with each other as A comes to the bakery every morning, with B’s motives completely unbeknownst. one night, A, frustrated and pissed from the dead ends of the case of the decade, decides to head to the bar and relax. B is the one face A didn’t mind seeing that night, and one thing lead to another, with A and B in a dark alley getting each other off— i definitely see this as B grooming A to be a complicit pet, and when A gets closer and closer to figuring out who the killer is, he forms a deep connection with B. B develops a possessiveness over A, along with that sense of ownership he’d established between them. B manipulates A, coerces him into a false sense of security, and eventually— A finds out, and while B initially thinks to kill A, A is corrupted by B and forms some kind of stockholm syndrome for B. it’s up to A on whether or not they turn B in, or cover the killer’s tracks. B, despite his very sick and repulsive nature, develops a true infatuation for A, as close to love as they were ever going to get, and A is desperate enough to please B that they’ll do anything to not disappoint them.

  Post apocalypse/decades later/immunity

no pairing preferred! the plot I had in mind is loosely based off of a video game called "The Last of Us", which i am sure most of you have a general knowledge of! (definitely check it out if you don’t :O it’s a great game!!) the prompt i was shooting for goes something like this; in a post-apocalyptic world where a pandemic has killed off most living species, character A is a lone wolf with little to do with other people that don't benefit him, except for a select few. A is especially rough around the edges, as he's lived through some sick shit and lived to tell the tale. A had once been part of a group dedicated to finding a cure, but things went south, and a lot of people died. A had a close bond with the leader of said group, and coincidentally they were the only survivors. their past together, having been deeply demented and twisted, caused them to fall out. said leader has rebuilt a new group in the ten years since the last time they'd seen A. character B is the only known immune person alive, and has dedicated their life to being a resource to finding a cure. A and his (current) contact/partner in crime have something taken from them, and are determined to get it back. they do some searching, and are confronted with this group-- they have what they need, but are only willing to give it to them for a favor in return. no one can outrun their past forever. so, this plot isn't concrete. things can be changed, we can do whatever we want, and i am happy to comply to any revisions or suggestions! i'd really enjoy taking on A, if that's alright!

  TREASURE HUNTERS/ANCIENT CURSES/LOVE-HATE DYNAMICS/MODERN

treasure hunters!!!! yES!! think Uncharted or Tomb Raider. an architect/treasure hunter is being funded an expedition to find a lost treasure and they are forced to bring along a reporter in order to receive the funds. the reporter and architect certainly dont get along in the beginning— they bicker, and clash on most fronts. the expedition wasnt meant to be dangerous. what was initially thought to be a simple job turned into something treacherous; bandits, a team of hired hitmen and their leader looking to take the treasure for themselves, and some rather supernatural elements that they both couldnt quite put a finger on. the treasure hunter and the reporter have to work together to get out of this alive, and get to the artifact before someone else does. (the “treasure” is definitely up for debate!! we can chose a real life lost treasure, or just make one up!! it can be anywhere around the world, and everything is at our disposal).

  DEMON/INHERITANCE/HUNTERS/MODERN

character A has an awful time living in the city— alone, and without mom's guidance, completely lost. one day they receive a call about a deceased relative, one they'd never heard of, one that apparently left their estate and everything in it in their will to A. with nothing but the clothes on their back, A took a shot in the dark and drove out to this presumed "estate" come early summer, only to find that it's a mansion in a tiny little town with an eerie vibe and populated by the typical small town churchgoers and farm folk. living in this town was a hell of a challenge; everyone was nice, too nice, and people started to go missing. character B is an exceptionally charismatic, charming person and the only mechanic/handyman in town. A and B become friends, partially, when A needs to fix up the piping in their estate. A stumbles upon the attic one day, and for once, they start to get why this whole town reeked to the roots in weird shit-- their deceased relative was tracking something here in this town, having to do with all of the MIA townsfolk. DR has a board of possible suspects, and at the center? B. A shrugs it off as their relative having been paranoid, but the longer A stays in this town, the more apparent it becomes that DR wasnt crazy. B is, in fact, not the murderer, instead a supernatural being (open for debate! im on the fence with demons, vampires, etc.) on a mission to track down the monster, same as DR. i am so down for internal struggles, sweet gestures, and overall, two people just trying to make it work! i could also see A being hella paranoid that B is the monster, and maybe tries to throw cloves of garlic at them only to realize thats not exactly how this monster hunter business works lmao

  DEPRESSED WRITER/YOUNG MUSE/between 1920’s-1960’s/sex, drugs, & the american dream

m/m preferred! A is a severely depressed middle-aged man believing his life has been wasted. his wife left him with their child at her hip, his career was in a rut, and he had nothing left to live for. opting for suicide, he goes out one evening to purchase a bottle of gin to down with a handful of prescription sleeping pills when he returned to his apartment. instead of going directly home, he’s swept in by the music in an underground club for queers. there he meets B; all encompassing, angel faced, and the only person A didn’t know how to look away from. B is a former US Navy Seal, aspiring musician, and avid indulger of the human body— A stays a little too long, owlish and red, and after the show, B approaches him with a cattish smile. they spark a friendship, and A is thrown down the rabbit hole when B introduces him to his social circle, filled to the brim with drag queens, junkies, queers, and the overall unusual— he integrates into this community, his contemplation of suicide only a distant memory, and begins to find himself extremely attracted to B. he lights a fire in A, something dangerous and unquenchable, and A finds himself drawn in by the unpredictability. A embarks with B on a journey of self exploration, passion, and inevitable love in a world that scorned the oddities of human attraction and anyone who dared to be free.

  thanks for your time! if you've read through, please contact me at dotiscat@gmail.com on email or rhys#3615 on discord and mention kiwi somewhere in your initial message. n_n

  Rhys xoxo

[starofvelaris]

The Fox and the Fawn, part II

The smut-tastic second part to my Elucien fic (part one) is now up, by popular demand! I had so much fun (and wine) writing this, enjoy! warnings: NSFW (Smut) / 18+ ONLY Tagging: @highladyoferilea @court-of-abs @midnightbluhm @femshepfit @its-anita @firestardragon @breath-of-sindragosa

Please message me if you would like to be tagged in any future fics I post ✨

THE FOX AND THE FAWN, pt II

That night had felt like a dream. They had stood there for so long, just holding onto one another, pressed up in that corner of his bedchamber. He had kissed her over and over, the relief splashing across their bond, in a more tangible way than Elain had expected. She had always felt the bond, buried deep within, but it had sprung forth like a fiery ember that night, connecting their every thought like a tether to the heavens.

“Elain,” Lucien had whispered in her ear, as his hands smoothed over the surface of her hips, her torso, her ribs. She knew he wanted her, and she’d never wanted something as much as she wanted him in that moment. But she had stilled, a breathless smile on her face, and lowered her hands to her sides.

“Goodnight, Lucien,” she said between his relentless kisses, smoothing down the skirt of her nightgown and dipping away from his mouth. It was a chaining, on both her desire and his. She wanted him, oh she wanted him, but she suddenly felt scared again, that blazing resolve from before winking out like a candle.

“Where are you going, dove,” he pleaded as she gently lowered herself from his arms, still propping her up against the wall.

“Don’t worry, my mate,” she said, testing the words on her tongue and liking the way they sent shivers through him, and set their want aflame. “We will still have time for…this,” “You can’t leave now,” he groaned in her ear.

“Until tomorrow,” she smiled a bit deviously, knowing the torture she was causing him, and left a whisper of a kiss on his jaw. They had time, she knew. And she needed more time…to revel in this newness. In this newfound connection. Before they solidified it.

His expression told her he was about to protest again, but she just straightened and twirled away out the door, leaving him speechless behind her. “Sleep well, Lucien Vanserra,” She caught a glance of him as she closed the door behind her, his red hair askew, panting in the wake of their yearning.

As Elain walked lightly back to her room, she couldn’t help but hesitate for a moment. Yes, she had wanted to yield to that desire, just as much as Lucien, if not more…but the other part of her wanted to delay, to cherish the newness of the bond. Feyre had explained to her the way the bond was truly…accepted. And she had suddenly felt a flurry of nerves stifle her confidence.

The next day, she had planned to go back to him, spend the day together, and see...where it took them. But the Cauldron had other plans, it seemed. Lucien had been summoned to the Court of Nightmares that next morning, to negotiate with his awful brothers over some territory dispute with the Autumn Court. And as Rhysand’s emissary, duty called. Elain couldn’t help but feel frustrated when he told her over breakfast. She had planned on taking him riding through the upper crawls of the plateau and then a picnic on the beach at the west end of Velaris. She had yet to explore the outer rim of the city and its landscape, and knew some time alone with her mate was needed.

Indeed she had wanted nothing more to touch him as soon as she saw him gliding into the dining room, and that desire increased tenfold when she was told it would have to wait. But neither of them had told anyone of their bond acceptance, and she wasn’t sure when the right time would be, so she acted demure and as uninterested as she could as he ate quickly in silence. Nesta and Cassian, thankfully had been absent from breakfast, doing Cauldron-knew what, but Azriel waited at the door to fly Lucien into Keir’s realm. She frowned into her plate and let him give her a chaste but lingering kiss on the cheek before he rose to depart. He bent over and squeezed her hand gently, below the table and away from any curious eyes.

“I owe you a ride,” she whispered in his ear, and he instantly froze, his mouth twitching. She, of course, was just referring to her original plan for the day, but she nearly barked in laughter at the way Lucien restrained his expression, his throat bobbing dryly, and straightened up, his golden eye whirring.

“I will be back soon, dove,” He gave her one last apologetic glance, his golden eye gleaming in the morning light, before they were gone.

She spent the next three days mostly in the warmly lit sitting rooms of the House, trying not to dwell in her disappointment. She tried reading, but the romance books she favored paled in comparison to the feelings swirling in her mind. She tried tending to the delicate potted plants on the windowsills, but they were already so healthy and pruned that it hardly passed any time at all. Nesta showed up on the second day, windswept and flushed after a flight with Cassian and barely stopped to chat before they left to explore the city. They invited her, that ever-present concern shadowing her oldest sister’s face, but Elain insisted she would rather stay home and read.

On the fourth day, they had a dinner planned for the grand, more formal dining room of the House. Still casual, with only the family being invited, but Feyre and Rhysand showed up dressed to the nines as per usual. Followed by Mor and Amren, fresh in from an evening concert Elain had also politely declined an invitation to. Cassian and Nesta later joined in for dessert, and they broke open two bottles of wine over a roaring fire. The summer had begun its surrender to the crisp evenings of early autumn and Elain seated herself under a plush blanket on a chaise in the corner of the room.

“Feyre, can I ask you something?” Elain asked after awhile when her youngest sister had come over to offer her another glass of wine. The steel of grey her eyes met the brown of her own in something between curiosity and concern.

“Of course,” Feyre answered gently, sitting down beside her.

“When you and Rhys…bonded. Were you…nervous?” Elain’s voice sounded smaller than usual, and she could barely meet her sisters eyes.

“Yes,” Feyre admitted, edging a glance at Rhysand, who was at the opposite end of the room, deep in conversation with Mor. “But I was also…resolved. And so happy I thought I’d burst into flame. And very nearly did, come to think of it,” She laughed at the memory, but Elain pressed on. “But I mean…the actual bonding…” she trailed off, a scarlet flush overtaking her cheeks. She felt so stupid and naïve. She was the older sister, why must she be asking her youngest sister for such advice?

Realization crossed Feyre’s face. “Oh, right. Well…” Feyre crossed her hands in her lap. “I had…experience. So I knew what to expect. So in that regard, I wasn’t nervous,”

Elain pursued her lips. Of course. She had forgotten. Feyre had been with Isaac and the Lord of Spring and Cauldron knew who else. Why should she have felt nervous in the same way?

“Right,” was all Elain could think to say, now feeling foolish at having brought it up.

“But what I wasn’t prepared for,” Feyre continued. “Was the depth of how I felt. How much…love and power can overcome you in that moment of bonding,” Elain felt a stab of envy at the way her sister glanced back at her mate, such unending joy and admiration on her face.

“Elain…are you and Lucien…?” Feyre whispered as she turned back to her, excitement and a certain kind of apprehension lighting her eyes.

“Perhaps,” Elain replied curtly, lifting her chin. Feyre looked surprised but pleased.

“So you have made your decision,” Feyre said. It was not exactly a question.

Elain nodded, turning her head towards Nesta. “But don’t tell Nesta. Not just yet,”

Feyre gave her an incredulous look. “If she finds out I know before her…I’ll be as good as carrion,”

Elain scoffed. “Not without my permission, you won’t,”

Feyre looked far from convinced as she leaned in to grasp Elain’s hand. “Just, be careful. Lucien is…” she trailed off. “He will be wonderful for you. And I am so thrilled for the both of you. But Nesta may have trouble sharing the sentiment,” They both watched their oldest sister, who had now joined Rhysand at the window, laughing merrily to some shared joke.

“I’m not sure, she hated Rhysand and look at them now,” Elain pointed out and smiled knowingly.

Feyre sighed and grasped her sister tightly. “Just…tread carefully, that’s all,”

“I can take care of myself,” Elain replied shortly. “I’m not some shivering fawn. Not anymore,”

Something like pride shown in Feyre’s face as she nodded, and stood to rejoin her mate.  “I can see that,”

Elain turned to stare out the window again, past the glittering rooftops of the city, past the red-stone hills that sat beneath  the far off snow-capped mountains, as if she could see all the way to where Lucien was. She felt a stab of something foreign in her stomach. A void. Like she was missing something she hadn’t realized she needed with every fiber of her being.

After the dinner that night, as she lay sleepless in her too-large bed, her thoughts strayed only to him. She could picture him clear as day, tall and lean in his usual green tunic, his strong jaw always set in some kind of combination of annoyance and amusement. How she had fallen for such a sardonic male, she would never know. But all she knew was that he was just what she wanted, despite it all.

She tried not to regret her stemming of their touching those few nights ago, tried to remind herself that it had been the sensible thing to do. The responsible thing, to draw out their bonding, to give them time to adjust to one another.

Yes, so very sensible.

She tried not to imagine what it might have been like if she had stayed, if she had let him carry on pushing up her gown, kissing her neck. She tried not to imagine how they might have proceeded from there, how they might have fallen together on the bed after it had become too much, how they might have slowly removed every last shred of fabric from one another, how they might have run their hands upon each other’s skin…reveling in the feeling of another. How he might have used those strong arms to lift her up above him, how she might have straddled him and bent down to run her tongue over his throat. How she might have let him squeeze her and bring his hips in line with hers. How his groan might have sounded in her ears at the touch, how it might have reverberated down her body and pooled in her–

Elain’s breath caught and she sat straight up in bed, trying to ignore the throbbing heat that threatened to drive her mad.

Sensible, she reminded herself. It was the sensible thing to do. With some difficulty, she managed to distract herself and fall asleep, wondering how she would get through the next few days. The tales Feyre had warned her about, the frenzy of newly mated pairs that she had rolled her eyes at now didn’t seem too far-fetched. If this was what it felt like, without having fully bonded, she could not imagine the depth of desire it would turn to.

The next morning, something felt different. The House, the room, felt less empty somehow. Like a piece of…something…had been put back in place.

Not daring to hope, but mad with curiosity, she dressed quickly, and nearly bolted down the corridor to the living spaces, eyes scanning every corner of the room.

And there he was, talking with Azriel, evidently having just gotten in, from the look of their windswept clothes. He stood tall but by the slight slouch of his shoulders, he was exhausted from what had undoubtedly been days of arguing and placating the arrogant heads of the courts.

As soon as Elain entered, Lucien stilled and whipped his head around.

“Elain,” he said, nearly dropping the black-ribboned scroll he held in his hands.

“It is good to see you,” Elain bowed her head, praying the smile on her face appeared as virtuous and unassuming as she was attempting it to appear. “And you Azriel,”

The Shadowsinger just lowered his head respectfully, glancing briefly between the two of them, and exited the room with a bow.

“You were gone..awhile,” Elain said breathlessly, taking a hesitant step toward him.

“Three days and eighteen hours,” He replied smoothly. “But who’s counting,”

Elain’s face broke into a smile, and for a moment she thought they might have run to each other and embraced right there and then, the tension hanging between them more taught than a sailor’s rope.

But she only tuned her face up with a polite smile and said, “Shall we join the rest of the House for breakfast, then?”

Something flickered in his face, as he saw her little game. She wouldn’t be giving him what he wanted so easily, no matter how much she wanted it too. “Yes, let’s,” he nodded and held out his arm, to escort her. “How very proper you are,” Elain remarked, taking his arm and trying not to dwell on the warm strength she felt there. “I am nothing if not proper,” Lucien replied dryly. “Or at least, I am only improper when it counts,” Elain’s breath hitched as she saws the deviant look cross his face. “I’m...” she started, unsure how to continue. “I’m sorry for leaving, the other night,” “That’s alright,” he said as they rounded a corner. “It was the sensible thing to do,”

Elain stopped dead and stared at him, agape. “I felt you last night,” Lucien admitted.

“Oh?” Elain asked innocently, knotting her hands together on top of the thick layers of the gown she had chosen. “Just...felt?”

“I couldn’t see you but…I felt you, and heard bits and pieces of your thoughts...somehow,”

Elain’s cheeks flushed and he bit her lip. “I may have been…regretting my choice to leave your chambers the other night. I may have been finding a need for someone to…occupy my time,”

Satisfaction spread across his face and he smirked, “Oh, were you?” they turned the corner and began to descend the polished red stairs, their steps echoing up the cavernous arched ceiling where a decadently-appointed crystal chandelier sparkled in the skylight above.

“And did you find anyone to occupy your time while I was gone?” his smile turned mischievous again.

Elain’s mouth dropped in outrage, but she laughed. “I am more dutiful than that, Vanserra,”

“Oh, are you dutiful?” Lucien edged her a glance with his green eye.

“When it counts,” she answered slyly, echoing his words. They approached an entrance to another sitting room. There were so many unused ones sprinkled throughout the House, it was a wonder Rhysand’s family had found enough furniture to fill them.

She indeed glanced inside as they passed, to find it utterly empty. She turned back to Lucien and paused. She found herself liking the way his eyes traced the contours of her gown as they stopped, noting the way he stared at the lowcut style of her bodice, probably noting the way it had shifted above her chest as she walked. She knew he’d be at her mercy the moment she so much as rolled down her stockings. “Did you miss me?” she wondered aloud innocently. “Or was I the only one pining?”

Before she had time to take another step, Lucien had whisked her inside that sitting room and latched the door behind them. She gasped in astonishment and found herself pressed against him behind the door, as she had done to him that first night.

Elain’s mouth was agape, in surprise and delight as she was rendered breathless above him. He pressed her into him, taking her mouth with his own, and ran his tongue along her lips.

“I did miss you, dove,” he growled in her ear, the warmth of his breath sending thrills through her body.

She watched as his gaze became searing with want as he leaned back into the wall, spreading her thighs slightly. She let him grab her rear and prop her up on his torso, so she could grab his neck and bring his lips to hers again and again. She wished she could taste all of him at once, and there was scarcely time to breath in between their kisses.

“Lucien,” she whispered his name against his neck as he made fast work of unfastening her corset. “I wanted you..so much, last night, and the night before, and before...”

Delight lit through him as he replied easily, “I know,”

“Arrogant fox,” Elain jabbed, but she was beaming all the same.  Lucien walked them the few feet to the nearest settee and let her gently plummet onto it, her corset falling away. He bunched the fabric of her gown underneath, poised to lift it over her head. But his eyes met hers, questioning still, even now.

Elain did the work for him, taking the skirts in her own hands and throwing them off, so that only her undergarments and stockings remained, made from delicate ivory satin and lace.

“Elain,” he breathed reverently as he looked down at her, as one of her straps fell and she didn’t stop it. He stepped closer, standing above her, the lust in his face matching the same in hers. Elain could have died from want, as she imagined all the ways he could touch her, would be touching her soon.  

He kneeled before her where she sat on that sofa, running his hands along her shoulders, leaving goosebumps in their wake. One thumb traveled inward, meeting the swollen flesh of her breast, flicking over the peaked redness. Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, he leaned in and captured her breast in his mouth, tasting and sucking gently. Elain gasped and arched her back, letting her eyes close in ecstasy, wondering if she might too burst into embers.

“You like that, dove?” he asked in a growled whisper, his breath tickling her skin as he gazed up at her from where he kneeled.

She nodded, eyes still closed as his mouth played upon her skin like a minstrel, roaming until she had shed her undergarment top entirely.

Panting, chest heaving, she took him in her arms and moved them both back to standing, forgetting that they were in the middle of a sunny sitting room, a mere two rooms away from where her family gathered for a meal. But none of that mattered then, only the feel of her mate against her and the growing want in her core.

“Lucien, please,” she urged his hands faster, wanting to catch this want like a beast in a net, tired of the chase. She frantically unbuttoned his tunic and peeled away the fabrics. So many layers, so formal, these damned fae.

When he was shirtless and she could finally feel the warmth of his dark golden skin beneath her eager fingertips, she let her mouth find his again. She gasped into his mouth when his own fingtertips traveled up beneath what was left of her undergarments, to swirl around the edge of her. Testing the slickness, the place she knew he so desperately wanted to know. Circling it, but never quite meeting the center.

“Please,” she whined again, and he smirked, his hair now askew and his forehead shining, but she didn’t care. She had never thought him more handsome, more desirable than that moment.

“Anything for my dutiful, sensible dove,” he said, the sarcasm dripping in his voice.

She didn’t have time to give a pointed reply before she found herself nearly collapsed into him, as his fingers angled inward, finally feeling the center of her. His eyes were trained on her the entire time, and they seemed to relish in her loss of control. Just as quick as they had entered, he pulled away, smirking as she let out a whimper of protest.

He turned her around so her rear pressed into him from behind, clutching her, one hand between her legs and one gently caressing her chest. She shook, not in fear but in the overwhelming want that had turned to need. Need for him to touch and take her. Need for her to know every inch of his body.

“More?” he asked in his silvery tongue, just as his fingers found purchase within her folds. She nodded obediently, gasping at the newfound pleasure, wondering if it could ever be any better than this.

“Show me how dutiful you can be, my darling,” he growled, as he bent her over so she was belly-down on the pillows of the settee, spreading her legs slightly. He did not push himself on her fully. There was time to play, yet.

“Lucien,” she pleaded. And when it felt like it had become too much to bear, when she thought the building heat would not wait another moment, she felt him rest above, feeling the soft weight of him crush into her. And carefully, she felt him slip aside her underwear with his fingers. She gasped again as his fingers entered her once, and then twice, before pulling out again.

“Please,” she tried not to beg, tired to retain any amount of dignity. But it was no use, as he teased her again and again.

“Yes, my dove,” he whispered as he replaced those fingers with his mouth, and it took everything in her not to cry out. She buried her face in one of the plush pillows beneath her as her body shook. She thought she was falling and flying and dying all at once, and she let out a strangled cry.

She felt the rumble of his laughter behind her as he grasped her legs, shushing her lightly. “We don’t want an audience,” he softly clutched the undergarments still sitting askew on her hips and pulled them down, letting his hands graze along her legs as he did.

Elain twisted slightly when she was free of them so she could look up at his face and smirked, “They can listen, for all I care,”

“Oh, really?” he laughed quietly and threw the strip of fabric behind him, fire blazing in his face.

“I don’t care,” she pulled him over her, kissing him deeply.

“Such a devious little dove you are,” he said against her lips. Without waiting another moment, Elain turned to face him fully where he kneeled, and grabbed tight on his trousers. Licking her lips, she pulled them down, wanting them both to be bared, wanting to seize back the upper hand. And Lucien let her, kicking them and his boots off and raising them both up to a standing position again. She felt herself flush as she took in the sight of him, of all of him, but she was not afraid. Not anymore. Only the need for him consumed her, there was no place for nerves.

Lucien let out a long sigh as she took him in her grasp, the warmth of her hand alone enough to set him ablaze. He watched as she bit her lower lip in concentration, wanting so badly to capture that mouth with his own and take her, every inch of her. But he resisted somehow, content to see her relish in his shudders. She slowly ran her hand across the tip of him. So so tortuously slow. He was utterly bent to her will in that moment, but he did not mind. So long as she would do this to him for the rest of their days.

She could almost feel his pleasure through the bond alongside hers as they touched and explored one another. And they stood there, grasping one another until Elain stopped, gently moving back to lay down on that sofa.

For a brief moment, Lucien looked as if he thought she was changing her mind. But that was soon remedied by the sight of her carefully spreading her legs as she laid back, staring him down with an intensity that stripped him to the bone.

He hovered over her, gently stroked her wetness, feeling the want within himself ratchet up alongside hers.

Elain’s mind might have gone blank, for she could think only of his touch, of the growing ache in her core, of the need to have him closer as he worked her core with those nimble fingers. The feel of him there, as they lingered at the threshold of their mating was enough to ruin her. She felt the tether pulse alongside them, calling them further into that bond.

“Lucien, I want you,” she said, parting her lips to let his tongue roam within, tasting him again and again. “Now,”

“Not later?” he asked in jest and he pressed her nails into his back for emphasis. He growled in approval and aligned himself to her.

And suddenly no words were needed, no words could fully convey what lay between them as they fell together. She widened herself to accommodate him, as he entered her fully. She gasped, suddenly unsure of what to do, but trying to focus on the way he felt within her. The rightness of that moment.

She was too afraid to move first, and he too was still for a moment, until she felt one of his hands gently support the back of her head, while the other clutched her thigh. His gaze was trained on her, and they trembled together, on that precipice between worlds.

“I love you,” she whispered, leaning up to kiss him, this time sweetly and with purpose. Something passed across his face, like a sorrow and a joy rolled into one.

“And I love you,” he replied as he finally began to move. And they were joined. Bound, like an unbroken link, a tied thread, an eternal chain.

Elain felt like she had been set ablaze with want as they moved and learned of each other, and she clutched him tighter and tighter on that small sofa as he slid in and out.  Her eyes bore into his, huffing out a sharp sigh as he moved, filling her up so completely. They kissed fervently and she could think of nothing but his body on hers, see nothing but the sharp angles of his jaw, the elegant slopes of his cheekbones, the way his brows furrowed in a mixture of pleasure and concentration. She lifted one hand to grasp the falling tendrils of his sleek red hair and braced the other against his back, urging him farther, deeper, faster. And he obliged.

“You like that, my darling?” he gasped.

“Yes,” she whimpered in response, squeezing her thighs around his and digging her nails into his back, hoping it wasn’t hurting him. But he seemed to thrill at the contact as it urged him on.

Soon, her repeated gasps filled the room, matched only by his groans as they moved. Her lips, swollen with the heat of kissing, parted again and again until he captured them with his own in an intensity she had never before known. She needed more, it wasn’t enough…so she ran her fingers down the pane of his abdomen to the apex of her thighs, until she found her center. Lucien’s eyes followed the movement and he gave a loud groan, before cupping her thighs and smoothly rolling them over so he was sitting on the sofa and she was hoisted above him, her legs bent around him, giving her more pleasure. And Elain thought she might combust then and there. Head back and eyes closed, she could think of nothing but his body, of her desire to fuse with him. As if they were two rivers joining into an expansive ocean.

When the pleasure had ratcheted up, when she thought she couldn’t handle any more but still wanted more, she felt herself shatter around him, felt the intense relief and pleasure barrel through her. She cried out, knowing she was probably waking up half the city, her entire body damp with sweat. And Lucien followed, and she could feel his relief through their bond.

After, once their sighs broke and their breathing slowed, they stayed joined together, still clutching one another. She held him, running her hands slowly over his back; savoring every point in which their bodies still met.

“Well,” Lucien asked for a moment as Elain stood, parting their bodies at last. “Was it worth the wait?

“I suppose,” Elain said with a devious grin, standing before him. She pushed back the stray hair that had become stuck to his forehead, caressing the scar that shot down the side of his brow as she did. She kissed him deeply, pushing him back onto the sofa. “But can we do it again?”

[kensingtonapts]

HUNTER CLARINGTON is 27 YEARS OLD and he is a FINANCIAL ANALYST in the inspiring city of NEW YORK. He is living in Apt 227. He is portrayed by hot-bod  Nolan Gerard Funk and is currently CLOSED for auditions.

( + ) confident, charismatic, industrious.

( – ) elitist, hedonistic, manipulative .

HUNTER’S STORY

Mr. High and Mighty really needs to learn to get off his high horse at times. Coming from a line of intellectuals and Richies, he’s got the over-achiever ‘tude and fine threads that will make your mama proud. With a good paying job as an financial analyst, everyone questions what the hell it is he is doing living at this particular apartment complex when he could afford a skyline view. He’s got an emotional attachment to the place and to be honest the idea of some big cold penthouse up in the city just sounds….extremely uninviting. He may decorate lavishly but he ultimately wants his home to feel like a home - not like it stepped right out of a Better Homes and Gardens magazine. He believes he’s smarter and better than everyone else and that often times steers people away. Though, it’s the good looks and sweet ass car that draw them all back in. He may come off as brash and condescending at times - but he genuinely does care for those around him and is a true romantic at heart. Despite the air of superiority he often sports.   When you take away the designer suits, the business card, and the Porsche, there’s a man as lonely as the rest looking for love in a city of millions. The one night stands are fun and all but all he wants is one special person he can come home to every night after work and boast about to his parents. He’s got everything in his life plan but that. It’s not that he has a hard time getting someone it’s just no one out there is interesting enough to share his bed with twice. Will he ever find someone worthy of a second cuddle?

♛ Born into a long line of well-respected military men, Hunter was the sole heir of the Clarington family’s fortune and high expectations. His mother was a young Hollywood starlet before she fell for a handsome man in uniform. A beautifully grand house, a white picket fence, and a perfect son - their life looked like a fairy tale. However, their relationship was mostly PR, and their little family was really only picturesque when there were literal cameras around. The Clarington family was always, if only just a little, dysfunctional.

♛ Hunter was given his middle name, Lucien, after his great-grandfather who had been a highly regarded General in the army. It was always expected that Hunter follow in his footsteps and become a commanding officer in the branch of his choice. However, after spending two years at West Point, Hunter chose a different path, thereby raising his parents’ expectations further. Now he had prove that he had made the right decision, and considering his established success as a financial analyst, he has certainly met those expectations.

♛ Hunter has a lavish penthouse down at the Pierre which serves as an ideal setting to host business dinners and formal events, and of course, to bring back dates from such events. It’s polished, cold, uninviting - perfect for one night stands. However, that’s not where Hunter wants to live. He wants his home to feel like a home. That’s why he continues to live in Kensington Apts, a place that he has an emotional attachment to. Most people are far more impressed by the penthouse, but in Hunter’ opinion: it’s fuck pad, not a home.

HUNTER’S CONNECTIONS

↳ QUINN FABRAY: Hunter looks for nothing less than the best. He wants to achieve in all walks of his life and right now he’s successful, he has an amazing apartment, and a substantial income. However, one thing that’s missing is a nice girl to take home to his parents. And there’s only one person who he thinks could fulfill that role: Quinn Fabray. They’ve been long time friends - both of their fathers having worked together for the same company. In fact, their families have been trying to not so subtly set them up together for some time. He’s tried asking her out on a date before but so far it’s been fruitless. Quinn has obviously thought about it (he IS gorgeous after all) but she’s still been itching for that little bit of rebellion and she’s unsure if Hunter is going to give that to her. Though, he isn’t planning on giving up quite yet.

↳ KITTY WILDE: Kitty thinks he’s absolutely GORGEOUS. He’s got that older, successful man smolder that she positively melts for. He’s rich, he’s accomplished, and would definitely fit that picture perfect life she has envisioned for herself. She never tries to put a move on him or anything, she may be bold but she’s not quite THAT bold. She’s also got a lot on her plate and she’s not sure adding a boyfriend to that is quite what she needs. 

↳ FINN HUDSON:  Close friend. At first glance, one would not expect temp Finn Hudson and financial analyst Hunter Clarington to mesh well at all. Especially with Hunter’s judgmental tendencies. But Hunter really respects Finn. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that he’s an army man - which Hunter has always grown up respecting. Or maybe it’s just that Finn never does seem to flinch away at Hunter’s brashness and instead sees right through all his bravado. Either way - Hunter likes to hang out with Finn during his free time and wants to help him succeed and get out of his rut.

THE QUESTIONNAIRE 

1. You’ve got quite the big ego…compensating for something? Or rather, lack thereof?

2. Ouch…how many times have you been brushed off by a one Quinn Fabray now? Ten, fifteen?  

3. So what exactly is keeping you here at this apartment complex? Surely you can afford a penthouse overlooking the New York skyline by now?

[junker-town]

The best things about every Champions League matchup

Also: What is Arsenal going to do now that they’ve sacked Unai Emery?

Hello, and welcome back to another edition of Tactically Naive, SB Nation’s weekly football/soccer/kickball column. This week we have mostly been sobbing quietly in the corner.

THESE ARE THE BEST TEAMS

And this is the best bit of the competition, isn’t it? When the fluff of the group stage is out of the way and we get down to the knockout football. Two legs. Floodlights. One winner, one loser. PSG making a mess on the floor again. A nice chilled pint of delicious Gazprom.

Feel your eyes widen and your brain cool. Don’t fight it. Relax into it. These are the best teams. More Gazprom? There you go. Follow the ball. Back and forth. The same teams, the same games, over and over and over and over … close your eyes. And—

Huh? Oh? Sorry about that, drifted off a bit. Where were we? Ah yes. Today was the draw for the last 16 of the Champions League and — well, you remember how last week it was appalling how the same flippin’ teams get through every time? Turns out those same flippin’ teams getting drawn against one another makes everything okay. Let’s go tie by tie.

Borussia Dortmund vs. Paris Saint-Germain

This is the easiest one to call. Sure, Dortmund have had a fairly chaotic start to the season. But there’s a couple of months to go before the games, so one of two things will have happened: Either they’ll have sorted themselves out, or they’ll have fired Lucien Favre smack in the middle of the new manager bounce. Either way, PSG will be strolling along at the top of Ligue 1, hoping that this is the year they finally turn vast financial power into knockout results.

This is not the year. PSG are going to get humiliated, again, because they are cursed. Dark and ancient forces are arrayed against them, and you can’t spend your way past magic.

The only real question is: if Favre does go, which ex-Dortmund player is the narrative equivalent of Ole Gunnar Solskjaer? What’s Karl-Heinz Riedle up to these days?

Real Madrid vs. Manchester City

pic.twitter.com/Hwy5gVGgZ4

— No Context Final Fantasy (@ContextFantasy) December 15, 2019

Atalanta vs. Valencia

As a column, we at Tactically Naive are studiously, carefully neutral: we hate all football teams equally, only slightly less than we hate ourselves. But we might have to make an exception for Atalanta, who are the very picture of a neutral’s favourite. Cute football, plenty of goals, punching way above their weight and enjoying every minute of it. Curse them for making us feel again.

Atletico Madrid vs. Liverpool

Be nice to finally find out the answer to that spear vs. shield, fox vs. hound, unstoppable force vs. immovable object problem, won’t it?

Chelsea vs. Bayern Munich

This is going to be two very good games of football. Frank Lampard, man of the people, has put together a Chelsea side that play some very nice football but absolutely cannot defend, and we’ve already had the ridiculous 4-4 against Ajax and the only slightly less ridiculous 2-2 against Valencia. Against Robert Lewandowski? Might get biblical.

Sadly, the whole occasion will be ruined when Bayern attempt to buy Callum Hudson-Odoi at half-time of the second leg, and a fight breaks out between the sporting directors. Bayern later formally apologise for the actions of Karl-Heinz Rummenigge, saying that he “should not have thrown himself elbow-first into Bruce Buck shouting ‘that’s for Drogba in 2012, you [redacted]’.”

Lyon vs. Juventus

Could be a bit one-sided, this. Juventus strolled through their group, while Lyon finished only a point ahead of Benfica and Zenit in Group G. But still, there’s hope. For while there are only a few footballers who we can imagine scoring a winning goal and then pulling out the Ronaldo look-at-me spin celebration, that list includes Lyon’s Memphis Depay. The adorable buffoon.

Tottenham Hotspur vs. RB Leipzig

Honestly, the footballing world cannot lose here. One of two beautiful things is guaranteed to happen. Either Spurs strike a blow for Proper Football by dispatching the cynical advertising construct of Red Bull Leipzig, or Jose Mourinho gets humiliated by a can of fizzy pop.

Napoli vs. Barcelona

It is, perhaps, the nature of Napoli, to bring hope wherever they go. For they are Italy’s greatest club. Not best, which is boring; not most successful, which is accountancy; but greatest, which is dignification made up of equal parts glory, failure, and romance. As such, they exist in this strange world of contradictory possibility. They could do anything. They could do nothing, beautifully. They could do both.

Will they do something against Barca? Probably not. Lionel Messi’s very good. But Napoli got the best of Maradona while Barcelona didn’t, and so they’re already the moral victors. For some rather smudged definition of “moral.”

A new dawn for Arsenal

Arsenal are not in the Champions League. But Arsenal have recently sacked Unai Emery, the most Europa League manager who ever Europa Leagued, so we can be fairly sure they’d quite like to get back to the big time. And it looks like they’ve found their route back: after a 3-0 drubbing at the hands of Champions League big-timers Manchester City over the weekend, they’ve decided to appoint the genius behind that drubbing.

Congratulations to the new manager of Arsenal: Pep Guardiola!

[puts finger to ear] Wait, what? Oh. Oh dear.

Congratulations to the new manager of Arsenal: Mikel Arteta?

He hasn’t got the job yet. But the City assistant with the fungible hair has been entertaining Arsenal dignitaries. Chief executive Vinai Venkatesham and club lawyer Huss Fahmy were photographed leaving Arteta’s home around 1:20 a.m. Obviously we can’t rule out that they were just caught up in a really intense Settlers of Catan session. But it looks suggestive.

Anyway, Arteta ticks a lot of boxes. First of all, the fact that City walked through Arsenal so easily suggests that their management team had done some decent thinking about Arsenal’s strengths and weaknesses, and how best to counter the former and exploit the latter. Sounds basic, but there were times when you wondered if Emery had ever thought to do the same.

Beyond the pointlessly cruel jokes at the expense of a man who probably tried his best, Arteta has played for Arsenal and has spent a couple of years making notes next to Guardiola. Those are things that might be important. Alternatively, they are things that might be completely meaningless. But those are the things that will get him the job, because honestly there aren’t many other options.

Europe’s biggest clubs are burning through managers faster than European football can produce them. If Arteta gets the job, then three of last season’s Big Six will be in the hands of former players with limited experience. And they’ll all be below Brendan Rodgers in the table. There’s probably a lesson in there somewhere.

Still, if you need a defensive coach, Mikel, don’t worry. Big Sam is here to help.

Sam Allardyce on Arsenal's defence: “I could come and work on Arsenal’s defence and make them better tomorrow, not a problem whatsoever. I’ve done it everywhere I’ve been – Newcastle, Blackburn, Bolton, West Ham Crystal Palace, Everton, I’ve done it all there." pic.twitter.com/SvLTyx5mgq

— Squawka News (@SquawkaNews) December 16, 2019

[friendeel9-blog]

Dr. Lloyd's Sanitarium - 6-8 St. Nicholas Place

In 1884 John Fink commissioned architect Richard S. Rosenstock to design a commodious suburban home in the area that would later be dubbed Sugar Hill.  The principal in the pork packing firm of John Fink & Son, his new residence would reflect his significant personal wealth. Rosenstock designed a three-story, freestanding residence in the trendy Queen Anne Style.  Although his plans called for a "brown stone front dwelling," only the basement and first floor were faced in rough cut stone.  The second floor was clad in brick and the top floor in wood.  True to the Queen Anne style, the house featured a riot of angles, shapes, and colors.  Dormers poked through the fanciful jerkinhead gables, and a corner tower clung to the two upper floors.  A profusion of stained glass and scattered carvings delighted the eye.  The cost of construction would be equal to about $924,000 today.

Carved portrait keystones and stained glass transoms survive at the northern corner.

Located at No. 8 St. Nicholas Place, on the northeast corner of 150th Street, Fink's stylish home and its bucolic hilltop location may have been a deciding factor in James A. Bailey's decision to built his imposing mansion on across the street, at No. 10.  The Real Estate Record & Builders' Guide, on January 16, 1896, commented "One of handsomest residences on this avenue is that of John W. Fink, son of Commissioner Fink of railroad fame.  It is situated o the northeast corner of One Hundred and Fiftieth street, and is a three-story ornate stone front building, having all the modern improvements."

The original entrance porch with its sideways stoop is evident in this early photo, as is the wonderful turret.  Directly behind is the James A. Bailey house.  from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York 

An avid boater, Fink was active among the wealthy sportsmen of northern Manhattan.  On May 29, 1888, for instance, The Evening World commented, "John W. Fink, of the Friendship Boat Club, is said to be the probable winner of the junior singles of the Harlem River regatta."

The construction date is worked into the elaborate carving on the first floor chimney back.

A delightful detail is Stein's continuing the gable level over the chambered rear corner.

That same year Fink sold the house, along with the vacant property extending east to Edgecomb Avenue, to real estate operator Charles E. Runk and his wife, Aurelia.  Runk was also the treasurer of the Washington Heights Taxpayers' Association, and a partner in the Oneota Fertilizer and Chemical Co. The Runks' ownership would be short-lived.  On March 9, 1891 they sold No. 8 to Sigmund Bergmann for $31,750, just over $900,000 today.  Bergmann was a partner with Edward H. Johnson and Thomas Alva Edison in the Bergmann Electric & Gas Fixture Co.

Sigmund Bergmann was a partner with inventor Thomas A. Edison.  Electrical Review and Western Electrician, December 21, 1912 (copyright expired)

Bergmann had left his native Germany in 1870 at the age of 21, already trained as an engineer.  The Electrical Review and Western Electrician later explained "He was associated with Edison for several years and being imbued with the idea that he should turn his talents in a direction that would insure to him the greatest possible personal reward he established a business of his own."  That move did not injure his friendship with Edison nor their businesses connections.  His lifelong friend, Francis Jehl, later said "many of Edison's experiments were made in the Bergmann shop, while the phonograph was to a great extent developed with Bergmann's assistance." In 1893 Charles Runk sold the undeveloped eastern plot and at the same time removed the restrictive covenants John Fink had originally built into the deeds.  It was a move that would have serious impact on No. 8 a few decades later. Simultaneously Jacob P. Baiter and his wife, Kate, began construction on their upscale residence next door at No. 6.  Their architect, Theodore G. Stein, file plans on May 26 for a 25-foot wide, four story brick dwelling to cost $35,000 (or about $1 million today).  Completed the following year, it could not have been more different than its neighbor.

Stein had turned to the more formal Renaissance Revival style with undeniable Romanesque Revival influences.  He embellished the beige brick with terra cotta decorations and included a rounded bay at the second floor.  The top floor took the form of a steep mansard, its gabled dormer ornamented with an intricate panel of tangled bows, wreaths and swags. Jacob Baiter was the East Coast manager of the Fleischmann Yeast Company, and so it is most likely not a coincidence that Max Fleischmann would soon live almost directly across the street at No. 400 West 149th Street.  Yeast was an important part in the making of alcohol, and both men were involved, as well, in the Ridgewood Distillery, the Eastern Distilling Co., and the Somerset Distilling Co.

Originally a high sideways stoop led to the doorway.

Jacob and Kate had two sons, Charles William Grevell and Louis J. Baiter.  Kate Baiter died in the house on October 26, 1898.  Her funeral was held here three days later. Jacob's grief was rather short lived.  The following year he married and transferred title to No. 6 to his new wife, Carrie.  The Evening Post Record of Real Estate Sales listed the transaction as "gift." In 1909, the same year that Charles Baiter was married, Dr. Henry William Lloyd purchased No. 8.  Charles Runk's removal of the deed restrictions allowed Lloyd to convert the house to The Audubon Sanitarium.  Having a private hospital next door may have been too much for the Baiters, and in October 1911 they sold their home to Dr. Lloyd for $75,000.  The Sun reported that he "will use it for his own occupancy." And, indeed, he did--for a few months.  In 1912 he joined the two structures with a somewhat ungainly addition.  A new entrance was established within the new portion.

In 1942 the former Baiter house still retained its stoop.  via the Office for Metropolitan History

Things inside the upscale sanitarium did not always go smoothly, sometimes resulting in unwanted publicity.  On March 18, 1912, for instance, The Sun reported on the investigation by Coroner Holzhauser and the police into "the death of Miss Alice Anderson in the sanitarium of Dr. Henry W. Lloyd at 8 St. Nicholas place early yesterday morning." The article carefully tip-toed around the fact that Alice, who was 30-years-old, had come for an abortion.  According to Dr. Lloyd, she had already received a botched procedure and that he told her "that she probably would not survive the second operation."  So certain was he that his patient would die, before starting the procedure he sent for a priest to hear her confession.  Before she died she "told her three sisters who was responsible for her condition," said The Sun. Five months later a journalist from The Sun was back, this time at the request of Mrs. Sarah Harris.  The 34-year-old, referred to as "the sufferer" by the newspaper, had been stricken with a "strange malady" three years earlier which paralyzed her from the neck down.  Able to move only her head, she had lain in the same position the entire time. On August 31, 1912 the newspaper entitled its article "Woman Paralytic Begs State To End Her Life."  In it Sarah pleaded "We have our Societies for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, which put out of their agony injured and sick animals, but human beings for whom medicine can do nothing are kept on in their torture.  Why should this be?" Mrs. Harris did not get her wish and in 1915, when Dr. Lloyd hired architect George H. Hardway to enlarge the sanitarium, she was still a patient.  The addition housed a "new maternity hospital," as described by The New York Times.

Close inspection reveals a winged, terra cotta rampant lion atop the gable.  The stylized sunflower on the metal facing below is a familiar Queen Anne motif.

Dr. Lloyd's Audubon Sanitarium saw celebrated figures come and go.  In 1917 the wife of preacher Billy Sunday received an emergency appendectomy.  The operation removed a "strangulated tumor" as well.  On May 20 The New York Times noted "Though deeply distressed by his wife's illness, Billy Sunday preached last night to 22,000 persons." The same operation was performed on Lucien Muratore, principal tenor of the Chicago Opera Company in February 1922.  Newspapers carried updates on his condition for days. Dr. Henry W. Lloyd sold the properties in January 1925 to the Louis H. Low Syndicate.  There were 100 rooms in the complex at the time.  The new owners, according to The Times on January 24, had already leased it to the newly-formed Lloyd's Sanitarium, Inc. (headed by Dr. Victor Low) "who will continue the operation of same after extensive alterations and improvements."  Architect Henry F. Schlumbohn, Jr. was called upon to update the hospital and dispensary. By 1935 the name had been changed to The Community Hospital.  The admission fee was 35 cents and a "revisit fee" was a quarter. The clinic was gone by mid-century, when the mish-mash of buildings was operated as a 53-room hotel.  As the neighborhood declined, so did the the property and by 1983 it was run by the city's welfare program as the Dawn Hotel, "housing formerly homeless families," according to The New York Times on August 25 that year.

The Dawn Hotel sat within what had become a gritty neighborhood.  Late on the night of December 6 a man entered the lobby and got into an argument with the clerk.  At around 1:00 on the morning he returned, armed with a pistol  and, according to police, "shot the clerk in the chest and fled from the hotel."  

As the Sugar Hill neighborhood improved in the 21st century, the Dawn Hotel did not.  A New York Senate report in January 2017 on the State's "unclean, unsafe, dangerous temporary shelter system" awarded the Dawn Hotel the uncomplimentary title of No. 1 in the top ten hotel violators in the state.  The facility was closed by 2018.

The once handsome houses have been sorely abused throughout their various connected uses.  And yet glimpses of their former splendor still manage to seep through. photographs by the author

Source: http://daytoninmanhattan.blogspot.com/2019/07/dr-lloyds-sanitarium-6-8-st-nicholas.html

[caveartfair]

5 Up-And-Coming Photographers at Arles Festival

This article is published in collaboration with Kickstarter. Kickstarter helps artists, musicians, filmmakers, designers, and other creators find the resources and support they need to make their ideas a reality.

Chloé Wasp, Yucatán, 2019. © Chloé Wasp. Courtesy of the artist.

Les Rencontres d’Arles has attracted some of the world’s most esteemed and pioneering photographers over its 50-year history. And thanks to its longstanding relationship with the École Nationale Supérieure de la Photographie (ENSP)—France’s sole national art school dedicated exclusively to photography—Les Rencontres continues to incorporate fresh perspectives from young image-makers. This year’s festival opened this week, and will run through September 22nd.

“Since the beginning of the festival, the idea of education, especially through masterclasses, was very important,” said the festival’s director, Sam Stourdzé. Photographer Lucien Clergue, writer Michel Tournier, and historian Jean-Maurice Rouquette hosted the first Les Rencontres d’Arles in 1970. Just over a decade later, Clergue and then–Les Rencontres president Maryse Cordesse were granted a large house in Arles, which they transformed into a school with the first director, Alain Desvergnes.

Since then, the ENSP has shaped the work of photographers like Olivier Metzger, Mathieu Pernot, and Valérie Jouve, and the festival has grown into a three-month extravaganza that has exhibited works by masters like Ansel Adams and Agnès Varda, while also tackling topics like dark tourism and racism in contemporary American culture.

The storied festival has made room for artists in all stages of their careers, and ENSP students in particular have had great access through annual collaborations. This year, student Adrien Vargoz is curating a show that places student work alongside that of Nan Goldin and Massimo Vitali; Nina Medioni is setting up a portrait studio for teens; and Prune Phi is amplifying pieces she showed last summer at the festival with her own guerilla postcard stand. Here, we highlight these artists and more in our roundup of five photographers to watch from this year’s Les Rencontres d’Arles.

Adrien Vargoz

Adrien Vargoz, Untitled from “Chasing the Sun,” 2017–ongoing. Courtesy of the artist.

Adrien Vargoz, Untitled from “Chasing the Sun,” 2017–ongoing. Courtesy of the artist.

At “WIP (Work in Progress),” an annual Arles exhibition mounted by the ENSP student association, Adrien Vargoz is exhibiting “Chasing the Sun” (2017–present)—a series about artist Martin Andersen’s initiative to build a heliostat mirror that reflects rays into his sun-starved town square in Rjukan, Norway. The work isn’t yet finished, which makes it a good fit for the show, and Vargoz ran a Kickstarter campaign to fund a return trip to continue documenting the community.

Adrien Vargoz, La Vallée, 2017. Courtesy of the artist.

Adrien Vargoz, Untitled, 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

Adrien Vargoz, Untitled from “Chasing the Sun,” 2017–ongoing. Courtesy of the artist.

“I want to continue in the same vein while incorporating movement in my photography,” Vargoz said. “The mirrors move slowly, following the course of the sun. I would like to make the connection with this elasticity of landscape, whether mechanical or organic.” He wants to test out a more participatory approach to documenting the newly sunlit space, so he sent 30 disposable cameras to locals.

Vargoz is also one of six student photographers curating a Les Rencontres exhibition in ENSP’s newest building. The show, called “Modernity of Passions,” juxtaposes student work alongside images by Nan Goldin, Ryan McGinley, Malick Sidibé, and Massimo Vitali, among other artists from the agnès b. collection.

Chloé Wasp

Chloé Wasp, Eduardo, Macario Gomez, 2019. © Chloé Wasp. Courtesy of the artist.

Chloé Wasp is one of the up-and-coming photographers included in “Modernity of Passions.” Her work is deeply inspired by music and poetry, and she cites 20th-century French dramatist Antonin Artaud as having a profound influence on her work.

Chloé Wasp, Yucatán , 2019. © Chloé Wasp. Courtesy of the artist.

Chloé Wasp, Victoria, Yucatán , 2017. © Chloé Wasp. Courtesy of the artist.

Supernatural and subtly spiritual elements are at play in Wasp’s photography, too. Her most recent work, JAGUARES (2017–present), constructs an experimental documentary about the predominance of jaguar imagery—from pre-Hispanic art to modern billboards—in southeastern Mexico, and the actual animal’s conspicuous absence from its traditional habitats as development and climate change drive endangerment. Her pieces investigate the tension between the simultaneous presence and absence of these “ghosts.”

Aude Carleton

Aude Carleton, Au Nord, 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

Aude Carleton, Le grand large, 2019 Courtesy of the artist.

Aude Carleton is participating in “Modernity of Passions”with Au Nord (2018), a photo that won a LensCulture Portrait Award for its depiction of a teenage girl wrestling with heartache. Carleton will present it with a song called Nature Boy, a poetic meditation on a footballer’s slow death on the field, set to music by Oscar Emch.

Aude Carleton, Le Soleil, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

Aude Carleton, Le bain d’or, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

Aude Carleton, Soleil de minuit, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

Aude Carleton, Flowers Flames, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

Aude Carleton, Incendie, 2019. Courtesy of the artist.

Imaginative world-making runs through Carleton’s work. Inspired by the cinematic style of film directors like Bruno Dumont and Pier Paolo Pasolini, she said that “taking pictures is like acting; it’s like staging reality.”

She’s currently developing a series called “Soleil Torride” (2019–present), which explores her roots in the West Indies. She said it stages “meeting a father [she] never knew, living under the path of another sun.”

Nina Medioni

Nina Medioni, Tsipora, from “Le Voile,” 2015. Courtesy of the artist.

Nina Medioni’s work centers around youth culture, and puts conversations before photographs. “I do photography because I love to meet people,” she said. “I spend a lot of time getting to know people before I ever take a picture.”

Nina Medioni, La Fenêtre, from “Le Voile,” 2015. Courtesy of the artist.

Nina Medioni, Lea, from “Le Voile,” 2015. Courtesy of the artist.

That’s how she started her years-in-the-making series “Le Voile (The Veil)” (2015–present). Visiting relatives in Bnei Brak—a very conservative community near Tel Aviv—Medioni got to know her cousin’s 11 children, and decided she wanted to create a portrait of their atypical experience of adolescence, with no phones or internet and limited access to books or images. “They have this ability to be very focused on someone, very curious about someone,” she said. “They’re very independent. And I want to show the choices they have to make so early—at 17, you have to decide if you’ll go into the army, and how religious you’ll be.”

To continue these explorations of adolescence closer to home, Medioni is setting up a portrait studio at a public high school to photograph local teens every Sunday through the duration of Les Rencontres. It’s a mix of personal research and community education—“a place of encounter,” as she described it, “to see how they interact with the camera, take their portraits, show them how the camera works, and discuss with them what a portrait is and can be.” She’s also taken photos of teenagers in nearby Marseilles, and will share those in “Modernity of Passions.”

Prune Phi

Prune Phi, Untitled, from “Missed Call,” 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

Prune Phi, Untitled, from “Missed Call,” 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

In 2017, Prune Phi discovered that her French-Vietnamese grandfather also had family in California—which is home to the largest Vietnamese community outside of Vietnam—and Texas. Her contact with them evolved into an extended visit and a show called “Long Distance Call” (2017). Further research into the Vietnamese immigrant community at home in France produced her next series, “Missed Call” (2018).

Prune Phi, installation of itinerary postcards and self-edited fanzines. Courtesy of the artist.

Prune Phi, Untitled, from “Missed Call,” 2018. Courtesy of the artist.

“I noticed how similar most of the shared stories were,” Phi said of her subjects. “They all brought up how peculiar their families were about sharing recipes and religion, and how silent they remained on personal experiences and expressing their feelings.”

“Long Distance Call” was featured in Les Rencontres last year, in a show called “Une Attention Particulière.” Phi’s viewing of French-Palestinian photographer Taysir Batniji’s “Gaza to America, Home Away from Home” (2017) at the festival helped inspire her work.

Now, Phi is preparing to travel to Vietnam to continue her explorations in a series called “Hang Up” (2019–present)—but first, she’ll spend time taking in Les Rencontres. She doesn’t have a formal exhibition planned, but she will display and sell postcards of her work with her peers Tal Yaron, Quentin Fagart, and Maxime Muller on the sidewalk. “It’s inspiring and exciting to see the calm town of Arles becoming so animated every time the festival opens,” she said.

from Artsy News

[zoemaryartist-blog]

Artists of inspiration from Wide Walls (web- http://www.widewalls.ch/)

Lucien Smith - Was not applicable after further investigation.

Lourdes Sanchez-

(Balasz Takac)

The use of watercolors in the work of Lourdes Sanchez seized a completely new meaning mainly due to the artist peculiar approach and processing of various forms and shapes. Regardless of the media, Sanchez continuously examines the intensity of relations between the elements, the role of coloring while sorting the composition and the final result. Fascination with the optical sensation is often although the main goal is to express or articulate inner processes to which Sanchez is exposed while producing each new artwork.

The collaboration with West Elm, influential furniture company, meant translating her art into framed pieces and pillow designs featuring painted aquatic motifs. Therefore, from 2004 Sanchez decided to become independent and created her own studio.

Whether the artist paints geometric or organic shapes, she applies the technique of watercolor and liquid inks that are left on the paper. As a matter of fact, she performs harmonic forms of color across the paper by dramatically deploying light to dark with her ink staining technique. Sanchez explores control and acquiescence up to a point where she lets the inks seep into one another which largely contributes to the almost lurk atmosphere. The shapes seem to personify sound and fit to her highly sophisticated gesture. The general impression which can be ascribed to her work is that those are formal explorations that somehow hover between abstraction and representation.

The very thin line between applied and fine arts in the work of Lourdes Sanchez provides her with the opportunity to experiment with various sources and references.The notable inspiration can be even traced from the works of late painters of Color field despite the two different formal directions – one being purely geometric, while other purely organic.

Lee Bontecou-

(Bojan Zlatkov)

Lee Bontecou is an American artist best known for her abstract wall works that feature reliefs, hanging sculptures and miniatures. These large-scale, dark-toned pieces usually contain ominous, organic voids at their centers and are made from patching together accumulations of shaped canvases, leather, porcelain curios, wire mesh, conveyer belts and muslin recall nests. When completed, they appear as unnatural mixtures of machines, ancient architecture and the human body. By working in that fashion, Bontecou aims to, as she explained herself, capture as much of life as possible—no barriers—no boundaries—all freedom in every sense[1]. It should also be noted that Lee creates mystical drawings that allow her to further her investigation of natural and man-made forms.

she developed a love of the natural world that remained a big part of her creative expression to this day. Bontecou is best known for the sculptures she created in the 1960s, pieces which challenged artistic conventions of both materials and presentation, offering a unique compromise between sculpted and pictorial artwork.[2] A major occurrence that truly directed her career as an artist was her discovery of the way in which a torch for welding could produce an easily-controlled spray of the black soot that became a signature material in her work. Lee’s 1960s work was made from recycled canvas and industrial materials such as conveyor belts, as well as many found objects that referenced the early avant-garde and Dada.

Jennifer Wagner- 

(Andrey V.)

Jennifer Wagner is an American artist whose creative engine runs on toying with the notions of shadow, blur and reflection. Her mixed media work is a unique blend of plaster, acrylic paste and powdered pigment, components that all come together nicely in a style that pays homage to the ideals of classic impressionism. Willing to give up a little bit of control in order to reach the next creative level, Wagner oftentimes states that she is creating freedom from control and randomness from organization. Minimal yet surprisingly complex in her practice, many experts and art pundits like to state that she is building up her pieces rather than painting them. 

She was able to develop her own method of creating art using layers. By playing around with pictorial layers, she started aiming at creating tensions between these elements, regularly introducing contrasts. These are what give her artwork the characteristic look that truly separates her from most of her contemporary colleagues. 

Her creative process is as free as its results. Each piece she makes is a consequence of a certain unplanned obsession and it progresses very slowly and strategically, almost imitating the way chess is played. Her mixed media paintings play with order and disorder, constantly offering some kind of contrast that creates tension within the composition. 

[fortnite-headcanons]

The High stakes club is actually just a group of Homos (Helsie and Joni are lesbians and dating while Lucian is the Gay 3rd wheel)

Fortnite Headcanon #351

[fortnite-headcanons]

The High Stakes Club is currently trying to hunt down Kado Thorne

Fortnite Headcanon #310

[fortnite-headcanons]

Fortnite Headcanon #560

Lucien shares a dorm room with Remi and Styx

[fortnite-headcanons]

Fortnite Headcanon #782

Lucien West is musically gifted

[kensingtonapts]

ACCEPTED → HUNTER CLARINGTON

Congratulations, Maddy, and welcome to the group as Hunter Clarington! Please go through the following checklist and send in your account as soon as possible!

♕ OUT OF CHARACTER

♛ NAME: Maddy ♛ AGE/TIMEZONE: 25 / PST ♛ ACTIVITY LEVEL: 7-ish. I try to be on every day, but sometimes work is too exhausting.

♕ IN CHARACTER

♛ CHARACTER NAME: Hunter Lucien Clarington. ♛ AGE/BIRTHDAY: 27 / August 22nd ♛ TRAITS:

( + ) confident, charismatic, industrious

( – ) elitist, hedonistic, manipulative

♛ FACECLAIM: Nolan Gerard Funk

♕ HEADCANONS

♛ Born into a long line of well-respected military men, Hunter was the sole heir of the Clarington family’s fortune and high expectations. His mother was a young Hollywood starlet before she fell for a handsome man in uniform. A beautifully grand house, a white picket fence, and a perfect son - their life looked like a fairy tale. However, their relationship was mostly PR, and their little family was really only picturesque when there were literal cameras around. The Clarington family was always, if only just a little, dysfunctional.

♛ Hunter was given his middle name, Lucien, after his great-grandfather who had been a highly regarded General in the army. It was always expected that Hunter follow in his footsteps and become a commanding officer in the branch of his choice. However, after spending two years at West Point, Hunter chose a different path, thereby raising his parents’ expectations further. Now he had prove that he had made the right decision, and considering his established success as a financial analyst, he has certainly met those expectations.

♛ Hunter has a lavish penthouse down at the Pierre which serves as an ideal setting to host business dinners and formal events, and of course, to bring back dates from such events. It’s polished, cold, uninviting - perfect for one night stands. However, that’s not where Hunter wants to live. He wants his home to feel like a home. That’s why he continues to live in Kensington Apts, a place that he has an emotional attachment to. Most people are far more impressed by the penthouse, but in Hunter’ opinion: it’s a fuck pad, not a home.

♕ QUESTIONNAIRE

1. You’ve got quite the big ego…compensating for something? Or rather, lack thereof?

Aren’t we a little too old to be comparing dick sizes now? Perhaps you should be spending less time fantasizing about mine and devote some towards developing more intriguing queries.

Nevertheless, if you don’t know the answer to that rather thirsty implication of yours, chances are I have already dubbed you not worth my time. Tough break.

2. Ouch…how many times have you been brushed off by a one Quinn Fabray now? Ten, fifteen?  

While I’m humbled by your worry regarding my love life, it is a rather moot point. You see, I’m a man who always gets the very best - and if that’s Quinn, so be it.

However, what I don’t understand is why you’ve been paying so much attention to my private life. I presume you’re here for one of three reasons: you’re a stalker, you’re trying to dig up dirt on me in hopes of a payout, or you’re looking for some jerk off material. Don’t forget the tissue.

3. So what exactly is keeping you here at this apartment complex? Surely you can afford a penthouse overlooking the New York skyline by now?

And who says I don’t? It’s polished, cold, uninviting… it’s a fuck pad. While it may be good enough for one night stands, it’s certainly not a home. After all, I want my living space to feel like a home rather than an advertisement from the Cosmopoliton.

And as for why this apartment complex, well, this was the apartment I got when I first moved to New York. I’m usually not one for sentimental crap, but in some way it reminds me of how far I have come since then.