#i need to like peel of my skin its so unpleasant

[ticklepinions]

Y'all please don't cancel me for saying this...

But unpopular opinion long nails are a sensory nightmare for me

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [01]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: cot3 +1 (and kipps), canon-typical violence & horror, loss of family member (not just Lockwood), found family, touch starved Lockwood, childhood friends Kipps & Reader, childhood trauma, slow burn, rivals to lovers (if this stays a Lockwood/Reader), mature language (swearing), aged up characters (everybody's in their early 20s; Kipps is mid-20s), fem! Reader though pronouns are used sparingly and no use of y/n

Summary: “Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.” Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?” You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Notes: [02]

Words: 5.1k

A/N: Words will never suffice how much Lockwood & Co. has carried me through some of the toughest parts of my life. To see it adapted to a show is SO EXCITING, I couldn't help but be a little self-indulgent and plan out a whole ass story for my favourite three (+ Kipps) ghost hunters. So here we go.

This could either stay a Lockwood/fem!Reader or I could easily change it into Locklyle or even freaking poly cot3 x Reader or just Locklyle depending on what people want to read. I'm fine with pretty much everything; I just want my silly little Reader joining 35 Portland Row because I am in DIRE NEED OF FOUND FAMILY AND JUST SELF-INDULGENT GHOST HUNTING

So yeah, I'm totally open to people requesting Locklyle or anything for this one, but it's still gonna be from Reader's POV and focusing on an original story with action and characters studies and personal growth. Also sorry for any mistakes, English isn't my first language and I'd be super happy if someone offered to become my beta-reader for this! Any feedback is super super appreciated!!

01: let the dead hollers hum

when i first saw you, the end was soon to bethlehem it slouched and then it must've caught a good look at you

—hozier: nfwmb

At almost two in the morning the streets should be empty of people and cars, yet you manage to nearly get hit by a night cab turning down Tredegar Road. Its ghastly horn echoes like the wail of a Banshee through the dark, disturbing the peaceful night. Across the street, a kitchen light flickers to life inside a building. A shadow moves behind the white curtains, pausing for a second to look out at the street.

Bracing against the cutting wind, you turn up your maroon trenchcoat’s collar and duck your head like a turtle trying to hide inside its shell. It would have been much colder without your gloves now that the early winter bite is coming, but it’s still very unpleasant to be outside after the sun has set. Today is a clearer night, despite the day of rain; the moon chases stray wisps of cloud across an otherwise unmarked black sky.

London turns in earlier than usual now that the nights grow longer and colder—and more dangerous as well. Just yesterday you heard two more night-watch kids have succumbed to ghost-lock down at the warehouses near Blackfriars when they got distracted trying to warm up from the freezing evening rain that had set in after eleven. They turned into easy pickings for a Drowner lurking beneath the docs—former scoundrels who ended their sorry lives in the water by drowning. They rarely make a pleasant sight with their bloated limbs and skin wrinkled so hard it is peeling off like layers of paint.

It makes you glad to feel the familiar weight of your rapier hanging from your hip holster, to know that just within short reach, everything you need to protect yourself is at your disposal. That and the salt bombs around your belt. It’s hard not to feel safe while carrying around something with ‘bomb’ in its name.

You find the meeting point you’ve been summoned to at the end of the street. The Green Goose is a two-floor building with the restaurant at the bottom and what you can only assume the storage and other facilities upstairs. All sun-blinds on the first floor are drawn shut.

Few London establishments are open during the night, and fewest of all in the dark hours before the dawn. But places like this, catering for agents or night-watch kids, are easily recognised by the additional fortification against possibly unwanted visitors. High up where the first floor meets the second, heavy mistletoe bushes run around the whole building like a gigantic garland. You imagine in summer this would be lavender blooms, plunging the whole street into their thick, sweet scent. The door and windows are laced with iron grilles, and overhung with battered ghost-lamps. A few wooden dining tables and benches remain vacated outside, left to their own until the warmth of spring returns.

After a first glance inside the premise through the grimy windows, you don’t spot your friend. How much easier this would be if you could carry a phone around, just to check if you are at the right place. Now all you have to go on is his cryptic call before your shift started this morning, and a vague sense of the kind of establishments he likes based to his tastes.

Good thing you have known him for almost a decade.

But that doesn’t really give you an idea what exactly Quill Kipps wants from you. Maybe help with a case? Or he has finally realised he has a crush on his co-worker, that lemony-smelling Kat or Kate, and now he needs advice. Not hanging out at the dead of the night would be a preferable start.

Small bells jingle when you push the door open with your shoulder, and a waft of warm air scented with grease and coffee hits your nose, bringing heat back to your face. It looks a lot smaller than from the outside, narrow and with the sitting area stretched in an L-shape around the bar and counter in the middle. Behind that a pair of slightly askew doors lead to the kitchen where you can hear a radio play.

The first row of tables line alongside the window, then disappear further into the back. In the corner, two night-watch kids sit huddled together, quietly snoring and drooling on each other’s shoulders with their meagre food spread before them. A waitress with short black hair and a chubby chin standing behind the counter looks up from a magazine, stares at you, and blows out a baby-blue bubble of gum until it pops loudly.

She raises an eyebrow.

You raise one back at her.

From the other side of the entrance, you hear Kipps calling your name. At that, the waitress gives you a single, polite nod which you answer alike, as though you are two cowboys engaged in a stand-off who don’t want to shoot each other.

Marching down the narrow aisle, you pass an occupied table and accidentally bump into it. Cutlery rattles against an empty plate. You mumble a half-hearted apology and move on, barely listening to the grumbled answer or really looking at the man clad in black sitting there. He gives of a sweet, heavy scent you can’t really place, and quickly move on.

Knowing you’d arrive in a foul mood, Kipps has already ordered your favourite midnight snack after a hard day’s work: coffee and a simple English breakfast with a fried egg, hot and greasy sausages, crispy bacon, tomatoes and mushrooms on the side.

“It better be important, Kippy,” you say in lieu of hello, manoeuvring over his lap to the unoccupied seat by the window, using elbows and knees to execute a complicated dance with him so you can squeeze into the narrow booth. He grunts and makes barely any effort to make you room. His outstretched legs take up a disproportionate amount of real estate. “I got a ten hour shift behind me and I’m desperate for my bed.”

“You certainly smell like after a ten hour shift,” he comments, wrinkling his nose. Of course he looks well kempt and neat as always with not a single ginger curl on his head out of order. But there are dark circles under his eyes as though someone put a charcoal pen to his skin, betraying his tidy appearance. His eyes flit over your face for a second, scanning it for any injuries.

You give him your best shit-eating grin and wolf down on your eggs when someone clears his throat from across the table—and that’s when you realise Kipps isn’t alone.

Nursing a cup of tea, opposite you sits a young man in a black suit, slender and tall, his short, unruly hair swept back elegantly. He watches you with mild interest, his thin lips slightly pursed, like someone would watch a flock of hungry pigeons plunge towards bread crumbs spread by tourists at Hyde Park—nothing out of order. Just another regular sight in the big city on a late afternoon stroll.

You hold his steady, dark eyes when you bite into your egg, feeling the yolk escape at the corners of your mouth and run down your chin. You didn’t even realise how much you were starving.

“Hwo’sh yor fren’, ‘Ippy?” you ask with your mouth full because you have absolutely zero shame.

Kipps swallows a groan.

“Yes, Kippy,” the young man replies with the most soothing, alluring voice you have ever heard, as though he’s eaten silk and honey for breakfast. “Why don’t you introduce us?”

Kipps makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. Annoyance radiates off him stronger than any other-light you have seen on apparitions. “Friend is a bit much,” he says slowly, as though he has to talk around the word ‘friend’ because it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. “That’s Lockwood.” You recognise his tone. It sounds a lot as if he’s saying That’s the biggest nuisance of my life.

The effect is pretty much the same.

You nearly choke on your next bite and aim for the coffee to wash it down. When you jerk your head around to stare at Kipps in disbelief, your eyes stretch wider than the dinner plate before you. Kipps must read what’s written on your face: That’s Lockwood? Tony Lockwood you can’t shut up about? Your arch-nemesis?

Kipps rolls his eyes so hard it must give him a spectacular view of his skull. Just humour me, his expression says.

“Ton—Anfonie ‘Ockwoo’.” You nod, and finally swallow your mouthful of food. “I’ve heard things about you.”

Lockwood’s dark eyes slide over to Kipps for a second, glinting like a knife drawn out of its sheath. He gives you a nice, easy smile. “Only good things, I presume?”

You feel your face scrunch up at the memory of Kipps’s curses, threats and very imaginative ways of what he’d do with his rapier and a very specific part of Lockwood’s body. “Yeah, uhm … things.”

Lockwood seems to understand, for he doesn’t inquire further, but his smile seems to freeze a little at the corners. “And you are?”

“Kipps’s friend.” You stuff the rest of your toast into your mouth and give your name. Lockwood blinks and keeps a polite smile, and doesn’t ask even though you’re sure he didn’t understand a word you just said.

“I wasn’t aware Kipps has friends.” Lockwood’s eyes have taken on a taunting glint, and he leans forward as he speaks. “Certainly not friends at Rotwell.”

His eyes drop to the crest stitched onto the upper part of your sleeve on your trench-coat: a snarling lion holding a rapier in its front paw—the agency’s symbol—before he gives Kipps a pointed look as though that small detail would have been worth mentioning before they got up to whatever this is.

Kipps ignores him. “I called you because I need your help,” he says, sliding napkins over to you which you promptly ignore. “I need your Talent.”

You halt at that and give him a long, level look. Kipps doesn’t shy away from the weight of your gaze, and suddenly you become painfully aware of the tension surrounding them, thick enough you could cut it with your dull knife.

Slowly, you chew your sausage. “What exactly are we talking about?” you ask, voice quieter, matching Kipps’s. He’s doing that little wiggle in his seat, shifting his weight from left to right he always does when bracing for potential conflict. When he trails his eyes away from you, you follow them to Lockwood who is looking at Kipps as though seeing him for the first time.

From the pockets of his long, black coat, Lockwood pulls out a small wooden box. It would easily fit into the palm of your hand, and from where you sit you can’t see a particular design or anything on the surface. Lockwood slides the box across the table towards you, flips it over with his long, slender fingers, and opens the lid, revealing a small bronze key lying on a cushion surrounded by thin iron plates.

You stare at it for five, six seconds. Then reach out to take another big swig of your coffee. With no sugar, acidly bitter taste explodes on your tongue, just the way you like it.

“It’s a Source,” you say. “You just carry a Source around like that?”

“Exceptional observation skills,” Lockwood says with the mild tone of someone barely holding back his impatience. “I can see why you asked her to join us, Kippy.”

“I can see why Kipps wants to shove his rapier up your—”

“Trust me, I’d be the last one missing out on a chance to ridicule Lockwood,” Kipps interrupts, tapping a finger on the table in front of the box, “but Barnes wants results by tomorrow and I’d like to act like professionals for once, so can we please focus?”

Lockwood and you throw a mirror glare at Kipps that’s something along the lines of You’re one to talk. When you notice each other’s similar expressions, Lockwood quickly schools his features back to a neutral one. “It is secure inside its seal for now, but the Visitor contained in it is not particularly strong. If we’re quick, it won’t have time to come through,” he says.

You shake your head. “You’re mad. And you—” you knock your knee against Kipps’s—“what’s wrong with you for going along with this?”

“There’s just … not enough time,” Kipps says. Exhaustion seeps into his voice, strong enough to peel back layers of caution for he shares a quick glance with Lockwood and what they don’t say screams so loudly that you have to lean back and re-evaluate what you’ve known about their relationship up until now.

It seems that Kipps has missed out on filling you in on some crucial details about the past few weeks he has worked at Kensal Green Cemetery.

“Then why don’t you just tell me what this is about?” you say, looking over at Kipps sharply. “Why does Barnes need you both to work on it? Is it a Fittes job? Did Bobby get his greasy little hands on something and—”

“Actually,” Lockwood chimes in, “it is our case. Lockwood & Co. Kipps is … an associate. And we’re very short on time to solve this case. Let’s just say Kipps has a little favour to repay. We need someone who excels at Touch, and he said you are the best at it. You might be our last chance to find out more about this key.” He has switched from that arrogant drawl to a soft, melodic cadence with that maddeningly smooth voice of his. It has to be intentional—he is trying to play you like a fiddle with that charm he switched on like an industrial bulb.

“What’s there to solve? You got the Source, you sealed it. That’s all there is. This should be on its way to a furnace right now.” You fall back into your seat, eyes raking over Lockwood’s form. He doesn’t even wear a uniform for Christ’s sake. “And you call yourself an agent?”

And just like that the light goes out, the switch flicks off. Lockwood’s face is calm; the only sign of his agitation is a pulse hammering in his throat and a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Kipps shifts in his seat. “We can’t give it to Barnes yet,” he says in a quiet voice, wrenching your eyes away from the glaring contest you have engaged in with Lockwood. Kipps presses his lips into a thin line, and you can see the mental strain it takes on him to agree with something Lockwood said. His handsome face crumples as though he has bitten into a lemon. “We believe the murder of that Visitor is still out there.”

You digest that. Go in for some more food. It takes a lot more effort to swallow your bacon. “Even more reason to just leave it to Inspector Barnes and DEPRAC. Exactly why is this your responsibility?”

“Justice for the dead?” Kipps offers.

“Protecting the living?” Lockwood states nobly.

It sounds like a load of crap, but you are too sleep-deprived to bother figuring out what truly is at stake for them. Maybe another stupid bet, or whatever favour Kipps owes Lockwood from the last.

You run a hand through your hair, bobbing your leg up and down in a frantic rhythm. It isn’t your favourite thing to do, but you have always had a hard time telling Kipps no—and God knows he has done so much for you.

“You owe me,” you tell him. Kipps nods, and visibly relaxes with relief.

“Do you need me to—” he starts, sliding his hand across the seat and offering it to you. From across the table, you hear the seat’s leather creak as Lockwood leans forward to get a better look at what you are doing. It reminds you of a hound scenting blood in the air and going out on the hunt for its prey.

“No, I’m good. I’m not taking my gloves off anyway.” You don’t like using your Talent without anything to ground you, but there is something about the way Lockwood is looking at you two, hungry almost, as though he is categorizing a particular fascinating information to dissect it later and see what use he can draw from it. Best to just ignore him. Besides, without your gloves, you feel naked, vulnerable. This isn’t something for prying eyes—and Lockwood has an awfully piercing, scrutinising pair of unfathomably dark eyes you are not interested at all to get lost in.

You lean back into the seat and get comfortable first. It never works when you go in too tense because it takes more effort to peel away the wards of your consciousness. When Kipps takes the key and plays it into your open palm, you focus on its weight first—akin to a bird bone, you barely feel it through the thick fabric of your glove.

Which doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy. The energy radiating off this thing is like a physical force pushing you back into the backrest of your seat. You close your eyes and focus on the low thrum of energy—feelings and impressions wash over you in torrents, layer after layer. Your chest feels heavy. Your stomach clenches in a hard, tight knot—fear. Fear grips you in a tight, cold grip.

Something is lurking, far far back, something unfathomably dark and abysmal but you can’t get a hold od if through your gloves and as you begin to sift through the chaotic blur of emotions to find the source—so much darkness, so much death; good Lord the things people did to get their hands on—

Excitement. A lingering echo burning so bright it blinds; hope swelling after long periods of dread, like the first spring buds blooming after a cruel, cold winter. Agitation. The adrenaline-inducing last sprint towards your goal knowing there is nothing that stops you from reaching it. The smell of damp soil and coppery hijacks your senses, and then—

Pain explodes in your chest, knocking you back against a cushioned surface. Your knees slam against something hard, sending hot shots of pain up your legs. Your eyes snap open but the world spins when all the oxygen is sucked out of your lungs and warmth spreads over your chest, liquid seeps through your fingers—but how? He could not. He would never—someone is screaming, a piercing, blood-churning scream. It takes a moment to realise the scream belongs to you; the wailing is drawn out from your raw throat, but how could anybody blame you; you are dying, shot in the chest by—

Someone is calling your name. Strong hands grab your shoulders and shake you hard as though trying to tear you away from a dream, a nightmare.

“Oh God, help me. He—he shot me—please help.” You gasp, trying to stop the bleeding by pressing your trembling hands against the wound.

“You’re fine. Listen to me, you’re fine. Nobody shot you!” A familiar voice—Kipps’s voice pierces through the wailing terror inside your head. You stare up at his green eyes which are paler than usual, widened in worry. “It’s just a psychic echo. You’re safe here.”

Another forceful inhale expands your lungs. The hot pinpoint pain in your chest subsides slowly with every shaking exhale, and when you look down at your hands, there is no blood sticking to your fingers, only coffee. When you hit your knees against the table, you knocked over your cup. Now the liquid is spreading across the table in a big puddle and dripping down its edges.

Lockwood is busy wiping the table clean with the leftover napkins while wildly gesturing with his free hand to the waitress looming over your table. “Just a long night, nothing serious,” you hear him say in haste. Either she isn’t interested or doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this; she shrugs and drags herself back behind the counter. You look around the establishment, ready to apologise for your outburst, but everybody has left already.

You turn around. When your eyes meet Lockwood’s, he grins, his smile so sudden and jarring as a thunderclap. “I have never seen anyone so sensitive to Touch. That was remarkable.” He beams as though you have performed an exceptional trick at the circus.

Something about the excitement in his voice sets you off—or maybe you are just still very raw from the experience, and the aftershock of such a gruesome echo is driving you up the wall.

“Oh yeah, it is so much fun! Feeling how people get killed every time is so worth it.” You grab your fork and stab your sausage with enough force you send tomatoes flying. On second thought, you are not hungry anymore. “Why don’t I get a gun and shoot you just so you can get an idea—”

“I’ve had my own fair share, thank you,” comes Lockwood’s flippant answer and for a second you imagine leaning over the table and smothering him with his own tie.

“So he was shot.” Kipps quickly steers the conversation back to its topic before you can follow your impulse. You slump against the seat, feeling pressure around your hand. When you look down, Kipps is holding your hand tightly, grounding you. You should have let him from the start. Weakly, you squeeze back. “We knew that already—”

“He … he never expected it to end like this,” you say slowly, gazing outside the window. Only your own reflection stares back at you. “He was shot by someone he knew. There was … genuine surprise. Before the pain, I mean. He couldn’t believe he would be hurt by someone he trusted. It was so absurd, he didn’t even have time to feel betrayed. That’s how unbelievable it was.”

“So it was someone very close to the victim. Who’s someone you’d never expect to betray you?” Kipps thinks aloud.

“Friends,” Lockwood provides.

“Family,” you say, quietly.

“A lover.” Kipps takes your fork and helps himself to some leftover mushrooms from your plate. When you look at the food, your stomach churns. “We should go back to the house tomorrow and see if you missed something, Tony. Wouldn’t surprise me if you managed to gloss over some obvious evidence,” he says to Lockwood.

“Why do you believe I would be the one—”

You shut out their bickering. A fine drizzle has set in outside, leaving small rain drops on the window. The street is a blur of black and faint white light from the ghost-lamps. When you look at your own face in the window’s reflection, your own eyes stare back at you—big, scared and haunted.

It always takes some time to get back after using your talent—to slowly build up the walls and distance yourself from the echoes of someone else’s life and the brutal way it ended. Deaths like these: sudden, violent, painful are always difficult to come back from. Which is why it is so important to have someone to ground you. Kipps has known you for so long, he is well aware how the psychic hangover drags your senses through the shredder and leaves your mind and body bruised and raw like an open nerve.

He had a few years training on how to handle it thanks to your brother.

The thought of Matthew shakes you awake and shoves you into full alertness, as if ice-cold water has been dumped down the back of your neck. You feel a sharp ache in your chest as you shove the ghost of his memory out of your mind, and then raw emptiness, as if a grappling hook has yanked your heart out of your body. It is just the aftershock—the hangover from the psychic connection, you try to reason. This is no time to allow grief back into your body, your mind.

Kipps must have heard the quiet sound you made, like a wounded animal. He falls dead silent mid-sentence and whips his head towards you. An echo of recognition passes his features for a second—there and gone so quickly, you think you imagined it.

“We are done here,” he says, and reaches over to close the box’s lid with a resolute click. You didn’t even notice he has taken the key away from you and returned it inside its seal. Lockwood opens his mouth, as though ready to argue, but whatever expression your face paints, even he recognises that you have reached your limit. Without another word, he swiftly slides the box back into his pocket.

You turn away from them, feeling anger and frustration boil inside you. You don’t want them to think you are weak just because you are a little more sensitive than other agents who can use Touch.

“Want me to drop you off the dormitory?” Kipps asks, his voice intensely neutral. He is digging through his purse to pay for your food, and shoots a glare towards Lockwood to indicate that no, he will not pay for his.

The dormitory for Rotwell agents, commonly known as the Lions Den, are rows of sand-bricked two-room apartments housing most of Rotwell’s younger agents in Chelsea. Half of your monthly salary evaporates just for paying rent, but at least it is a roof over your head and only a few stops away from your workplace. There is also something about pretending to belong to the upper posh class of London, to stroll through the highly-maintained gardens and polished windows glinting like diamonds in the early morning sun. They don’t have to deal with countless sleepless nights, the psychic hangover that makes you feel as if your body is not your own, or the constant fear every shift might be the last.

Sometimes it is that moment of pretending as though you live a different life that makes a difference.

“It’s okay, I’ll just take a cab.” Because for one, Kipps lives on the other side of the city, and two, you need to be alone.

Kipps nods, but he doesn’t look happy about it. Lockwood stays silent and is completely relaxed, a paragon of serenity with alert, dark eyes.

You scoot out of the booth and follow them outside into the cold drizzle. Mist hangs in the dark streets, rendering the area nearly invisible. Kipps and Lockwood share a few quiet words. When they part, Lockwood’s coat end flaps like black wings in the dark. He turns halfway around, gives you a long, considering look over the back of his shoulder. He parts with a single, almost approving nod, then ducks his head against the biting wind and strides down the street, disappearing into the dark night.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Kipps buttons the front of your trenchcoat. He is balancing on the back of his heels—an old habit when he feels bad for something and doesn’t quite know how to apologise and it would be easier to just bail from the conflict. “You still look like shit.”

You give him a weak kick to the shin. His shoulders relax. “I’ll fill you in tomorrow about how it went,” he says, jamming his hands inside his pockets. He pulls one out again and shoves a crushed candy into your hand. It’s your favourite brand and for the first time today, you feel something warm spreading in your chest.

“Wait.” Before he can turn away, you quickly catch his sleeve and make him turn around. “About that key…”

“Is there anything else?” Kipps leans forward and you have to bend your neck back to meet his eyes.

You remember when he was much smaller and you were at the same eye level. At 13 years, Kipps used to be smaller than the rest of the boys at Stroud & Co. where you started out your agent career and met. He’s had his share of playing errand boy or punching bag for the older, taller boys, until Matthew came along one day, dunked one of Kipps’s bullies into an overflowing rain barrel and got his nose broken in return.

They became best friends after that, and you in the middle. Matthew, Quill, and you. Lock, Shock, and Barrel.

Now, only two remain.

Kipps claps your shoulder, snapping you out of the memory and dispersing the picture you have conjured in your mind of him young. Today, he stands tall and broad-shouldered before you, twice in size and muscle. Nobody sane would try and mess with him.

“What’s wrong?” Kipps asks. “Where did you go in there?” He taps two fingers against his temple.

“When I was holding the key, the recent death was the strongest echo, but there was more. Like … way, way more.” You sling your arms around yourself. “Like many layers on a painting, and whatever is underneath all that … it feels evil. Really, really evil. There is a lot of death attached to that key.”

Kipps chews on this. He looks down the street to where Lockwood has vanished, his square jaw drawn tense. “I can’t say Lockwood’s stake on this, but I don’t care much about its history. It changed owners, I get it, but who would kill for something like that?”

“I don’t know.” You think back to the smell of blood, to the underlying eagerness to own that key. “But if that key is already that vile,” you say, shuddering, “then what about the thing it opens?”

“Not important to me as long as it’s not our problem.” He yawns, and taps a foot against the hard pavement to stave off the cold. “I bet it got destroyed or lost long ago. There is no way it’s still around.” Kipps runs a hand through his hair. It curls against his temple and neck in the damp mist. “Chances are high we’ll never hear anything about it ever again after this week. Case closed. Thanks for helping us. I’m sure DEPRAC can find the murderer and it’ll be just another case in the books.”

“Yeah, sure. I guess you’re right.” You barely hold back a yawn.

Kipps nudges your elbow. “I’ll catch up with you later, OK? Gotta make sure Lockwood’s the one who messed up the earlier investigation and go back to the crime scene.”

“Doing the Lord’s work,” you joke and give him a mocking salute. For the first time tonight, Kipps grins that lopsided half-grin showing part of his white teeth before he rushes off into the night after Lockwood.

For a moment, you stand still and let the drizzle engulf you. Although you have been almost sixteen hours on your feet, exhaustion has slowly trickled away, and in its stead a bone-deep anxiety has settled. Sleep. You need to sleep this off, and everything will return back to normal by tomorrow.

Heading for the main street to catch a night cab, you don’t turn around, and just like that, you miss out on the shadow unhitching itself from a wall even though the ghost-lamp flickers to life.

A/N: hmu if you want to join the taglist!

[tracesofdevotion]

my favorite place to be is under my covers at night.

when everyone’s asleep,

and there’s nothing but the quiet and I can feel my heartbeat

through my skin,

and i can’t quite tell if the sheets around my skin feel like safety or trap me.

The house is quiet at night when everyone’s asleep.

The silence presses against the walls.

The ceiling is painted white,

and the air is cold.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep,

I find my way outside the safety of the covers

and tiptoe down the stairs,

down to the hall,

down to the couch,

with its cracked and peeling black leather,

and I sit in the silence

with the shadows.

There are certain things I struggle to say

even to myself,

though it’s just me in my head,

because the shape of them in my mind

feels like a secret.

my mind is a confusing, muddled mess of contradictions.

sometimes i feel a deep need

to be alone,

and yet often i find myself lonely.

i struggle in social situations,

in groups where I’m not needed nor missed,

and in crowds where others don’t notice my presence.

my mind is not always a good friend to me.

sometimes it takes thoughts i don’t like

and repeats them over and over,

until they’re all i can hear.

I’m constantly at a crossroads between what I ought to be

and what I would like to be.

I want to be a person who’s able to handle conflict,

who isn’t afraid of things as simple as a phone call

or leaving my room.

i want to be kind and generous,

like a good person should be,

but i’m also quick to judge

and to hold grudges.

sometimes my mind makes assumptions

so fast I don’t even notice I’m making them.

and yet in spite of those unpleasant things about me,

my body keeps holding on to life.

it continues keeping my heart beating

day after day -

almost as though it were saying

“i know you’d rather be dead

but look, i’m still here, and i want to stay.”

i’ll admit to a fondness for tragedies.

i know that life has its ups and downs,

good times and bad times,

but i can’t help but find there’s something beautiful

about the lowest of the lows.

I know that happiness

is a fleeting thing.

It’s a flame that can be lit

by the tiniest spark,

but it can be so easily snuffed out.

I know they say that you should find happiness

in the little things,

but I find more often than not

that even those are not enough

to make me feel okay.

[velidewrites]

To get back what the Cauldron has taken from her, Elain Archeron makes a deal with Prythian’s most dangerous enemy.

Now, a servant of a cruel Death God, Elain must make sure her efforts are not discovered—especially not by someone tied to her darkening heart by a golden thread.

Someone like her mate.

Notes: My humble offering for @elucienweekofficial. This fic is a post-ACOSF story — and very close to my heart as it’s based on the very first one-shot I’ve ever written.

Tags: Post-ACOSF, Canon Compliant, NSFW

Read on AO3 || Chapter 1 || Masterlist

Chapter 3 - You're Not Like The Others

Lucien watched Vassa carefully as she leaned back in her seat, arms stretched out before her as she examined her shimmering skin.

“How do you feel?” he asked, eyeing the soft, blueish glow that seemed to shine from her very bones—in all his centuries on earth, Lucien had never seen anything quite like it.

Vassa considered, looking over her body once more before finally meeting his gaze. “Cold,” she said, though her voice betrayed no concern.

“Here,” Jurian said, rising from his seat to peel the jacket off his arms. Vassa smiled, stopping him with a lift of her hand. “It’s alright,” she said. “It’s not unpleasant, it feels…nice, actually.” She took another breath, shoulders loosening as though a thousand knots within them had just been undone. Slowly, Jurian receded back to his chair, his brown eyes sharp and trailing every single one of Vassa’s movements.

“You’re supposed to rest now,” Lucien reminded her. “Nuan said an hour at least—your body needs time to absorb the elixir.” Beside him, Jurian grunted his agreement.

Vassa looked at Lucien. “I’m afraid your mate has other plans for me this evening.”

Jurian glowered at him—as though Elain being so hell-bent on staying at the manor had somehow been his fault. The way Lucien saw it, the quicker they got this whole ordeal over with, the sooner she would be gone—and the sooner could he go back to his useless routine of pretending she did not torment his every thought.

Because she had—even more so now that he’d finally, finally spoken to her after months of seeing her only in his dreams. Their conversation—if he could even call it that—just a few hours ago had lit a match somewhere deep in his chest Lucien thought had long been darkened to ash, and he was more determined now than ever to find out just how bright it could truly burn. Every visit, every Solstice, Lucien had been presented with the same blurry picture—a polite, quiet Elain, so out of place in her new world that she needed space to figure things out on her own. Lucien had been more than happy to give it to her—until now, when the picture sharpened and he finally looked at it with new eyes.

There was nothing quiet about Elain Archeron, thank the Gods. She hadn’t expected to see him and he could tell the sentiment from her face as clear as day—he’d caught her off guard, like a startled animal resorting to its most primal instincts to defend itself. She’d shown her claws, the roaring that simmered beneath her pretty dress, begging to be let out.

Lucien was practically itching to be the one to do it.

“You don’t have to be so damn stubborn about this, you know,” Jurian told her, earning a look that, had he not been slaughtering on the battlefield his whole life, would’ve sent a regular man running.

Vassa said, “If Elain can find the answers we need, then I’m willing to try it again. And again, if necessary. However many times we need.”

Lucien leaned forward, propping his chin up on his palm. “Not too many, let’s hope.”

Vassa angled her head, her fiery hair shifting with the movement. “Does she know where you’ve been this morning?”

“Not yet. We got, ah…sidetracked.” His face flushed slightly as the words came out of his mouth, realising the message probably implied something entirely different than what he’d intended.

Sure enough, Jurian’s dark brows rose. “Have you—”

“No,” he cut in sternly. “But we…talked.”

“I wonder how that went,” Jurian murmured, the words rewarded with yet another look from Vassa.

Lucien muttered, “It doesn’t matter.” Because it didn’t. As much as he might have enjoyed seeing her true colours come to life, it could not have been more clear that Elain had hardly shared that sentiment. They might have spoken for the first time in forever—the conversation perhaps longer than any of the scraps he’d ever been given with her—but as soon as her mission here was over, Lucien had no doubt in his mind Elain would retreat to the shadows of the Night Court, never to light that match in his heart again.

Vassa hummed. “If you say so,” she said, resting her back against her seat again as her eyes closed in content. “This feels really good,” she admitted, that blue light still coating her tired features. “Maybe I’ll rest for ten minutes before your mate cuts me open again.”

Jurian snorted. “I got this,” he said to Lucien. “You go get your mate.”

———

Elain shifted on the couch nervously, watching as blood began to drip down Vassa’s hand. The carpet was still stained from yesterday, a rusted sort of red dotting the thick fabric and forming a pattern that, if she angled her head just right, she could’ve sworn looked just like a bird in flight. Elain sighed, well aware that, especially with the time ticking down her very tight schedule, she was definitely growing paranoid.

“Your turn,” Vassa’s voice pulled her from her thoughts, transfixed on the thin stream of liquid still filling the crease in the firebird queen’s palm. She handed her the knife, the steel surprisingly heavy in her hands, and lifted the sharp side of the blade to her smooth unassuming skin.

A low snarl ripped free from Lucien’s throat, and Elain’s head snapped up to meet his eyes.

He didn’t return her gaze, though, the pools of russet and gold flashing a sizzling flame that threatened to spill and burn the whole manor to the ground as he stared at the knife. His hands balled into fists at his sides, his knuckles bone-white and his body tense enough that she knew he was barely keeping himself seated, the beast in his chest purring out its loud sounds of protest.

That same beast, as Elain knew, lived in her own chest—though she’d managed to keep it dormant after the first and last time it awoke, silently raging as it took in Lucien’s bloodied clothes after the final battle. Elain tore her gaze off Lucien, slicing through her palm with a straight, clean cut.

That rage, that primal ferocity that roared in him to protect her—it wasn’t real. Their beasts—both of them—eventually, would be tamed into submission.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jurian murmured to his friend, leaning over the couch, Elain’s arched, Fae ears catching every word.

Lucien did not deign him with a response.

Jurian turned to Vassa. “Remember, you don’t have to—”

“We’ve talked about this,” Vassa said, the words apparently dismissal enough.

Elain nodded, offering the general a tentative smile she hoped masked her impatience. “This will never work if you don’t trust me,” she offered. Come on, her mind silently urged, tell the where it is. Tell me where you hid it.

Jurian opened his mouth, but Elain was quicker—she reached out to Vassa, her own blood dripping to join the carpet’s strange pattern. “Ready?”

Vassa loosed a breath. “Alright.”

The queen slipped her hand into Elain’s, two streams of blood joining into one.

The world flashed again, a white-hot flame consuming every inch of the room until it all became a bright, scorching nothingness.

But this time, Elain was prepared.

She navigated the space as though she’d been born for the light, her eyes now looking beyond what the fire veiled. There she was, Vassa standing atop a lustrous surface and looking up to the sun.

Elain looked down right at her.

Vassa’s eyes were closed—she could not see, not here, only feel as Elain’s light warmed her body, golden-brown skin shimmering under its power. But then, the sun intensified, and the surface beneath her feet trembled, as though the light had become too strong to reflect. Elain burned now, no longer a comforting presence above the queen, but a threat—beams of a scaling fire shooting to pierce through her, with Vassa’s heart their one and only aim.

Vassa’s brows knitted, her nose scrunching at the shift in the air—and her eyelids fluttered. In a second, those eyes would meet Elain’s—the last face the firebird queen would see before she burned to her death.

Elain.

Everything stopped.

Elain, please— a pause, as though the voice had choked on a breath. You have to save her. Help me save her, I—I can’t live without her.

The voice, hoarse and strained, echoed through the chambers of her very soul. Why did you do it, Elain?

The surface trembled again and blurred, shifting into something solid beneath Vassa as she fell, her knees hitting the ground hard.

“No,” Elain’s mouth moved on its own accord. “No, please—I—I didn’t mean to hurt anyone—”

A low, smooth chuckle. Well done, my sweet.

Elain jerked away.

“Elain!” Lucien called, by her side in an instant as if she’d frightened him—as if he cared. “Elain—are you—what the fuck did just—”

“Lucien, I need you here!” another voice—Jurian—reached her as the room began to come into view.

She had to have stood up at some point, and abruptly from the looks of it—the couch she’d sat on had been pushed back two feet, leaving four, long scrapes in the wooden floor. The back of her legs pulsed slightly from the impact, forgetting the immortal strength that rested within her muscles, just waiting to be harnessed. Elain looked over the space—not a lick of flame in sight—until she rested her gaze on Vassa, where the mortal queen hissed at the raw, bubbling skin of her open palm.

Lucien leaned over her quickly, a soft glow Elain recognised as similar to the magic used by Madja back in Night as he cast it over the burns. Elain looked down to her own hands—and, to her horror, found them perfectly smooth, not a single sign of the fire’s touch on them.

This, Elain decided, did not look good.

Her mind raced in search of an explanation she could offer—a lie she could come up with on the spot, certain that if any of the Band of Exiles learned of what she’d just seen, they would drag her down to the Nolans’ old basement and lock her up for all eternity.

Jurian, Cauldron bless him, gripped Vassa’s arm, forcing the stunned queen to look up at him at last. “Tell me exactly what you saw.”

Vassa blinked, a fog scattering from her cerulean eyes. “I…” she looked at Elain, frowning.

Elain could not breathe.

“It felt…strange. I couldn’t see anything but light—but I felt it, warm on my skin.” She looked down to her palm—to the new, gleaming skin, no burn marks in sight—and added, “It grew hotter—and then everything stopped.”

Elain had to keep from crying out in relief.

Lucien looked at her, an incredulous expression creasing his scarred face. “And you?”

Lie, that silky voice within her purred. Lie and take what you came here for.

Elain looked back, her attention falling to the deep wounds in the floor she’d caused. There was a time when lifting a heavy, iron chair had been a struggle. Now, she could probably lift a thousand of them.

She forced herself to look away, her decision made simple. “That sounds about right,” she said to their expectant faces, then cleared her throat. “Except—I could actually see Vassa standing under the sun, looking up to the sky. In her human form.”

Vassa gasped quietly, Jurian squeezing her shoulder tighter.

“She was holding something,” Elain lied, fighting to keep her throat from closing up. “A small, rectangular shape.” The two males behind Vassa exchanged glances.

“What was the colour?” Vassa breathed.

“It was too bright—I couldn’t see it very well,” Elain said. There was little doubt in her mind that they’d never hand the box over to her—her only resort was prying its location from Vassa’s mind. She added carefully then, “Perhaps another vision…”

“Can you focus your Sight on it?” Jurian asked. “See…see what it was exactly? If it was…open?””

“I…” Shit, shit shit. They did have it—they’d tried to open it, too, apparently to no effect. “I could try. But Vassa…” she looked at the queen and offered a sympathetic smile. “You were smiling.”

Elain made a show of lowering her gaze to her palms slowly, an exasperated sigh sounding deep from her chest. “I don’t understand why this keeps happening.” The queen shook her head, still seemingly in awe at the Seer’s previous words. Jurian, too absorbed by looking at Vassa with an emotion she couldn’t quite discern, did not return her gaze, either.

Lucien looked at her wordlessly, his silence almost palpable in her chest. He was not a daemati, but Elain checked her mental shields anyway, making sure they were still intact despite his sharp scrutiny.

But it wasn’t her mind his presence seemed to slither into, but somewhere else—prodding at that place beneath her ribs that could ruin everything had he only decided to disobey the order she’d given him a mere few hours ago.

After all, there was a reason Elain had been working so hard to avoid him—months upon months of hard work, of carefully selected words and bold, if not desperate, strategies—a triumph she’d thought she’d cemented at the last Solstice.

Apparently not. 

Lucien, to her relief, stopped despite the golden cord around her ribs calling out his name in a quiet song. She stifled the sound immediately, levelling her eyes on his own, praying that her expression would not betray a thing.

Finally, Lucien turned to Jurian—to Vassa. “I need to go,” he said, his voice tight. “Don’t wait up with dinner.”

———

Lucien’s reaction—or rather, the lack of it—made her stir through the rest of the night.

She had decided to forgo staying up the way Jurian and Vassa did—especially when doing so meant having the house practically all to herself throughout the day. Elain had begun taking mental note of the rooms she’d already managed to search, crossing them out as a potential hiding spot one by one until she decided the ground floor was not, perhaps, her best shot.

She could only pray the box was not somewhere she’d never dare to go. Like Lucien’s bedroom.

Elain knew exactly where he slept by scent alone, a warm morning breeze infused by something like hot caramel dripping down his skin. She could smell it in the entire house, its trail infuriatingly following her no matter how far she’d tried to escape—a constant reminded of the thorn in her side.

A silent grimace twisted her face as she remembered he’d used a smilier analogy to describe her a few hours ago—and with that, Elain promptly decided to go to sleep.

At least in his absence, there was no steady thrumming lulling her into dreams she could not allow her mind to drift into again. Lucien’s heart had a quiet beat that no one else seemed to hear—in the manor, or even the House of Wind back when the two of them had briefly occupied it at the same time. Elain could hear it well enough, though—chanting the same words over and over again, as though repeating them persistently would make them any less of a lie.

Mate. You are mine and I am yours.

Elain groaned into her pillow, keeping her face there to inhale the clean scent of cotton instead.

The softness of the fabric seemed to have done its job well enough, because Elain’s thoughts eventually slowed and her jaw relaxed, lips parting slightly to take a quiet breath. A few more and she felt herself falling—her body sinking into the mattress, into the darkness enveloping her slowly…

Elain squinted as she spotted a light somewhere at its very end. It shone a soft glow, inviting her closer.

She began moving through the shadows, thick and stalling her every step as though intent on keeping her away from the light. But Elain knew, with a certainty she didn’t think she’d ever felt before, that she was meant to follow that light—that once she reached it, she would never get lost in the darkness again.

As she approached the end—or perhaps, the very beginning—the light became clearer, taking up a shape. It formed into muscle first—hard and golden-brown as it built a tall, powerful frame. A broad chest, with a silky white fabric draped over it, and an arm adorned by a golden cuff, slithering around the impressive bicep.

Elain could not tear her gaze away—she found that she didn’t want to. The light was far too warm, far too compelling, for her to ever want to be near anything else.

But then, the light was given a face.

It twirled a bright russet and a glittering gold, looking down on her from beneath dark lashes. Elain backed up a step, darkness already swooshing thickly behind her—ready to wrap its tendrils around her body and pull her in, never to return again.

Those strong arms reached out for her, finding their way around her waist, grounding her and offering her safety. She found herself leaning into them—into the sculpted chest as she noticed the very light that seduced her had come exactly from it. It shone quietly beneath his skin, and Elain could’ve sworn that if she focused, she could hear its gentle thrum.

She placed a hand on that light, the feel of it washing over her like the first ray of sunlight as it rose over the night sky. Elain looked up then—to meet those eyes of russet and gold, realising she no longer wanted to back away.

Lucien smiled down at her, his large hand covering her own. “Listen, Elain,” he said, his voice filled with an emotion that made her own heart ache. “It beats only for you.”

She opened her mouth to answer him—to place his hand on her chest, too, perhaps—when a flitting sound sounded behind her.

Wings.

Elain jolted awake.

Her gaze immediately snapped to the windowsill—to where she’d forgotten to close the window to her bedroom fully—and found nothing but a small, chirping sparrow, taking its rest happily before resuming into the fading night.

Elain sighed in relief and went back to sleep.

———

Feyre’s midnight-sharp talons brushed against the gates to Rhys’s mind, a solid wall of impenetrable darkness.

The touch was met with twinkling laughter. Yes, Feyre darling?

A picture flashed down the bond, and Feyre smiled at the sight of Nyx, cooing happily in Rhys's arms. His big, blue eyes looked into his father’s, widening as though he saw the whole wide sky inside them. Perhaps he had.

Feyre caressed the sight down the bond, then stored it deep in a quiet, glowing chamber of her heart. Actually, she started, no longer wishing to disrupt them, I think I can handle this one myself.

A low hum sounded his agreement. I have no doubt that you can. She watched as he carefully set the baby down, Nyx’s small wings rising on instinct to accommodate the new position. Still, allow me to listen in? He’d comply with whatever answer she gave him—at her side or in the shadows, her mate would step back if  that was what she wished.

As if she ever could. We are a team, she told him.

Rhys glanced at their son. That we are, he agreed softly.

Feyre smiled, then blinked, the image slowly fading away to be replaced by the palette of cool greens and mahogany woods of the drawing room. She sent the location down the bond. Gwyn is here, she told her mate, smiling at the priestess sitting opposite from her, teal eyes watching the silent conversation curiously.

Rhys appeared a moment later, foregoing winnowing straight into the room for a quiet knock on the door signalling his presence. Gwyn stood up as he entered, bowing slightly to the High Lord the same way she had as Feyre let her in.

“Please, don’t stop on my account,” he told her in a manner of greeting before taking his seat beside Feyre. “Where is Nesta?” he asked her.

Feyre huffed. “Running late.”

Rhys’s mouth twisted into a shit-eating grin. Who would’ve thought freshly mated couples would’ve bothered you this much, Feyre darling.

Prick.

As though summoned by the wind carrying her name, Nesta suddenly appeared, reaching them from the doorway in a few quick strides, a heavy scent wrapped tightly around her skin. Gwyn, apparently well-acquainted with such entrances, rolled her eyes as her friend plopped on the cushions beside her.

Rhys sighed deeply. “Cassian?”

Nesta waved a hand. “Otherwise occupied.”

“What does that mean?” Feyre frowned.

Nesta snickered, more to herself than the rest of them gathered, “It means he is to remain exactly where I’d left him until I’m available again.”

Please, Rhys’s voice slid into her head again, for my sake, don’t ask her any more questions.

Feyre teased, I only worry for poor Cassian, of course.

Rhys’s expression looked pained. Something tells me Cassian is right where he wants to be.

Gwyn, thank the Mother, cleared her throat, giving Nesta a look that was almost scolding. “Shall we, then?”

Rhys looked at her as though she’d just declared world peace. “Please.”

The priestess chuckled, leaning over the coffee table. “Merril, unsurprisingly, was a dead end—but I believe I was able to find something interesting,” she said and, with a flick of her wrist, a stack of documents appeared, the fragrant smell of ancient scrolls mercifully cleansing the room. She looked at them both, meeting Feyre’s gaze directly. “What do you know of the fourth Dread Trove?”

She felt her mate’s surprise flicker down the bond.

“Next to nothing,” Feyre answered for him. “As far as history is concerned, there are only three,” she added, recalling Rhys’s words from months ago.

“Amren had once mentioned it,” Rhys said, Gwyn’s shoulders rolling back at the name of their Second as if on instinct. “There were rumours of it—rumours from her time. Whispers that it had been lost, or perhaps Unmade.” He angled his head, considering. “I believe that’s about the extent of it.”

Gwyn nodded. “That is correct. I was hardly able to gather any information on the existing Troves, let alone one only ever spoken about in rumours.” She shuffled through a small stack of papers, a silvery glint of a bracelet catching Feyre’s eye as her hands moved. “The library at the House of Wind holds very little information on magical objects or artifacts. Most of the priestesses choose to specialise in active history, or the events that shaped our cultures—our languages, our music—and as such, we have never had the need to collect knowledge that might have been more useful to other researchers.” She frowned. “Or so Clotho has said, at least.” Rhys nodded, though something about his shimmering gaze told Feyre the library’s collection would soon be undergoing a vast improvement.

“I wasn’t exactly hopeful,” Gwyn continued, “until I remembered something Nesta had told me about months ago. A vision, sent to her by one of the Prison’s…residents.”

“Lanthys,” Feyre whispered, recalling her sister’s horrifying encounter with the deathly mist-god. She glanced at Nesta, her sister’s expression almost bored as she casually sipped from her tea.

The priestess nodded again. “Nesta recalled a fourth object on the Dread Troves’ altar.” She looked at Nesta expectantly.

Nesta set down her cup. “I could not see much,” she admitted, “the vision was veiled in mist. But I remember the gleam of it to this day—a bone, aged and worn-out, yet still containing ancient, powerful magic.” Her hand tightened on the cup for only a moment. “It called to me. Cauldron-made to Cauldron-made. There was no denying it.”

Rhys asked, “You believe the fourth Trove is that bone?”

“It’s our only lead,” Gwyn said, “And, as it appears, not entirely a dead end.” She lifted a piece of parchment, a yellowed image painted above a text in a langue Feyre did not follow. “This is an old myth about the Seers—ones from so long before our time the exact date still remains in question,” she explained. “It seems their talents could be controlled by music—they listened to specific tones and melodies to clear their minds of the fog, usually clouding parts of their visions—and, sometimes, to even alleviate the pain.”

Nesta stilled. “Pain?”

Gwyn nodded. “It appears pain is a common side effect to the Sight. This text claims Seers are known to experience the physical impact of whatever the Sight is showing them—for example, foreseeing a stabbing might result in a Seer feeling a sharp-like sensation in their gut. Or wherever else the person would be stabbed, I suppose.”

Nesta looked aghast at the news. She looked at Feyre. “Did you know about this?”

Feyre could only stare—at her sister, then at Rhys. “No,” she whispered.

Elain had once foreseen Hybern’s twin Ravens. Had she…?

You can’t think about that right now, Rhys’s gentle voice sounded in her mind again like a soothing touch. We can only help Elain by moving forward now.

Feyre nodded, though her throat still felt tight.

“How does this tie to the fourth Trove?” Rhys asked Gwyn, ever so patient.

The priestess slid the parchment across the table. “Take a look at what the eldest Seer is holding.”

Feyre glanced down and stilled.

“Is that…” she started, the question dying on her tongue.

“A bone,” Gwyn agreed, finishing it for her. “According to this text, it was the eldest Seer’s family heirloom, taken from the body of his ancestor, that he used to enhance his abilities.” She glanced at the two rulers across from her. “It could not only clear the fog, but allow him to navigate his visions as he pleased, stay within them for as long as he needed, sometimes replaying it over and over before its meaning became clear to him at last. It is also said,” the priestess added, “that the Bone could be used to induce visions, allowing the Seer to find answers to whatever questions pressing him at the time.”

Feyre sucked in a breath. “This—this could change everything.”

Gwyn’s freckled face seemed grim. “Unfortunately, this is all I was able to find on the Bone, and even it being a Dread Trove is only my theory. The myth does not stem from a different, original text—finding anything even remotely related to this story would require the aid of researchers far more experienced than I am.”

Feyre looked at Rhys.

“Please don’t tell me you’re actually considering this,” Nesta sighed, seemingly reading the silent words from her sister’s face.

Feyre narrowed her gaze. “You may not like him, but he is perhaps the only ally we have that we could trust with this.”

Nesta nodded. “I know—I’ll go.”

Rhys straightened, as though another voice had just requested permission into his mind. “I believe that won’t be necessary,” he said after a second of a pause.

The entryway flashed auburn, revealing none other than—

“No need to start brooding, Nesta Archeron,” Lucien drawled, Nesta’s eyes flashing an ice-cold flame. His gaze slid to Feyre. “And here I thought I was the one bringing the news,” he added, Rhys apparently having already filled him in on the conversation mind-to-mind.

Rhys smiled at Gwyn, who gaped at the newest guest—at the golden eye and the cruel scar slashed across it. “Thank you, Gwyn. Your help has been more invaluable than I can put into words”

Gwyn’s returning smile was tight. “If only there was an easier way to do this.”

Feyre sighed, resting her back against the soft seat. “I really miss the Bone Carver.”

———

Lucien returned the next day, his face unreadable enough to make Elain shift on her feet.

She did not know where he’d gone that had taken up an entire night and half the day—but the looming speculation that his absence had something to do with Elain grew heavier and heavier over her with each passing minute he was gone.

Jurian was already awake—had been since midday, actually, a fact that made Elain have to keep from gritting her teeth as the general seemed to have made it his mission to follow her around the house every step of the way. His mistrust towards his friend’s mate was nearly palpable, and no amount of polite smiles or I’m just going to go and find something to read had managed to keep him away as she tried to search for the godsdamned box.

Elain was growing more and more desperate. She’d been given a week, and a task that had originally seemed doable enough (find a way into the manor, search for the stolen box, deliver it back to its original owner) was very quickly proving more difficult than anticipated. The box was here—she could sense it now, its magic calling out her name and filling her nostrils with the mouldy scent of earth. Vassa had hidden it well enough, though—Elain could not, for the life of her, find its location based on scent alone, silently cursing herself for not using all those months to ask Rhysand’s shadowy wraiths for basic tracking training. What good would all that baking do to her now?

The most important thing was that she remained at the house—that she kept distracting its occupants with a smile after smile, vision after vision, spilled blood after spilled blood, until she finally found the one thing she’d been asked to do and be rewarded with, quite literally, everything.

By the end of this week, Elain Archeron was going to, once again, become human.

And then…then she could finally live.

When Lucien found her, she was lounging in the drawing room, her favourite childhood book she’d found in the study propped up innocently on her knees as Jurian watched her closely from a corner. She sat up immediately, dread building in her chest all over again as she met Lucien���s hardened stare.

I know what you did, he could say. I’ve looked into your soul and found the rot you’ve invited into it. I know who you are, Elain Archeron, and I won’t ever let you become who you’re supposed to be.

Lucien sighed deeply. “Pack your things, sunshine. We’re going to the Day Court.”

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[thueenz]

https://www.tumblr.com/thueenz/731939710257283072/

What are your favourite fruits?? Also I think all of them should be seedless, I'm tired of pips and seeds just hanging out in there like ants. Except for like strawberries and kiwis and stuff like that, in those cases the seeds add a certain grittiness and character. What do you think?

hi bro just woke up LMAO

HMMM i think my favourite fruits are peaches, cherries, anything citrus, and pomegranate ?? if berries count i like blueberries and blackberries best

i also agree especially with berries. raspberries and blackberries have no right having those tiny little seeds that get stuck in your teeth. its a Sensory Pain for me so i just chew them super softly so i dont actually put pressure on the seeds 😭

im neutral to.. MOST SEEDS other than that but honestly i cannot deny that if some of the were smooth and seedless that would be kind of epic... pleasant texture. i also dont like strawberries that much specifically because i need them to be super sweet bc the sudden tartness explosion bothers me. yet i also will eat a raw lemon and extremely sour candies for fun but i swear its different. its not a sudden explosion in my mouth of tart juice THAT bothers me. i have a bone to pick with strawberries. so much potential.

what i think fruits really need is to have less awful SKIN TEXTURES apples are the worst. they are my sworn autism enemy. for years i thought it was part of the normal experience to have to psych yourself up to bite an apple and deal with the severe sensory pain to the point it was almost physical i thought that was just like something people put up with apples 😭 like yeah the apple pain we all know her. one day i just realized i can just fucking peel them and now i peel them LMAO i also cant stand grapes that dont have enough surface?? tension so that the skin just sorta pops if theyre all loose the skin just hangs in your mouth and is tough and unpleasant... Evil

ugh little core areas are also evil. slightly hard core left from inside of apples hey whats with my and apples. theyre the worst. love the taste tho. anyway peaches too i love them but i need to cut out the stringy close to pit area bc it bothers me.

tl;dr bro is SENSITIVE TO THE SENSORY EXPERIENCE OF FRUIT

[crucifixi]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀TESTING A WEAPON

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀His gloved hands picked up a scalpel, its sharp edge gleaming under the artificial light. It was a necessary evil, Conrad had convinced himself. For the advancement of their research, sacrifices needed to be made.

Wolfwood's eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, his face betraying no hint of fear or apprehension. His breaths were steady, his gaze steady. He was ready.

Conrad began, the scalpel making its initial incision with clinical precision. It was a slow process, one that Conrad was well versed in. Every movement, every cut, was deliberate, calculated.

The blade press under the cuff, blood beading up fast from the nearby vessel before with one swift move cutting open the tender flesh down to the arm fold.

Carefully Wolfwood braced himself for the pain as the scalpel dug into his flesh. He forced himself not to scream and his pain tolerance is high but that doesn’t mean he’s numb.

A sharp intake of breath was the only outward sign that Wolfwood felt any discomfort. He wasn't fidgeting or wincing, his jaw set in grim determination. His attention remained on the ceiling.

Conrad made another cut, this one following the edge of the cuff to where the flesh met the bone, severing a sinewy piece of the underlying tissue. His hands moved quickly, almost automatically, the blade moving with practiced ease to follow the curvature of the bone.

There was a flash of light as the blade hit the bone, and then Conrad paused, letting Wolfwood's arm rest on the table. He let out a heavy breath, and then took the next step.

He carefully held up the thin piece of bone he'd cut from Wolfwood's arm, examining it closely.

"Good. This bone looks strong. Now we move to the other side..."

Wolfwood felt sick.

His gaze never left the ceiling as his thoughts continued to race. He couldn't believe this was happening to him. His eyes closed for a moment, his brows furrowed.

Conrad held up the next piece of the arm, making Wolfwood's stomach lurch.

"Good. This one is...a bit thinner. Interesting, the serum should have done it job. Let’s see.."

He began to pick up another scalpel, a different blade than the one he had used. This was a smaller, thinner blade, but still as sharp as the other.

Wolfwood clenched his jaw again as the scalpel made the first incision in the skin and then he couldn't help but hiss at the pain as Conrad cut down through the muscles and tendons. It was agony. The pain was excruciating but the worst part of it all was that he knew how much it was hurting Conrad too.

The skin began to peel back as Conrad moved the scalpel through the layers of skin, exposing the glistening pink meat underneath. Wolfwood found that he couldn't look. He had seen this part of the process before, and each time it was no less unpleasant to see.

His jaw was clenched as he continued to stare at the ceiling, trying to stay focused on something else.

Conrad cut through the meat with clinical precision, blood oozing out as he moved the blade further under the flesh.

The bone itself was in good condition, and so Conrad went for the other cuff, this time without hesitation. He was determined to finish this as soon as possible. He wanted to be back to work on the tissue.

It was a long and tedious process, but eventually, he got through both of them. Both arms were completely exposed, their musculature and bones glistening with fresh blood.

"Now, we have to put a temporary dressing on these so that we don't damage them. And then, I have some work to do."

He took a cloth and dabbed at Wolfwood's exposed arm, trying to clean some of the blood off.

The blood was warm and thick. Wolfwood tried not to move his arms as much as he could because even that felt like he was tearing them off. He just had to grit his teeth and bear it.

His breaths were shallow as he watched Conrad take his arm and put a dressing on it. The material was cold, but not enough to distract him from the burning pain.

"I can't wait to get my hands on that tissue. The regeneration rate is astounding, it's like nothing I've seen before."

Wolfwood swallowed hard. "And it's all in my arms?"

"Not all of it. There's plenty left in your abdomen,"

Conrad said bluntly, reaching out for a small syringe. "We're going to need test more of serum, so we'll just need to do that."

He moved over to Wolfwood's abdomen, making the first incision along his ribcage. The blade was sharp, slicing through the layers of skin and muscle with ease, and with no hesitation or worry about how much pain he was putting Wolfwood in.

"Hold still," Conrad ordered, his eyes locked on the incision. He pushed aside the skin and muscle with a pair of long forceps, pulling open the abdomen, exposing the glistening pink tissue underneath.

"Yes, this serum is a great improvement over the last batch," Conrad mused, reaching for a larger syringe.

Wolfwood let out a heavy sigh and tried to ignore the pain he was feeling.

He glanced over at the man in charge. His fingers tightened around the armrests as the incision was made. Conrad was being careful. That much was good. However, Wolfwood felt like this man had no remorse whatsoever for what he was doing to Wolfwood.

Wolfwood swallowed hard and did as he was told, holding still as the incision was made. His eyes widened and he let out a soft breath, looking up at the ceiling again.

Conrad leaned down, pressing a needle to one of the small vessels within the tissue. He squeezed it gently, blood beginning to flow from it as he watched it, fascinated.

He took a scalpel from the table, cutting off some of the tissue and placing it on a slide, sliding it over to one of his microscopes.

" Nicholas. You've been quiet for a while," Conrad said, not looking away from the slide as he worked.

Wolfwood didn't respond. He continued to stare at the ceiling, ignoring the burning feeling in his arms. His mind drifted to something more pleasant.

The orphanage — the kids that he use watch and play with happy just waiting for his return. Crybaby Livio hugging the life of out him for being gone for so long.

Livio's smile and his bright eyes.

He felt a pang in his chest as his mind wandered to the kids. He wondered how they were. Did they remember him? Had he made enough money to take them away?

He thought about their faces. Their laughter and smiles. Livio. He wanted to see him. He blinked and closed his eyes, letting out a long sigh.

Conrad glanced up from his microscope, examining Wolfwood carefully. His gaze lingered on his eyes for a moment, before turning his attention back to the tissue.

"Hm. Interesting," Conrad murmured, running a finger over the sample on the slide.

"Look like the growth rate of the cells here, they're multiplying at a phenomenal rate, and the blood vessels seem to be expanding as well," He continued, as though talking to himself.

Wolfwood's mind began to wander again. The kids, the orphanage, everything was going to be okay. He had to be strong, so that he could protect them.

His eyes opened slowly as he heard Conrad. He frowned slightly, looking at the other man, listening to what he was saying.

Conrad was moving away from the table now, putting away his microscope.

"Now I need to get a sample of the growth hormone," He said, reaching into the small refrigerator to pull out a test tube and a small bottle.

Wolfwood watched him for a moment, wondering what he was going to do next, before turning his attention back to the ceiling.

Conrad brought over a long needle, filling it with the fluid from the test tube. He leaned down over Wolfwood's abdomen again, ready to make his next incision.

"This time I'll be making a different kind of incision,"

He explained, carefully pulling apart the skin and muscle. Wolfwood couldn't help but cringe as Conrad opened his abdomen. The flesh parted easily under the blade, but that didn't make it any less uncomfortable to see or feel.

He watched as the needle was put into his flesh, the contents of the test tube being injected into the muscle tissue of his stomach.

He kept his eyes on the ceiling, his jaw clenched and his brows furrowed. Conrad let the needle stay for a moment, before slowly removing it and covering the wound again. He stitched up the flesh as quickly as he could, sealing the incision. He finished quickly, and then removed the gloves.

He took the scalpel again and moved around to Wolfwood's back. This would be the last incision he needed to make.

He leaned in again, making the incision.

It didn't take long, and when he was done, he began to stitch up the back, trying to finish quickly, his thoughts returning to the tissue.

"Nicholas," Conrad said again, his tone still casual, " We're almost done here. The test is going well. I think we've gotten everything we need from this tissue sample. The serum is almost complete."

Wolfwood looked over at him. His eyes were tired, the circles under them darker than normal. He watched Conrad carefully, not saying a word.

Conrad returned to the table, carefully placing the sample into a plastic bag.

"I'll be right back, I have to go get a sample from one of the other test subjects."

[sebastianjameswrites]

Nuri spiced sardines in olive oil

“Seriously, are you still watching that?!”, my partner, Haley, asks. “It's been 3 hours and you're still watching canned sardine reviews?!”

“Tin reviews”, I replied,

Pre-Covid, tinned sardines were definitely not an exciting lunch idea to me. In 2018, I thoroughly enjoyed plump, charcoal grilled sardines on the southern coast of Spain, but frankly, chomping down on a dozen shiny, little, cold, oily fish was never an appetising idea. We had plenty of fresh seafood growing up in New Zealand that, I guess tinned fish wasn't something we ate much of at all. We had tinned tuna, but that really is about it. I didn't have my first tuna melt until Haley made me one on one of our early dates. A simple combination which I was weary about at first, quickly became a staple. 

Nowadays, as I spend plenty of time online, and some time outside in the real world, it's becoming clearer that more people are grasping the great idea of cheap and easy omega-3 fatty acids -- sardines! There are “Tin of the month” clubs, YouTube channels, TikTok accounts and Discord groups which all revolve directly around the ever growing tinned fish cult (or is it a fad? , maybe a chat for another day). Today, sardines and other tins of preserved seafood are something I keep an eye out for in every little market I walk by. I went to a few Asian supermarkets last week and found plenty of options. Sometimes hidden gems, entire walls of tinned seafood ( 1kg tins of fried dace??, maybe next time, thanks )). 

After an unsuccessful hunt for this particular brand around my current home of Vancouver BC, I turned to Dan at Rainbow Tomato Garden. The largest selection of tinned seafood IN THE WORLD should have what I need. A few days of adding tins, removing tins, reading reviews and calculating funds, I eagerly placed an order for a box of mixed tins, including a little stack of NURI brand. This Portugal based company is known to produce excellent tinned sardines, and have a history of tinning a superior product. Their website quotes them to be “the only company that remains faithful to the traditional method throughout its production.” Since 1920 they have been pumping out tins using their homemade secret recipes. A short wait after shipping, a USPS box of goodness was on my doorstep.

After seeing so much talk and hype online about the Nuri Spiced Sardines in Olive Oil i decided to give one a rip for myself. 

The brand has simple and recognizable packaging, paper wrapper over a tin. Something about it being my first tin of Nuri made me want to keep the wrapper, such a simple but fond memory. Right at the crack of the tin, I knew these were going to be great. The “someone just opened a tin of dines” smell was there, but extremely subtle. It almost smelt like very light pickle brine. Definitely not an unpleasant smell, which sardines often get such a bad reputation for. Peeling back the lid revealed 3 chunky boys, shimmering in the olive oil. The fish were packed tightly enough to be touching, but were firm to the touch. Firm enough for me to easily grab the middle one out with chopsticks, with little damage. The skin on all the fish was already very damaged, with large parts missing. What little skin there was, was falling off the flesh once removed from the oil. Less or broken skin is not something I'm complaining about. Less skin means less scales! No one likes eating scales.

Half a fish for the first bite; these are damn delicious. A savoury, slightly salty taste and the firm bite to go with. A complete surprise to how subtle the flavour is. Really a delight and far less “fishy” than most people would expect. The cartilage in the spine had completely dissolved into the fish and had become soft, not bringing any noticeable crunch. The trio of sardines came packed with one slice of carrot, one slice of pickle, one little red chilli, part of a dried bay leaf and a clove. A classic combination to bring subtle heat and flavour to the oil and meat. You can see the workers at the Nuri factory hand packing the ingredients in this Youtube Video. Onto the operating table for the second oily boi; I removed the spine and ate that separately (my favourite part). Once the fish was on a plate I could really notice the colours in the meat, varying from white to a dark purple pink. The deeper the colour, the stronger the flavour. The oil kept a nice shine on everything and had a very light olive flavour. It had a light yellow colour that was still clear and glossy even after all this time marinating the fish. I personally love an olive oil tin over a soya oil tin. The carrot and pickle went down next, neither of which tasted like pickle or carrot. The flavour of both must get leached into the oil by the time it gets out to us consumers. The lucky last sardine went down on simple salted saltines with a bit more hot sauce. Adding the crackers to the table obviously makes for more texture, but it also creates more of a vessel for the extra hot sauce I was drizzling on top. I haven't been able to find a bottle of the famous Salsa Espinaler locally yet, which I have read is perfect on all fish, but I have a few more artisanal stores to check out before I resort to buying online. The heat was subtle, to put it subtly. One little chilli adds little to no mouth buzz sensation. The Nuri Extra spiced uses 3 chillies per tin, so I will have to test that tin to see if they have some real spice and mouth feel. 

Two saltines and three fish. Not a meal I used to go out of my way to have, but today was a healthy and highly enjoyable lunch. These sardines could easily be broken up and put on top of a salad, used as a “sardine melt” or lightly floured and then fried in their own oil. My next tin of Nuri spiced, i'm going to use this beer batter recipe: Beer Battered ‘Dines. 

When a store in my hometown starts to stock Nuri brand, I will be first in line ready to pick up a stack of tins. I would love to have the spiced sardines in olive oil as my “go to tin”, I mean, who wouldn't?  I recommend these to any non-sardine eater, someone who is looking to try their first tin, or to impress someone on a first date! The subtleness would be an ideal way to ease someone into the flavour rather than starting them off with Oskars Surstromming. Do yourself a favour, find a local supplier of Nuri, pick up a tin and give it a crack!

Tin Rating - 4/5

[nikethestatue]

La Dolce Vita

Summary: Elain Archeron and Azriel - in love, in lust, in Italy

Modern AU *slight TOG crossover. If you read my stuff, you know it’s LONG

Warnings: bad language and THIS IS NSFW (not kidding, this is a story, not just sex, but there is a LOT of explicit material here. You can still read the story, but if you are sensitive or underage, skip the naughty bits)

Comments are always appreciated/wanted/needed. Anon or not, just do it! Obviously, reblogs are appreciated. 

Part I (Flowers)

 La Vie En Rose

De l'homme auquel j'appartiens (Of the man to whom I belong)  Quand il me prend dans ses bras Il me parle l'a tout bas (He speaks to me softly) Je vois la vie en rose (And I see life in pink) Il me dit des mots d'amour (He speaks words of love to me) Des mots de tous les jours (They are every day words) Et ça m' fait quelque chose (And they do something to me) Il est entré dans mon coeur (He has entered into my heart) Une part de bonheur (A bit of happiness) Dont je connais la cause (That I know the cause of) C'est lui pour moi (It's only him for me) Moi pour lui dans la vie (And me for him, for life)

Now

Riding in a Ferrari, being enveloped in its supple, buttery leather, gulping in the cypress and cedar-scented air of Tuscany was everything that Elain Archeron had ever wanted. She never knew that this is what she wanted, because riding in very fast, very expensive, sleek Italian cars wasn’t on her ‘fantasy radar’, but now that she was in one, she suddenly came to the realization that this was perhaps one of the best experiences of her life.

The whole thing, so far, has been the best experience of her life.

Well…maybe not the best-best.

Her happiness was deeply intertwined with and caused by the man in the driver seat of the said Ferrari—Azriel. Azriel Archeron, as he loved calling himself. Even if this wasn’t his last name, he preferred using it over his family name, for a variety of personal reasons. There was nothing better, more sublime, more beautiful and more loving than Azriel. The perfect male specimen, if she could say so herself. No one would argue with her assessment either.

Elain

 They were introduced by her sister’s then-boyfriend Cass, who was giving her a lift one afternoon, and then suggested that they stop by Azriel’s car atelier, because he needed to pick something up.

Elain’s heard of the mysterious Azriel from her sisters, both of whom had claimed that he was the most handsome man that either one of them had ever seen. Elain chuckled at the exuberant praise, doubting its truthfulness. There was no such thing as the ‘most handsome’ man. Beauty was in the eyes of the beholder.

She wasn’t sure what a car atelier was, and when Cassian pulled up to a modern-looking building, she said that she’d stay in the car and wait.

“Come on, petal, don’t be shy,” Cassian urged her, holding the car door open for her in a way that indicated that she’d have to get out and follow him.

They entered the foyer, a vast space with racing stripes painted on the polished cement floor, and a sea of model cars dropping from the ceiling. Behind a wall of glass, Elain spied a row of gorgeous cars, none of which were familiar to her. Some unique European models, fit for James Bond’s consumption. There were also neat antique cars, probably from the 50s. She immediately had visions of Grace Kelly and Cary Grant riding in one of these along the Riviera coast.

“What’s this place?” she inquired, looking around at the mid-century modern building that resembled a spaceship.

“This is Az’s baby,” Cass explained vaguely. “Conceived, conceptualized, restored, outfitted—all by the brilliant mind of one Azriel Bagarat.”

“Are you bragging?”

A deep, sensual voice, that could only be called ‘midnight’ sounded behind them, and Cassian’s handsome, tanned face broke in a mischievous smile. “Only about you, brother!”

When Elain turned around, her breath was knocked out from her lungs.

She didn’t know that it was possible, to be actually stunned by someone’s beauty, but there she stood, gaping, feeling the world slow and move in a different manner for a few moments.

Standing at a towering 6”4 or so, the man was at least as tall as Cassian, and Cassian was the tallest man Elain’d ever met. She was just as muscular, but not as bulky. Clad in all black, from expensive, well-tailored Diesel jeans, to a soft t-shirt that stretched over his sharply cut torso, emphasizing the thick muscles of his arms and shoulders, and the narrow waist, true to her sisters’ word, this Azriel was simply exquisite.

Cassian draped his heavy arm around her shoulders and nudged her forward, just a bit, and said,

“Petal, say hello! This is my brother, Azriel. Az, this is my soon-to-be-sister-in-law, the one and only Elain Archeron.”

At the words ‘sister-in-law’ Elain whipped her head to Cassian, who grinned maniacally at her, nodding and answering her silent question.

“When? What are you talking about?” she exclaimed, Azriel momentarily forgotten. “What do you mean? You’ve only been seeing each other for like three months?!?”

“Baby girl, I don’t need three years to decide…Nes is Nes and she is the one for me.”

He shrugged with his usual ease, acting like they were discussing the weather or a good burger that he just ate.

“If Nes hears even a whiff of this, I will know it’s you, petal, and well, I am not sure what I will do,” he decided upon reflection, but then pleaded, “please, don’t tell her. This one,” he nodded towards Azriel, who was standing still, green eyes peeled to Elain, “I can trust. He hardly ever talks,”

“That’s because you talk for all of us,” noted Azriel with a smirk.

Elain chuckled, and turned back to face him.

He extended his hand to her, with an odd, tentative movement, and when she looked down, she saw old, mottled scars that covered his palm and part of his wrist and forearm. A vintage Patek Phillipe on his wrist.

“Beautiful,” she murmured, and he gave her a surprised look, unsure of what she was referring to.

“It’s always a pleasure to meet another Archeron sister,” he said with a soft smile, which made Elain lose her ability to speak for a good few moments, because she was finally able to take in that face that defied description. The sharp cheekbones and the mesmerizing amber and emerald eyes, almond-shaped and slanted hinted at a varied heritage, and unfairly, the man also possessed a perfect nose, and a full, sensuous mouth. He was the very definition of tall, dark, and handsome, with skin of burnished bronze, which was so in contrast to his bright eyes and raven-black hair, cut in a fashionable undercut. The physique, as she already noted, quickly skimming over the body, matched the face.

“Yes, me too,” she said stupidly.

Graceful, like a courtier, he offered her his arm and said,

“Would you like me to show you around?”

She didn’t want to be impolite, though she suddenly felt sweaty and nervous, and completely out of her league. But she threaded her hand through his arm and lightly squeezed the firm, alarmingly thick bicep.

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

She wasn’t sure what she was thinking him for, so she added, “yes, I’d love to see it.”

“Why haven’t we met?” he inquired, those green eyes watching her with such intensity that she felt almost undressed, bared under the gaze. It wasn’t unpleasant, because it wasn’t lascivious, and he didn’t strike her as someone who’d be disrespectful to women.

“I’ve been busy for the past half a year,” she explained.

“Doing what?”

They walked down the wide passage, past all the cars, which Azriel pointed out with a wave of his scarred hand, and dropped names like Pagani, BMW I8, Bugatti Divo, Bugatti Centodieci, Lamborghini Veneto, Koenigsegg CCXR Trevita and so forth. Elain might not have known a ton about cars, but she was not so unaware not to know that a Bugatti and a Lambo were expensive cars.

Cassian fell behind, gawking at the display.

“I was opening my own business,” Elain said, her head thrown back, looking at an entire toy racetrack mounted to the ceiling, with cars zooming by, and somehow, not falling on patrons’ heads.

“What sort of business?”

“Flowers,” she said absently, once they reached another space—a two story-restaurant, bar, and a patio outside as well.

“Flowers?”

“Oh, a flower shop,” she explained at last. Then muttered, awed, “this is really incredible!”

“A car enthusiast?” he smirked.

She didn’t know how it happened, but somehow, her hand migrated from the crook of his arm to his hand, and now, they walked along the walls lined with Ferrari posters, memorabilia and expensive everything. Walking and holding hands.

“I wouldn’t call myself one,” she admitted, “but I find cars aesthetically pleasing…Never got to ride in anything fancier than a Mercedes or a Lexus,”

“Well, we should remedy that at once!” he decided easily and then said, “pick you up on Friday at seven?”

That sobered her up a bit and she turned to face him. They stopped at the long, chrome-lined bar, and he said, “An espresso?”

“Um,”

But before she could respond, he was behind the counter, playing with a very fancy coffee machine that required a PhD to operate with all the levers and hooks and buttons, and in a few minutes, he poured her a tiny cup of coffee, thick with natural foam, and heady with its enticing scent.

He chugged his own in one go and she followed him, gulping her espresso in two sips. It was better than anything she’d ever drunk in her life.

“Like a date?” she finally asked, truly confused by the offer.

“Would you like it to be a date?” he leaned on the bar, biceps flexing, his arms covered in tattoo sleeves that reached all the way to his fingers. They were quite beautiful, the tattoos, the placement and the design, and Elain recognized the style, since Cassian and Rhysand wore the same kinds of tattoos, if not so extensive.

“Did you draw these?” she asked bluntly, touching her finger to a thick snaking black line, which was shaded with cobalt.

He looked down, at her hand and his arm and nodded, following her finger with his eyes.

“I did. For the three of us. When we made Navy Seals,”

“You are a Seal, too?” she exclaimed.

He smiled and nodded, “Well, we all grew up in foster care—not all, Cass and I,”

“I heard,”

“Until Rhys’s parents adopted us. But we weren’t the…best of boys,” he chortled, “so to get our heads straight, we were sent to the Navy after school. We figured we’d only stay a bit, but we stayed for a while.”

“So, you are retired?”

“We are vets,”

“How old are you?” she blurted. Then blushed and said, “I am sorry. I am usually not so impolite,”

He laughed, “I figured. But that’s alright. I’ll tell you on Friday, though. If you don’t mind?”

“I mean, I don’t mind,” she murmured, her eyes dropping to her espresso cup, “but,”

“How about this—I take you on a drive in one of these fancy cars—and then you can brag to everyone that you’d driven in a,”

He paused and rubbed his chin,

“Any preference?”

“For what?”

“What car you’d like to go in?”

“I don’t know,”

“Throw something at me,” he urged, eyes glinting with feral delight.

Elain, blush deepening, finally said, “Do you have a Ferrari? I’ve always wanted to drive in a Ferrari.”

“Ahhh, a Ferrarista at heart!” he nodded with approval, folding his arms on his chest, “stick with the classic and the best. And yes, gorgeous, I do have a Ferrari or two.”

Gorgeous.

Azriel

The girl who’d arrived with Cassian, was not Nesta, but there was something vaguely familiar about her. The girl who’d arrived with Cassian was the most gorgeous creature that Azriel had ever seen. Gorgeous and completely unaware.

Women like her, if they were smart and cunning and ambitious, used their beauty for all things good and terrible. But this exquisite creature that Cassian was so blatantly hugging and teasing wasn’t one of those women. Azriel was all too familiar with the types—the maneaters, who hounded him like sharks. He was wealthy, and good-looking, and a decent person, if not exactly a saint. He hobnobbed with celebrities who came to order his cars, which he designed and outfitted based on their specifications and desires.

He was finnicky when it came to taste though. No matter how much rappers asked him to clad their Maybach in gold or some vapid Gucci print, no matter how many heiresses pouted and asked for a bubblegum or Barbie-pink Ferraris, he did not betray the essence and soul of the vehicle. Modify, define, sharpen, stylize—he did it all with precision and skill which was unparalleled. But Azriel Bagarat was known for rejecting even the juiciest of offers, if the request did not coincide with his aesthetic or the history of the car.

He was at his shop—that’s what he called it, though atelier sounded infinitely better and more expensive—that afternoon, knowing that Cassian was going to drop by and select a car for his grandiose proposal to Nesta. There was some concern that Cassian would not fit his 6”5 form into an Aston Martin or a Bentley, so they needed to make sure that the car was appropriate for the occasion and the occupant. Cass insisted on a British vehicle, feeling that Nesta would like something classic and timeless. So be it.

What Azriel did not expect to see that Tuesday afternoon was a girl--because he hesitated to call her a ‘woman’, since she looked so lovely and perfect and innocent--who took his breath away.

His breath had been taken away only once before, by Rhys’s cousin, who strolled like a ray of sunshine into their broken lives.

However, Morrigan chose Cassian. And then Cassian promptly impregnated her, causing a great discontent and strife between everyone. Morrigan, or rather Morgana d’Adda, though she anglicized her name, even if Morrigan d’Adda sounded funny, was just about disavowed by her family for tumbling, and being so stupid and blind as to get knocked up by a hulking nobody mulatto, as her father Keir called Cassian. Rather, sneered, at Cassian.

Even if Azriel didn’t impregnate anybody, he somehow got looped into the family bullshit and once he and Cassian turned 18, they were both shipped off to the navy. To the dismay of the entire Darling clan, Rhys followed them, tossing away his guaranteed admittance to Brown. An Ivy League school for rich stupid heirs. Only Rhys wasn’t stupid. Neither was Cassian a hulking nobody mulatto. And Azriel wasn’t just the ‘fucking weird kid, who might be a serial killer’. They served and they passed the insane Navy Seal training, and they proved themselves.

Nowadays, Cassian now ran security for the Darling conglomerate, while Rhys took over the reins when his father was killed in a car accident. Azriel found his own path, though the association with the Darling name certainly helped his exposure and in building relationships and meeting all the right people. And meeting all the women. The three brothers had gone through their share of wild times, but in the past 3 years, things began to calm down for them.

It began with Rhys meeting Feyre Archeron at an art gallery, where she was exhibiting some of her pieces. Azriel had tugged along with Rhys to see the exhibit, because Rhys was looking for some art for his new office, and he trusted Azriel’s taste and knowledge, and wanted a second pair of eyes.

Rhys followed Feyre like a dog throughout the evening—Azriel was there to witness the pathetic display—and then they ended up at a bar, doing shots and feeding Feyre virgin Cosmos, since she wasn’t even 21 yet. They went to some dance club, Azriel playing the third-wheel and ‘chaperone’, though by the end of the night, Rhys and Feyre disappeared together and weren’t heard from for the next three days.

… “What if he killed her?” proposed Cassian for 100th time, pacing back and forth, running his fingers through his long black hair. “Or what if she killed him?”

“I thought that I was the serial killer among the three of us,” drawled Azriel, sprawled on a sofa, watching a game. He wasn’t as concerned, having seen Rhys dripping with intense lust at the sight of the brown-haired teen. It was unusual, since at that time Rhys was almost 25, and Feyre only 19, and the three of them typically tried to avoid teenagers like the plague. But Rhysand Darling seemed genuinely enthralled.

“No, you are the guy with the sex dungeon,” corrected Cassian.

Azriel rolled his eyes, “serial killer with a sex dungeon, huh? Sounds like an interesting story. Alas, much as I’d like to, I don’t have a sex dungeon.”

“Aren’t you building one? In that new garage of yours?” Cassian shrugged.

“Only cars. No sex toys,” sighed Azriel, looking like that might have been an omission on his part.

“Gents, I think I am in love!” the door burst open and a wild-eyed Rhys appeared, his normally pristine hair in disarray, his cheeks flushed, wearing only a white t-shirt and jeans.

“Where the fuck were you for three days?” growled Cassian, showing considerable relief at the sight of his brother.

“Falling in love,” crooned Rhys, falling into a chair, a stupid, dazed look on his face.

“You look like Audrey Hepburn in ‘Sabrina’,” noted Azriel.

“I feel like Audrey Hepburn!” exclaimed Rhys. “She is perfect. Feyre is perfect.”

What the fuck? Mouthed Cassian in confusion.

“Feyre Darling,” whispered Rhys with delight, eyes closed, tasting the sound of the name on his tongue. “Feyre Archeron Darling. Or Feyre Darling Archeron?”

“You alright there, buddy?” Cassian frowned. “A little early to be talking last names?”

“She’ll be my wife,” announced Rhysand with his usually unwavering confidence.

And that was that.

Now, the ‘society wedding of the year’ was coming up in three months. Rhysand Darling and Feyre Archeron, the toast of the town, the power couple, the young and beautiful billionaires.

 Now, Azriel stood in front of the most stunning female he’d ever seen and for once, he felt like Rhys. His brain turned into a soupy mess, and he found himself tongue-tied and concentrating was suddenly difficult. He wanted to be a gracious host and a confident, formidable man, who had a reputation to uphold—though he wasn’t sure if Elain was aware of his reputation—but inside, he was a mess. All his insecurities, doubts and self-hate rose to the surface at once, and he hesitated to extend his hand in greeting to her. His mangled, horrible, revolting hand, which was sullied beyond its extensive scars. A hand that killed, and touched way too women, some of whom he probably shouldn’t have been touching at all.

“Beautiful,” she murmured softly, that gorgeous blush spreading over her rose-petal cheeks.

He was so taken aback by the comment, he was nearly flabbergasted when she didn’t pull away, didn’t frown or grimace in disgust, didn’t display any of the usual signs of revulsion that most women did when they saw his hands. Perhaps it was the Patek Phillipe, he tried to convince himself, but deep down he knew—she called his scars ‘beautiful’.

And then she took his arm, her hand strong, surprisingly calloused, if light, and small.

And from that moment on, Azriel became obsessed with that touch.

His body heated and as he led her to the bar, and showed her around his pride and joy, watching for the subtle reactions, for the gleam of wonder and appreciation in her eyes, he couldn’t release…wouldn’t release her hand from his. She asked questions, took in all the memorabilia and gawked at the cars, and then the guest area, and finally, when he sat her down at the bar and made her a coffee, he stepped closer. Trying not to scare her, or seem obnoxious, he couldn’t help invading her personal space, and stood next to her, pretending to take interest in his drink, while hoping that her arm would brush against his own. Skin to skin.

She didn’t pull away. Didn’t shy away.

He didn’t expect himself to ask her on what amounted to a date, because he wasn’t even sure how dates worked. His usual ammo consisted of a brief introduction, an even quicker seduction and then a hook up. That’s how he liked it. He preferred no-strings-attached approach to his involvement with women, and it’s been working rather well for him. He never had to sleep with anyone in the same bed, he never had to make anyone breakfast, there was no room for idle chitchat, and usually no second or third dates. It was so easy.

This fucking girl, with her caramel-brown eyes, her golden-amber curls, her soft lips and that damn blush on her cheeks—she was driving him veritably insane with her unique mix of immaculate beauty and a friendly, almost naïve, strangely innocent disposition. And he wanted to go on a date with her. Without an ulterior motive, because at it stood right now, he didn’t care to even get her in bed. That would come later. He was absolutely determined to have this happen later. But…later.

Cassian

“Alrighty, I think I am going with the Bentley,” Cassian sidled to the bar, and interrupted.

If Azriel was annoyed, he didn’t show it.

Cassian spied them at last, making his way through the cavernous entrails of the garage, with all its gleaming cars, the beautiful patrons who were discussing options with no-less beautiful sales people,  and even on-premises tattoo shop, which specialized in Azriel’s sketches and catered to those who didn’t have money to actually outfit their Bugatti to their heart’s desire, but could at least claim that they got a Bagarat tattoo inked on their skin.

Elain and Azriel were standing side by side, somehow melding together nicely, her pretty dress and high-heeled sandals and piles of loose hair in drastic contrast with Azriel’s all-black ensemble, his massive height and the span of his shoulders. But she did not balk from him. Cassian also noticed that she didn’t react to the scars, which Azriel was very self-conscious about, and seemed genuinely interested in the garage.

It was inevitable that the two would eventually meet, especially with the wedding coming up and all the wedding related brouhaha. However, Cassian wanted to have the dibs on gloating down the line, and reminding the two of them, forever, about how it was he who introduced them. Yes, Azriel fucked a lot of models and rich girls, for whom he, strangely, was a riff on a ‘bit of rough’, while being hardly ‘rough’ at all. Azriel was elegant and possessed excellent taste in everything, and he probably had the best manners out of the lot of them. But the tattoos, the cars, the aura of brooding mystery about him, and his generally quiet ways were like honey to the throngs of women who lusted after him.  

About Azriel, Cassian had no doubts.

Cassian knew Azriel probably better than anyone alive, and even that wasn’t saying much, but he was very aware of Azriel’s ‘secret type’ of woman. Basically, it was Elain. Everything about Elain Azriel would like—of that Cassian was certain. Elain was the elusive ‘ideal woman’ of whom Azriel dreamt, but never actually pursued. Slightly unconventional, soft, kind, generous—lovely, would be a good word—Elain was everything that Azriel never had with any other women.

Cassian could already see the hunger and flicker of completely besotted adoration in Azriel’s normally cold eyes.

He was less certain about Elain, having never seen her with a boyfriend. When he had asked Nesta about Elain’s situation, Nesta shrugged and said that Elain was beautiful, but naïve, dreamy and rarely dated.

“A Bentley it is then,” Azriel turned around, though his elbow still touched Elain’s arm. “You’ll fit, big boy?”

Elain giggled.

“I am not Rowan,” Cassian muttered. “I am human sized.”

“Only just.”

“You are the same height,” Cassian reminded him coolly.

“I am a little more human-shaped too.”

Cassian rolled his eyes and said, “Come on, petal. While I love to stand here and listen to his insults, we gotta go.”

Elain’s face dropped into a sad frown only for a second, but she recovered immediately. Cassian noticed it, nevertheless. His petal of a girl didn’t want to leave his brother’s side.

“Bye Azriel,” she said, taking his hand in hers again, of her own volition, and squeezing it lightly. “It was very nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he said. His fingers wrapped over her palm, and he said, “I’ll walk you two out.”

So, his brooding brother didn’t want to release the newfound petal of a girl.

How interesting.

Once they were in Cassian’s Jeep, Elain looked out the window, a dreamy look on her face.

“Oh-oh,” Cassian chuckled, as he navigated the narrow NYC streets.

“What?”

“I know that look,” he winked.

“What look?” she frowned.

“The ‘oh gods, Azriel is so handsome!’ look. Oh, he is so gorgeous look. Oh, he is so sexy look.”

“He is handsome,” she agreed blandly, knowing that arguing would be silly.

“I hope that you gave him your number,” he said. “Because if you didn’t, I will.”

“It’s none of your business,” she crossed her arms on her chest, and Cass howled loudly.

“You are welcome, by the way,”

“You are ridiculous,” she muttered. “I don’t know how Nesta tolerates you!”

“Oh, Nes tolerates me and then some,” and winked again.

Now

“My love, slow down a bit,” Elain requested, as the road zigzagged among rows of cypresses.

“I thought that you wanted to make it to Florence before traffic hit?” Azriel squeezed her fingers and brought her hand to his lips.

“Seeing that we are already running late, we might as well enjoy the drive,” she shrugged.

A honey-coloured strand of her hair fell out from under the gauzy wrap that she wore around her head a-la Grace Kelley.

“Good.”

“Good what?” she turned her face to him and knocked him out all over again. By the Mother she was superb in every way, and she was his. He couldn’t believe his absurd luck. Things like these didn’t happen to him. Elain was not meant to be his. Yet, here she was, his lovely gentle girl, who loved him with incomprehensible passion and devotion. His.

The hefty, borderline outlandish ring on her finger was proof of that.

He’d worked hard on that ring, designing it himself, wanting to incorporate everything that he loved about her and about the two of them into the design. The result was this stunner that glittered madly in the Italian sun, sitting on her manicured finger, the skin of her arm kissed by a golden tan.

His beautiful girl loved flowers, and she loved him, so her ring, in its platinum setting was a remarkable rose, reflecting Elain’s green thumb and life’s work. He selected the diamond himself, and the amethysts that comprised the petals, even the tiny onyx inserts, to signify him and the black ink of his tattoos. The ring was both extravagant—especially in carats—but intimate as well, a flower that spoke of his eternal love for this woman.

“I am going to take you somewhere, which I think you’d like,” he teased.

“Where?”

“How does lots of flowers sound?”

She smiled. 

Azriel

For gods’ sake, he was nervous. Azriel was not prone to nervousness or panic or discomfort, but this date, or whatever it was, filled him with dread.

He shouldn’t have asked her.

He was stupid and blinded by her beauty, by her deliciously voluptuous body, by the long, slender legs, by her shy, sweet smile. Those blushes. For the love of everything, those fine, adorable, sexy blushes.

She was part of the family network—both of his brothers were now in love with her sisters. It was cliché and unrealistic and unbelievable that she and he would end up in the same boat. Besides, he wasn’t so lucky as to have someone like her accept him. So, he was making a huge fucking mistake. If this was all going to go sour—which inevitably it would, of that he had no doubt—he’d mess up the delicate balance that existed between the Darling, Bagarat and Cavalhe brothers and the Archeron sisters. She’d reject him and then it would be awkward. Awkward for the upcoming wedding, in which he and Elain were supposed to couple up and be together in the wedding party. Rhys said, ‘fuck it’ and asked both him and Cassian to be best men, while Feyre had both of her sisters as maids-on-honour. There was no escaping it. Therefore, it would be awkward for the wedding, and then for Christmas and all the summer BBQs and pool parties and…well, he might just have to find excuses to never attend anything, ever.

But here he was, standing in front of an old-fashioned, cute corner storefront in the Village. Flower displays spilled on the sidewalk, and the windows, along with the marble edifice reminded him of Paris. This was exactly how he’d picture Elain’ store—slightly whimsical, elegant, classic, but modern. Au Nom de la Rose – The Name of the Rose—perfectly appropriate for Elain’s store name.

She wasn’t waiting for him outside, and he circled the block three times before, by some miracle, finding a parking space and leaving the silver Ferrari, and then made his way back to the store, arriving 4 minutes late, which was completely unacceptable. The store was technically closed at this hour, but he knocked and heard Elain’s voice telling him to come in. Some internal pressure inside of him released at the sound of her voice.

He entered and whistled,

“That’s a lot of flowers!”

Yep, definitely a glamourized 50’s Paris vibe.

“Azriel, I am so sorry, I am not ready,” Elain came from behind the counter, looking a bit frazzled.

“It’s alright I will wait,” he assured her, but she shook her head and said,

“No…I just received a huge order. An emergency order for an anniversary party. Azriel, it’s my biggest order ever!”

“That’s excellent!” he found himself feeling genuinely happy for her, if not for her concerned expression. “What’s up?”

“I…I,” she stumbled. “Feyre or Nesta would usually come and help out if I need them, but Feyre is in LA, and Nesta…” she swallowed, “Nesta is indisposed.”

Nes is on her period and is feeling like crap, read Cassian’s text from earlier today. I am going fishing. Care to join? Or are you busy romancing a certain Archeron sister?

Nesta was indisposed indeed, though Azriel didn’t feel like he needed to know the details.

“It’s a 25th Anniversary, and I have to make 25 bouquets and 15 centerpieces. The couple’s original florist fell through and they contacted me, in a panic, and I agreed,” she babbled, tugging on her long braid nervously. “And it’s for tomorrow,”

“Alright then,” he shrugged, “what’s the problem then? I am here.”

She looked up at him, her gaze both hopeful and confused.

“You? What are you going to do? I am sorry, Azriel, I am so sorry, we’d have to postpone,”

“We’d have to postpone our drive, but I am here. Use me.”

“Use you?”

“Use my body,” he chuckled, and she giggled an amused laugh.

“I appreciate the offer,” and when he thought that she’d continue rejecting his offer of help, she did the right thing and was a smart girl, nodding at last, and said, “will you truly help?”

“I am not a flower expert,”

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” she grinned.

He removed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and said, “Teach me, Archeron. I am an apt pupil.”

He was. Elain showed him model bouquets and thankfully, he wasn’t dumb or clumsy enough to screw them up, once he began copying the originals.

Night fell, and they ordered pizza and he went to get a bottle of wine from the store across the street.

Sitting on the floor of the store, surrounded by piles of flowers, vases, ribbons and twine, they ate pizza, laughing throughout the evening. She stretched her long, bare legs in front of her, crossing them at the ankles, and he couldn’t get enough—the pretty toes, the pale golden skin and the sexy pink nail polish. He didn’t want to seem like a creep, but he snuck more than a few glances at her feet when she wasn’t looking.

It was well past midnight when they were finally done.

He stretched on the floor and tucked his arm behind his head.

She kneeled above him, at his side, and said, “Azriel, thank you. I can’t, honestly, thank you enough. You saved me. Maybe my business too!”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he retorted gently, “but this was fun…and educational.”

“How can I repay you?” she asked.

“Well, well,” he drummed his fingers on the floor, pretending to think. “So many possibilities,”

At that, she flushed, and he licked his lips, loving the sight of that pink on her cheeks.

“Let’s make a bargain,” he proposed at last.

“A bargain?” her brow furrowed.

He nodded.

“For my exceptional assistance during your time of trouble and despair, you will agree to an outing with me, of my choosing. To do whatever I want.”

Elain stared at him, biting her plump lower lip.

“Are we going to do something bad?” she finally asked uncertainly.

He grinned and without thinking, cupped her cheek.

She didn’t recoil.

He drew his thumb over her soft skin and she leaned into his palm just a little bit. Gods it felt good. So good. So good to have her so near, so receptive, so unafraid. But he dropped his hand.

“You think I will take you to knock off a couple of 7-11s?”

“Well, if I am entering this death bargain with you, then who the hell knows?” she shrugged.

He laughed, “Death bargain? A little dramatic, are we?”

She was still sitting there, biting her lip, and all he wanted to do was drag his tongue over it. Kiss her large, brown eyes. Fist his hand around the thick mass of her hair, tilt her head and kiss her until she was breathless.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He never acted like this!

He never thought like this.

He was a rational, controlled, some said, cold man.

Not to say that he wasn’t able to find a woman immediately attractive, or want to fuck her, but this was different. This was unknown.

“Fine,” she shrugged.

“Fine?” he repeated, smiling.

“Don’t make me do anything bad,” she warned.

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” he promised. “I wouldn’t lead you astray. But,” he sat up, draping his forearms over his knees, “where do you live? Let me take you home,”

“I can take an Uber,”

He gave her an incredulous look and she nodded without further arguments.

“Where do you live?” he asked, once they were outside, somehow internally thrilled that perhaps, she’d invite him inside. He wouldn’t expect anything, obviously, but it would be nice see where she lived, what her private space looked like. So far, he couldn’t pinpoint her style with any accuracy, an interesting mixture of vintage and modern, of flowers and thorns.

“Just two blocks down,” she said, as she locked up the shop.

He gave her his arm, and it seemed like she almost expected it, because she immediately thrust her hand into the loop and he smiled softly.

The little white shorts and the flowery top did things to him, and he was glad to walk side by side, so to prevent himself from staring at her long legs and her neat, lush ass. He was already a mess over her legs, over her bending and squatting in front of him for the past four-five hours.

It was dark and quiet on the street, and they walked in a comfortable silence, each thinking of something of their own.

And then,

Elain sprawled face down on the pavement.

She cried out, landing on her knees on the asphalt, just barely having the time to brace herself on her hand, and ripping the skin of her palm.

Azriel was instantly on his knees in front of her.

Tears glistened in her eyes. Possibly from pain, because as she flipped on her butt, they saw that her knees were torn and bleeding, as was her palm, or maybe from shock, as well as embarrassment.

“Shhh,” he cooed gently to her, “are you okay?”

She shook her head. A lonely tear spilled from her eyes.

“Tissues?” he asked quickly, surveying the damage. Bruises were already blossoming on her scuffed kneecaps, all around the wounds.

She wordlessly handed him her bag, allowing him to rummage through it and he found a packet of old tissues, which he gingerly pressed to her bleeding knees.

“My ankle hurts,” she muttered, reaching down to inspect it.

“Let me,” he took her legs and looked over her ankle. She glared questioningly at him, still in some sort of stupor, not understanding what had occurred, and why she was now sitting on the ground, bleeding.

“You broke your heel,” he nodded to her foot and she glanced down, finally realizing that her heel caught in a crack in the pavement. The impact was so strong, it actually fully detached from the sole of the shoe.

“I am sorry,” she mumbled.

“You should be,” he chuckled, “you gave me quite a scare. I thought you were shot; you went down so quickly!”

She pushed at his arm, half laughing, and have crying.

“Stop making me laugh!” she ordered, sniffling and giggling. “Auuu, it hurts...”

He was lightly pressing on her ankle, and then said, “it’s just twisted. You’ll need ice, but it should be okay…”

“Ok, Doctor Azriel,” she even rolled her eyes slightly and he laughed, flicking her nose.

“I am trained on how to treat combat wounds and catastrophic field injuries, I’ll have you know,” he said and then gave her his hand. “On your feet, soldier! Let me see if you can stand.”

Moaning and groaning, she managed to stand up, but putting any weight on her foot caused a yelp to escape her lips.

“Alright, come on now,” he stepped and opened his arms, “jump in.”

“Jump in where?”

“Jump into my arms, of course.”

“What are you planning to do? Swing me around?”

“I could swing you around, but I was planning on carrying you home, and then making you an ice pack and disinfecting all your cuts.”

Without waiting for her to decide, he scooped her off the ground and she gasped, and he wasn’t sure what the little huff meant.

“But it’s like two blocks!” she protested feebly, and unconvincingly, “I am heavy.”

“Ooohhh,” he groaned dramatically, hefting her to his chest, as they started off. “Sooo, so heavy!”

“I am the fattest of my sisters,” she argued, and even in the darkness he saw that she was blushing realizing how silly her comment was.

“Well, considering that Nesta is like 90 lbs. and Feyre 110 lbs., that’s not saying much,” he assured her.

She was soft and warm in his arms, and when, without prompting, she wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned into him, he felt utterly at peace. Because the pieces of them fit. She fit him.

Blood still dripping, and her arms thrown over his neck, Azriel walked steadily, cradling her to his chest, until they finally reached a pre-War building, and she said, “There is no elevator.”

“Don’t tell me you are on the 6th floor!” he laughed, looking up.

“The third.”

“Guess I will have to haul the fattest of the Archeron sisters to the 3rd floor!” he sighed, and she smacked his arm, protesting,

“You can’t say that!”

He was laughing and she began to laugh as well.

“You said it first,” he reminded her.

 Her apartment was small, but she’d arranged the furniture in such a way that everything seemed more spacious, and orderly, without unnecessary frills. Mostly grays, turquoise, cobalt and creamy-white. For some reason, he thought that there would be much more pink and general fluff. This though, this he liked.

He sat her down on the sofa and went to the bathroom to find bandages and plasters and other items. She called out from her spot, telling him where to find things and he finally emerged and began working on all her wounds.

“Haven’t lost a soldier yet,” he told her with a chuckle. He kneeled in front of her, and his touch was firm, but surprisingly gentle, as he thoroughly washed every scuff and tear, and then disinfected and decided what needed bandages and what didn’t.

Elain remained mostly silent throughout the procedure, watching him from under her lashes.

“You are nice,” she said suddenly.

He looked at her and smirked.

“Not with anyone.”

“Everyone just says how handsome you are,” she lay her head on the back cushion, watching him. He gave her a painkiller, and it was making her drowsy. It was also late. She rarely stayed up this late. “But you are also very nice,” she added.

Elain

She woke up that morning, and was struck by the unfamiliar environment. And pain.

Her knees ached and screamed and hurt, as did her palm.

Light poured through the windows; the curtains still open.

She found herself on her sofa, haphazardly covered by a throw, and with her legs resting on Azriel’s lap.

Fuck.

Fuck.

He was here. With her.

He never left after last night’s debacle.

She was a clumsy cow, as always, but the incident was unusually embarrassing, even for her. She always spilled or dropped stuff on herself, tripped, stumbled, and fell on her ass at inopportune times, but last night…By the Mother!

The man was gosh darn saint. Not only did she screw up their evening plans, made him work and make bouquets with her, which, probably wasn’t the most exciting thing for him to spend the evening on, but she also almost ate the pavement, and then he carried her for half a mile! And cared for her when they came here. And spent, what must have been a horribly uncomfortable night in a half-seated position, with her, no doubt, pushing at him with her feet.

Yep, she was never going to see him again.

Good going, Elain. Fine job you did of this ‘relationship’. Now, for the rest of her life, she’d be forced to see him at family gatherings, probably with some stunning model of a wife, and he’d always remember her as the girl who tore her heel on the pavement.

She wanted to cry.

Not that she ever, even for a second, believed that this would go anywhere. Her and Azriel. That wasn’t possible. Things like these didn’t happen to her. She was strange and solitary and even if others claimed that she was pretty, going so far as to call her ‘beautiful’, she never felt like that. When Nesta got mad at her, she’d call her a ‘petty idiot’ and Elain felt like that more frequently than she cared to admit. And Azriel…he was cut from a different cloth. He was…

She looked at his face, still perfect, but ever so slightly relaxed and softened in sleep, his eyelids heavy and enviably long, thick lashes fanned over his golden-brown cheeks. He was funny, with a quick, dry sense of humour, intelligent and interesting, and when they talked last night, she couldn’t get enough! He told her fascinating stories from his time in the Navy, about his dream, which resulted in the creation of his beloved garage. It took him three years to open the place—conceptualize what he wanted, how to deliver it, the items to showcase. The result was not just the ‘garage’, but also the popular bar, and recently, a restaurant as well.

Scarred fingers touched her hand and he opened his eyes.

“Good morning,” he whispered, squinting at her. “How are you? How’s the pain?”

“Azriel,” she murmured, not even knowing how to thank him, but she attempted, “I want to,”

“Pancakes?” he asked eagerly.

She glanced at him with incomprehension.

“May I make you, or us, pancakes?” he proposed. “I’ve been sort of thinking about this all night. How I’d like to make you pancakes,”

“I want to thank,”

He lifted his finger and shook his head,

“No, no. My Italian mother would tell you that you should never thank anyone for providing medical help,”

“Why?”

“According to my psychotically superstitious Italian side of the family, the remedy or healing won’t take, if you offer thanks. Imagine, I was forbidden from ever saying ‘thank you’ to a doctor,”

She chuckled.

“So, you are Italian?”

“Mom’s side is half Neapolitan and half from Lazio—near Rome.”

He sat up and rolled his neck.

“Can I at least say that I am sorry that you had to be so uncomfortable and sleep on the couch?” she asked.

“It’s alright. Not the best night I’ve ever had, but not the worst one either. The company was nice too,” and he patted her legs.

A tiny flare of hope lit in her belly.

But she didn’t allow herself to have it take root.

Maybe not until he gathered her legs together on his lap and drew his fingers up and down her calf.

“But really, how is the pain?” he asked at last, watching her with his intense, warm eyes. The eyes didn’t warm frequently, it seemed, but when they looked at her—

He was different somehow.

Kind. Approachable.

“It’s fine,” she waved her hand, not wanting to burden him any longer with her dumb injuries.

Those long, scarred fingers glided over her skin, and a small smirk touched his lips, “May I kiss it better?”

She blinked at him.

“I hear that I am very good at making pain go away,” he added proudly, and then, his lips descended on her scuffed and bruised knees. She kissed each one, tenderly, and then took her hand and brought it to his lips, and pressed his mouth to the inside of her palm. Her breath hitched and she stared at him, wide-eyed, as he watched her, unblinking, gaging every minute reaction. He kissed her hand, inside and then out, and then kissed the other, even though it wasn’t injured, and then returned to her knees and kissed them again.

At last, “Better?” he asked.

She only mooed incoherently.

…Azriel, by the stove, flipping pancakes was the sexiest thing Elain had ever seen in her life.

Clad in dark slacks, in his white shirt from last night, with sleeves rolled up and the tattoo sleeves on full display, he stood in her kitchen, barefoot and flipped pancakes like a pro.

“You cook too?” she asked incredulously.

He laughed.

“Too? In addition to what?”

“I don’t know,” she was still perched on the sofa, like an invalid, but after she washed her face and brushed her hair, he ordered her to sit and not make unnecessary moves. “Everything?”

“My repertoire is limited, when it comes to the kitchen, but what I know how to make, I make well. Cassian is a better cook.”

“Cass?” she smiled.

“Nesta is lucky to have him,” Azriel added, somewhat wistfully.

Elain looked at him and nodded. “I think so too.”

“He is a good man. Maybe the best man I’ve ever known. Where my own family failed, he stepped in, though he is a year younger than me. But he taught me…how to be. Accepted me. Unconditionally. Taught me how to swim, how to ride a bike, how to fight.”

“And you?”

“I? I helped him with his reading,” Azriel rubbed his chin, his stance a little tense.

She didn’t say anything, waiting to see if he felt like sharing more.

“It was neglected,” he said at last. “His reading and writing. So, we sat together, late at night, at our foster parents’ house and read.”

He then asked, “coffee?”

The moment of reminiscing was over, and Elain did not press.

She nodded to one of the cupboards and he pulled out a tub of coffee and grimaced.

“This is what you drink?”

“Hey, it’s good coffee! I buy it at Trader Joe’s!” she laughed defensively.

“Baby, we are drinking Italian coffee in this house,” he decided, and there was no arguing with that logic.

 That’s how Elain became Azriel’s ‘baby’.

In their house, they always drank Italian coffee.

 Twenty minutes later, there was a knock on the door.

“Thanks Nu,” Azriel greeted a lanky, very thin, very tall girl, who handed him two packages and then winked at him and disappeared wordlessly.

“My assistant, Nuala,” he explained, showing Elain two packages of Lavazza coffee. “This will do for now.”

Elain hobbled to the small butcher block island that she’d restored from a console that she found at a flea market. “You text someone and they just appear?”

He grinned and shrugged innocently.

“I know a guy.”

“Of course you do. Are you in the mafia?”

“First of all, rude,” he placed a plate of chocolate chip pancakes in front of her and then poured her coffee, “second of all, I just know a guy.”

“Who knows where to buy Lavazza on a Saturday morning?” she wondered, tucking into the pancakes.

“I have a network of spies,” he winked at her.

She sipped on the coffee, perhaps not as good a cup as he’d made her at his garage, but glorious nevertheless. “Are you in the CIA?”

“Not in the mafia or the CIA. Just a lowly car guy.”

“Uh-uh.”

They toasted with their coffee cups and Azriel said, “not bad for a first date. Blood and flowers. Very romantic.”

It was that morning, that sunny Saturday morning, over a plate of pancakes and some Italian coffee that Elain Archeron fell in love.

She fell in love completely.

Utterly.

Irreversibly.

And forever.

Now

Azriel turned off to some side road and how he knew where to go, Elain had no idea, but she just enjoyed the scents and warmth of the day.

“You know,” she laughed. “We are literally under the Tuscan sun right now!”

“All your dreams are coming true,” he ran a loving hand over her bare arm and she tore her gaze from the scenery around her.

“My dreams came true when I met you,” she confessed. “That was the day.”

“So easily impressed!” he teased, but she saw that her words touched something in him. His face softened with happiness.

“Az, slow down,” she whispered, an almost painful pull to kiss him spreading over her. “I want to kiss you.”

He looked at her, eyes hidden behind his Aviator shades, but slowed down and she leaned towards him and planted her mouth on his cheek.

“Lips,” she murmured with audible desperation.

“Baby, I don’t want to bust up this nice Ferrari,” he laughed. “And you, who is riding in it.”

Pouting, she ordered, “Then pull over so I can kiss you!”

He laughed louder, throwing his head back, his gorgeous tanned neck annoyingly desirable.

She wanted to bite his vein, lick the salty skin of his neck, and then sink her teeth into his shoulder. Elain was a biter. And a scratcher. Good thing that Azriel was a benevolent lover, who didn’t care if she left his body marked with her love, and didn’t mind the pain. In fact, he encouraged it.

His heavy brown hand lay on her knee, under the hem of her summer dress and he said,

“Why don’t I do something nice for you… then you can kiss me…”

“But I want to kiss you now,” she frowned playfully.

His hand slid a little higher, up her bare thigh, and he pressed his scarred palm into her thin, tender skin, rubbing slowly, indulgently. This was just as much for her as it was for him.

She threw her head into the back of the seat, eyes closed.

Until she yelped softly, when his wicked hand slipped higher and higher, pushing her dress up as well.

“Azriel Bagarat,” she murmured, “what am I going to do with you? And your love for public nudity and lovemaking…”

He shrugged oh so innocently and said, “firstly, it’s Archeron to you, and,”

“Not just yet,” she wiggled her ring-clad hand in front of him, “not until we got the paper and all, to make us official,”

They rolled their eyes at the same time and then laughed.

“And secondly, who can blame me?” he leaned and kissed her shoulder. “You are very hot. And I sort of want to fuck you all the time.”

His long, very experienced fingers made their way even higher, until he drew them along the cotton of her underwear, lightly pressing into the cleft, teasing ever so lightly. She shifted against the fingertips, her thighs falling apart in silent encouragement.

Elain was a giving and a receptive lover, innately knowing what he wanted and accommodating both of their needs thoughtfully, and easily.

“What do you want, baby?” he murmured.

“To kiss you,” she insisted stubbornly.

He huffed his amusement, and then pushed his finger deeper, firmer against the cotton, whispering,

“How about this?”

“This is nice, I suppose,”

“Only nice?” he withdrew his finger in warning and she grabbed his wrist, and thrust it back in place.

“Maybe a little better than ‘nice’, huh?” he teased.

“A little,” she agreed, gasping when he cupped her fully, swiping his heel of his palm against the length of her folds, feeling the dampness against his skin. Bold, as he always was, he moved the strip of cotton to the side, and hiked up her dress ever higher, exposing her to his exploration.

He snuck a glance at her perfectly peachy, pink pussy, bare and succulent, like a ripe fruit dripping with its sweet juices.

He groaned and then hissed, “I am stopping, right now. I want you coming on my tongue in the next four minutes,”

“So confident, ombre?”

She took to calling him ombre or ‘shadow’, when, early in their relationship, he kept materializing in front of her out of nowhere, stepping out of the shadows. He laughed, but didn’t mind the endearment. What’s more, it became a private thing between the two of them—he’d call her ‘rose’ and she’d call him ‘ombre’. It wasn’t nauseatingly sugary sweet and could be used in public without making people gag. Unlike, for example, the Darlings, who, for whatever reason called each other ‘my darkness’. Or Cassian, who sometimes went with ‘schmoopie’, braving Nesta’s wrath.

Azriel laughed, while incessantly dragging his finger back and forth over the wet slit, without doing much else, and making her gasp and squirm.

“That I can make you come on my tongue in 4 minutes? Fuck yeah! Want me to prove it?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” she shook her head, “you don’t get to just do whatever the hell you want, when you want it. If I don’t get my kiss, you don’t get to,”

“What? Lick your pussy? I feel like the punishment is unreasonable,” he protested.

She gave him a sultry look, a look that only he was privy to, and then murmured, spreading her legs a little wider for him,

“Maybe I want to lick something of yours?” she proposed, her voice husky, pouring like honey over his ear.

“I wouldn’t be opposed,” he choked out, finally parting the soft cushions of her folds and dragging his knuckles over the wet spread of her. The intoxicating scent of her arousal, mixed with the Italian sunshine and the smell of grass, flowers and cypresses was so heady, he almost swerved, stopping only quick enough to grip the steering wheel tightly in his left hand.

Gods, if he was going to make it to their next destination, he would be impressed with himself. But it was close.

Azriel

Elain loved getting fingered. That was the first thing he learned about her sexually—kissing and fingering.

In the privacy of their world, he fingered her constantly.

It was almost an obligation on his part by now, to have her wake up, tucked into his side, while gently, but thoroughly pumping her soft, indescribably tight center. No matter how many times he’d been inside of her, she remained tight, as tight as the first time. That was a blessing, but a curse as well, for all he could typically think about throughout the day, was sinking into that glorious tightness.

When she was finally semi-awake, she rolled on her back and spread her legs in front of him, so he could finger her in earnest. Two fingers first, nice and deep inside of her, as he knelt in front of her and watched her come undone before him. And then, there was always a moment when her eyes flew open, and her back arched, and he slipped the third one in. The plush, warm walls of her sex stretched and pulled to accommodate him, but he went slow and deep, only grazing the sensitive spot in her, making her moan low and begging, the pressure of his hand steady and firm.

She cried and cried into the pillow, head thrown back in utter extasy, her hair a tangled halo about her. She wasn’t permitted to move her hips, his only order in that early-morning game of theirs, therefore she was wholly dependent on him for her pleasure. If she ever did begin a sensual undulation of her hips around his hand, he’d allow her to continue for a few moments, aware that she was lost in her own pleasure, before cruelly yanking his hand out of her.

“Was my girl allowed to do that?” he’d ask simply, and amidst her disappointed panting, her pleading for more, her sweet, innocent “sorry. I am sorry,” she’d beg him to fill her again.

Then she’d lay still, eyes wide and pleading, her little opening vibrating at the loss, before he placed her feet on his shoulders and thrust in her anew. This time, his scarred, rough, brown, inked fingers disappeared in her completely. She buckled and let out a wild moan that reverberated from the very depth of her, because all four fingers were inside, and his thumb finally, finally began a gorgeously slow torment around her clit. She just lay there, tense and unmoving, watching him, the slurping, obscene sounds of his hand inside of her filling the sleepy morning air around them.

Elain came quietly. She moaned and twisted and gasped as he rubbed her clit, but when the waves finally descended upon her, when he felt the tight, silky flesh grip and pump all four of his fingers, which were now pressing up into her perfect spot, the exhale was soft and intimate. Only for him.

Now

“Don’t wreck the car,” Elain muttered, eyes barely open.

“Will this be the second one?” Azriel asked, while Elain wrapped her hand around his wrist and forcefully jammed his hand inside of her.

Four.

Four orgasms daily. That was his promise.

He’d provide her with at least four daily orgasms. So far, he typically exceeded expectations. It wasn’t particularly difficult, because he often played with her at odd times—when they were watching TV, he’d slip a finger onto her clitty and rub her slowly and leisurely, until she melted from the stimulation. She enjoyed it when he bent her over counters or sinks, and sunk his fingers deep and hard into her perpetually ready hole.

Elain, to his complete delight and fascination, was always just a bit aroused. Always, always just a bit wet, just a little damp for him. He’d make an unscheduled stop at her shop and if it was empty, he’d step behind the counter with her, and soon, she’d be splayed over the counter, his hand between her legs. Yes, they’ve been almost caught plenty of times, but Azriel had the ability to disappear into shadows as soon as he sensed someone coming. Sometimes, when someone would walk in the store, Azriel even pretended that he was a customer, buying flowers, watching her patiently, while she got his bouquet ready for him. Never mind that his hand might have been soaked with her slick, or that he smirked, watching her press her thighs together, while she wrapped the flowers, as she avoided eye contact with him, and handed him the bouquet which he’d inevitably bring home for her.

When he was around her, she jokingly complained that she was of constant need for him, and it was his very enviable and pleasant task to soothe the ache inside of her.

 Azriel

Their friends, family, found their relationship perplexing. But Elain kept her sisters firmly at an arm’s length when it came to the discussion of their sex life. No matter how they tried to pry, she gently, but firmly rebuffed them. Nesta complained and said that they were too obsessed with each other. That Elain was too in love and that Azriel was too dependent on Elain’s love for this to be normal. Elain only shrugged and didn’t argue.

 “It’s not normal!” seethed Nesta, watching Elain and Azriel wrapped around each other on the dance floor, Elain’s body shimmying and swaying around her, arms raised in the air, her hips swooshing to the beat, bumping into his pelvis.

“You think they are gonna do it right on the dancefloor?” Cassian contemplated quietly, not sure if this was outside the realm of possibilities.

“He would!” she spat and gulped down her Aperol spritz aggressively. “I am surprised he is not bending her over…more surprised she isn’t agreeing!”

“They never argue,” Cassian nodded.

“They never—never—argue. It’s not normal!”

The way Cassian saw it, as long as the two were happy, he had no right to judge.

Nesta was a hot pepper. Feyre, an apple—solid, tasty, dependable. Elain—whipped cream—a delicious topping over anything, but especially Azriel.

 Nevertheless, the word got around.

One day, Azriel, Rowan and Cassian were sitting in Elain’s flower shop, toiling diligently over a huge order of flowers.

They wouldn’t admit it to anyone, not to each other, or their women, but they quite enjoyed hiding in that flower shop and arranging flowers. They claimed that they were doing it for Elain’s sake, to help her out, so she didn’t have to hire additional help just yet, but,

Well, they liked it.

At first, Elain wasn’t sure if Cassian was cut out for the task, because the very first try was a little rough.

“Cass, these are not your enemies that you are about to smite,” Elain instructed gently, prying his fingers from the stems of irises, which he was clutching like he was about to throw a lance.

“Pfff, you look like you are about to choke a chicken,” Nesta teased. And promptly realised her mistake, biting her lip.

Cassian cocked his brow and murmured seductively,

“What chicken am I choking, sweetheart? My own,”

“Oh no,” Elain stepped in between them, hands on her hips. “No. No. No. Absolutely not.”

“Lainey, don’t allow Cass to choke his chicken in front of us,” begged Azriel, working quickly and deftly, and soliciting an envious look from Cassian, whose flowers were in complete disarray, compared to Azriel’s neat piles and methodical assembly line.

“Yes, no one is choking chickens, penises or each other in here,” ordered Elain sternly, while Nesta and Azriel were laughing silently.

“Hehe,” smirked Cassian, “Elain said ‘penis’!”

“Take your dirty talk and deeds,”

Dirty deeds done dirt cheap, dirty deeds done dirt cheap

Cassian began rocking to his own singing, imitating the gravel of Brian Johnson’s voice rather successfully, headbanging over his babybreath, bluebells and irises.

Chicken choking forgotten for a moment.

 As Cassian fussed over a vase, working on each stem and arranging them just so, wearing a little white apron no less, he asked casually, “So, brother, four?”

Azriel was in his own headspace, and he didn’t even hear Cassian, as he was busy with his own flower arrangement.

There was, expectedly, a competition going on—who’d complete the most arrangements in an hour. Rowan, a veritable giant, and Cassian’s best friend, also wore an apron, but a long one, like a butcher, and was significantly ahead of the pack. That bothered Azriel more than he cared to admit. So, he was re-strategizing his strategy.

“Four what?” Rowan inquired, not taking his eyes off the flowers, working like a machine.

“Ask Az here,” Cassian suggested. He was catching up to Azriel with an alarming speed.

Azriel had never lost, so far. He wasn’t going to lose today.

“Stop speaking in riddles. What are you talking about?”

“Word on the street is that our Az here provides the flower girl with a minimum of four orgasms on the daily,”

Azriel started and finally tore his eyes from the flowers.

Both Rowan and Cassian were watching him, smirking.

“I guess it’s true then,”

“Fuck off.”

“If that’s true,” Rowan drawled, “good for you, man. Though you are putting us to shame with this ridiculous offer of yours. How do you keep up?”

“Easily,” Azriel shrugged. “But it’s freaking me out that you two are talking about my sex life so casually.”

“But fucking four? Daily?” repeated Cassian, shaking his head.

“Yeah, Elain, man,” Rowan rubbed the back of his head, mussing his silver hair, “who would’ve thought?”

Cassian nodded, “No offense, brother, but Elain doesn’t strike anyone as particularly adventurous in the bedroom,”

“And that’s where you’d be wrong,” Azriel said simply.

“Very beautiful,” offered Rowan pacifically, “but…you know…Kind of like Elide, I guess. You wouldn’t know it, looking at her,”

Cassian was nodding. “Yeah, she looks like she eats macaroons and reads Jane Austen,”

“Macarons,” said Azriel.

“What?”

“It’s macaron. Not macaroon.”

“What the hell is the difference?”

“One is a French biscuit, made with almond flour and filled with a creamy filling. The other, is a coconut concoction that one usually eats at Passover.”

Rowan was chuckling. Cassian was shaking his head, grunting, “you would know. So, does she? Eat maca--,”

“No, she doesn’t even like macarons. And she doesn’t read Jane Austen. She reads espionage novels. She likes Daniel Silva. Any more stupid questions?”

Elide. Of course. He should’ve guessed.

Elain and Elide met through Rowan and it was friendship at first sight.

Azriel couldn’t argue—the two women were similar in many ways. Both were on a quiet side, polite, well-mannered. Elain—a ray of sunshine, tall, slender and curvaceous, smiling and affable, with piles of golden-brown locks and warm brown eyes. Elide—the opposite—small, pale, with perfectly straight, silky black hair and dark, midnight eyes. Both—crafty in the ways of the world, charming, when needed, capable of getting into everyone’s good graces, and therefore, getting what they wanted.

“No, no more stupid questions,” said Cassian. “Just don’t know how you two grumps attracted such lively girls,”

“Lorcan and I aren’t ‘grumps’. We just talk when we need to and don’t have the need for instant gratification or to be the center of attention. Something I can’t say about you,”

“It’s not about me,” Cassian protested, but Azriel stopped him, by raising his finger,

 “Now, if you are not going to shut the fuck up about my woman and me, I will spread a rumour amongst your women, that it’s not four, but six. Daily. Let’s see how you measure up then.”

Silence fell.

Azriel won.

His 36th win.

 Now

 “Yes, the second,” Elain nodded with a satisfied smile.

 Azriel

 Naturally, today, he woke her up properly, as he always did.

They stayed in an adorable little villa, near Montepulciano. It was everything a Tuscan villa was supposed to be…

including the dust that settled in its 800-year-old walls. And Elain coughed and coughed and coughed, surprisingly not coughing up a lung.

“We can’t stay here,” Azriel said, frowning.

“Where are going to go? We are in the middle of Tuscany and it’s 10 pm,” she reminded him.

Ever resourceful, he dragged the mattress off the antique bed and plopped it down on the floor of their small balcony.

“We sleep here. Under the night Tuscan sky.”

It was a lovely, if chilly night, and Elain would’ve enjoyed it if she didn’t fall asleep almost immediately and slept through the night.

She was still asleep, when the birds began their morning song and Azriel positioned her on her hands and knees, and carefully removed her nightgown, baring her to the dry, cool morning air.

“Someone will see us,” she murmured sleepily.

She tucked her hands under her cheek, and followed the direction of Azriel’s hand on her hip, rising her butt high up, and arching her back for him.

Azriel loved having sex out in the open. Especially if she was completely naked. He wasn’t overt about it, but the thrill of being found out, the titillating desire to be watched was always present. She knew it. She indulged his fantasies.

“I don’t think anyone would mind watching you,” he whispered hotly in her ear and lightly bit the apple of her cheek. “But it’s also like 4:15 in the morning. So maybe they are still sleeping.”

He settled behind her and she felt his hands on her back, smoothing over the sharp cut of her tight waist and then the soft curve of her hips.

“Spread your legs for me, my love, I want to play with you a little bit,” he guided her, and she followed his direction, squatting inelegantly on her knees, thighs wide apart for him. He cupped her fully in his palm and then pinched her clit, hard, twisting it and rubbing it between his two fingers, until she bit her forearm, trying to stifle her cries of instant pleasure.  He pinched again, then again, rubbing tightly, while he bit her buttock playfully, but hard enough to leave a pink mark.

“Mmmm,” she groaned, when he nibbled on her flesh again, tugging on the swollen clit with relentless dedication. She managed to twist enough to kiss his knee and whispered, eyes still closed, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, my beautiful girl,” he leaned forward and kissed her wet, stretched opening, dragging his tongue around and around the rim, “and you are so nice and wet for me in the morning. My good girl, what do you want?”

“Only you,” she vowed. “Only you, my Az.”

“Let’s fill your pretty little hole then,” he licked on it again, and then slid one strong, long finger inside. As he began to pump her slowly, he proposed, “When I fill you with my cock later on,”

“Uh oh,” she moaned dreamily, smiling a loving smile, enjoying his finger to the fullest.

“I think I’d like to add a finger or two as well. What do you think?”

“I’d like that, I think,” she complied easily.

Elain was not a particularly imaginative lover, but Azriel was the opposite—he had too much imagination when it came to everything. Especially Elain, and what he liked to do with her sexually. What was absolutely fantastic, and he thanked all the gods for this phenomenon, was that Elain was willing to try anything. She was an absolutely willing and eager lover, who learned from him and learned of her body with readiness and joy. He dominated her completely, but that was the nature of their relationship, and they easily fell into their roles, from the very beginning. She was submissive, loved praise, and loved being guided and told what to do. More than anything else, she loved pleasing him. There was never any pull and push, no competition, no power struggles. Elain was made for him, created and carved from something that was innately his, whether it was his body or his mind, and they lived and loved harmoniously. He complimented her perfectly: her temperament, her needs, her wants. He treated her with admiration, gentleness, adoration and respect, and while his own expectations were high, she met them all with ease. She took control when she needed to. Received what she wanted from him, however she needed to. And he gave and gave.

Some, or many, called them soulmates.

Perhaps that’s what they were. Or maybe, they were even more than that.

Azriel stretched his legs on either side of her curved body and then added another finger inside of her sopping, slippery opening, reaching deep into her and pumping her firmly.

“Auuuu, babe, it’s good…” she squealed, “it’s so good.”

Unable to wait any longer, he pulled her buttocks apart with his available hand and swept his tongue over the tiny opening, causing her to seize with surprise and pleasure. Instinctively, she moved her hips against his tongue, pushing her backside into his lips. He licked the little hole in earnest, dragging his tongue back and forth between both of her openings, making her tremble and shudder every time his tongue reached one or the other.

As he sat to the task of licking and sucking her tight hole, he thrust a third finger into her dripping passage, feeling her shift against his face to accommodate the stretch. It was a lot, and she whimpered and moaned from the pressure, but he knew that she could take four, though he wasn’t in a hurry, and worked her diligently and steadily, his tongue laving the other hole just as eagerly.

She was shaking between his legs, her toes curling beneath her, rapid pants escaping into the morning mists, her hair draping the tiled floor in front of her, even spilling through the balcony rails.

Somewhere they heard sheep bleating and Elain laughed softly, before arching her back even further, not caring how splayed she looked. There wasn’t a part of her that he hasn’t seen, hasn’t touched or licked or kissed, not an inch of her that wasn’t caressed by his rough hands, not an orifice that he hasn’t penetrated with his magnificent cock. He’d burrowed inside of her so deeply, so wholly, he possessed all of her and she knew what it’s like to truly be part of another person, to be loved with egregious passion.

He fed another finger inside of her and she cried out, trembling and grunting, as she grabbed and squeezed his foot with mighty strength.

He tore his lips away from her bottom and grinned,

“Love, when you are in labour with our baby, I am fully prepared for the fact that you will break my fingers, maybe even my hand.”

“I am sorry,” she laughed, and kissed his foot, dragging her tongue over his toes.

There wasn’t a part of him that she did not love, did not worship with everything she had. No part of his body remained un-kissed, un-touched, un-caressed. A lazy Sunday, especially if the weather was crap and they had no plans to go out, was her favourite time—she could spend the day loving her Azriel. On those days, she pleasured him. And if she spent hours with his cock buried in her throat, or his balls between her lips, or her tongue in his ass, she was only too happy.

The tips of his fingers crawled into that hidden spot inside of her, curling just so, so he could massage and rub her into a frenzy. He stilled for a moment, to allow her to adjust to the fullness and the stretch, as she bit his foot, trying to stifle her screams. She leaked slowly over his hand, as most of it was situated in her clutching, hungry tightness.

“Very good, my baby,” he praised, kissing her buttocks and then giving her anus a few approving licks, “taking all four inside of you,”

“Oh my god, oh,” she groaned, “it’s so tight…Az, my love, I am so full,”

“I know, love,” he coaxed evenly, his hand beginning a steady, firm barrage of deep, pounding thrusts, “but it’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Yeess,” she only managed, voice thin, pleading. She could barely hold herself up, so he wrapped his arm around her hips, keeping her ass up. She grabbed the balcony wrought-iron spindles, squeezing them tightly, forehead pressed into the mattress, as he pumped her harshly, keeping her on the verge of constant climax, but pulling back just so, for her to moan and beg him in a never ending litany.

“Baby, you want to come?” he teased, still busy with her butthole, which softened under his furious sucking and if they had more time and privacy, Elain would be ready to take him anally soon enough.

“Yes,” she grunted, “yes,”

“Ask nicely, and maybe,”

“Ugh, you are such a horrible tease,” she complained, biting his foot in spite, and he laughed, before slapping her firm, soft buttock.

“Biting a person who is making you come so nicely?” he slapped her again, and she yelped with pleasure, wiggling her ass, silently asking for more.

The walls of her passage clenched desperately over his fingers, and she made a choking, frantic sound in her chest, now beyond pleading or even moaning. He sucked, and slapped, and bit, and thrust, pumping her open, the sounds of the wet and the skin inside of her completely obscene, and music to both of their ears.

Azriel noticed a man, either a delivery guy or a grounds keeper, watching them wide eyed and shocked from a distance. Probably not something he expected to see at 4:40 in the morning. Not that he made a move to leave.

Azriel opted not to alarm Elain, who was coming violently on his hand, her body trembling and jerking, her beautiful, quiet orgasm sweeping everything in its path. His girl deserved a proper wake up, deserved and needed her climaxes, and deserved to be watched, because she was so beautiful. Her teeth and tongue clamped tightly on his foot, his toes, as she bit and licked, completely undone, turned inside out by his expert hand.

He still worked her hand in her, his thrusts shallow and not as strong, when she collapsed on the mattress at last, eyes closed, panting.

He smiled and finally slipped on the mattress alongside her, though he kept a finger between her folds, rubbing soothingly. She’d bite his head off if he removed his hand from her this quickly.

“Good morning my love,” he whispered at last, kissing her cheek.

“Mmmm, good morning,” she sighed with satiated pleasure.

“Some guy caught an eyeful,” he whispered, but she only snuggled to his chest.

“I don’t care…As long as you were watching me, that’s all that matters.”

“I wouldn’t mind sliding into your little bum right now,” he confessed, stroking her hip and her curvy backside.

“Do you want to take me?” she offered sweetly, eyes fluttering open.

He kissed her head and smiled, “So tempting, but not here and not now. Let’s jump in the shower and then be on our way. We’ve got a decent amount of driving to do today.”

She nodded.

“Did I tell you that I love you?” she stroked his cheek, the sharp, angular cut of it, the dark bronze skin.

“You did, but I wouldn’t mind hearing it again.”

“I love you, Azriel.”

“I love you, Elain.”

 Elain

Their day was long.

They had their cappuccino and cornetti at some café on the road.

Their trip had a purpose—they were actually driving to Maranello, to the Ferrari headquarters where Azriel had 3 days of business meetings.

When Az told her that he was thinking of going to Italy, it was no brainer to say ‘yes’.

It was the first time she was going to leave her business, her shop, for an extended period of time, but Feyre promised to oversee the operations, while Cerridwen, whom Elain recently hired as a full-time employee and who was Nuala’s sister, was going to be responsible for the day-to-day.

The last time Elain’s been to Italy was when she was barely 10 years old. A few years before everything’s went to shit. Back then, her father completed a very lucrative business deal and there was a lot of disposable cash, so the family decided to take a grand trip to Italy.

Little Feyre who was only seven screeched and begged to go to Disneyland, while Nesta and their mother voted for Italy. No one asked Elain, assuming that she’d go wherever she was told.

The trip was extensive, almost four weeks, and they hit all the glamorous Southern parts—the Amalfi coast, with their headquarters in a rented villa near Positano. Then they went to Portofino, and their father rented a yacht for a few days, the trip culminating in Capri. It was a whirlwind on sun and the sea, of lemons, eating grilled squid, at which Feyre stared in horror, though she liked the taste, amazing fruit, endless pastries and gelato. Even their mother yanking a few pastries away from Elain, hissing that she ‘grow fat and not find a husband’ didn’t mar the experience. Elain, always the plumper of the sisters, was used to the warning by then.

 This time around, Elain could eat as much pastry as she wanted.

They landed in Rome, spent four days there, since she insisted on going to the Vatican Museum twice, hear Mass at St. Peter’s, and she didn’t know if she annoyed Azriel with her endless excitement and tales of art, artists, and biblical stories, but she couldn’t help herself.

She was an Art History major in NYU, receiving a full scholarship to attend. She loved it. Didn’t like college all that much as a whole, but loves studying. When everyone was partying, drinking, fucking and skipping classes, she went to the Met and to MOMA and learned and enjoyed herself. She loved history of religion, of other cultures and though not at all religious herself, none of them were, her knowledge on the subject was thorough.

Azriel, it seemed, liked her passion, her excitement, and listened attentively when she went on long explanation of what this or that Saint did and what grizzly death they’d suffered. And what was the significance of the painting or sculpture of the said Saint. Obviously, he was very artistically inclined as well, though his preference lay in design and industrial art, but he enjoyed listening and discussing. They spent hours and hours meandering the halls of the museum, and of the cathedral, and both spent a good half an hour in front of the Pieta, staring in silence and quiet contemplation at the sculpture, holding hands.

It was when they were sitting at a café, sipping some bitter Campari cocktails and watched the sprawling vistas of Rome that Azriel confided to her. Told her of his childhood. She knew some of the details, but he never talked about his childhood, and she opted not to pressure him. It was clear enough that it was horrific in many ways, and bringing up all those memories didn’t make sense to Elain.

Told her how his father, who was rich and vicious, won custody of him from his mother, not because he wanted his son, but out of spite, to torment the mother. And then it was years of solitude and loneliness and emotional and physical abuse. Azriel’s only reprieve was drawing, making designs, sometimes with chalk on the pavement, sometimes on scraps of paper. His stepmother threw everything out as soon as he made it. He languished in his father’s world for 8 years, until a catastrophic event took place—his stepbrothers doused him, his hands, in gasoline and lit him up. They didn’t call the paramedics either, and simply stood there, watching, as he burned. Finally, the neighbors heard his screams and police and ambulance came at last.

Because he was young, he recovered most of the sensations and feeling in his hands, but the skin was permanently scarred and his father refused skin grafts.

He’d met Cassian at the hospital, who came there having been beaten so badly by his foster father, that he had a concussion, broken ribs and a punctured eye socket.

Mrs. Darling, Rhys’s mother, who was one of the biggest benefactors of the children’s hospital where they were recovering, heard their stories and thankfully, her wealth opened every door. Her influence and wealth were no match for Azriel’s father. Hence when she decided that she wanted to adopt the two boys, little could be done to dissuade her. Azriel and Cassian still spent some time in foster care, while the documents were being processed and all the formalities legalized, but at the end, they ended up with the Darlings, as their adopted sons.

Elain wanted to cry for him, for his destroyed childhood, for his tormented youth, for his injuries, for the lack of love in his life. For his sake, though, she didn’t.

Sensing that he needed her support, she didn’t release his hand for the remainder of the day.

And she told him how much she loved him and how happy he made her.

 They left Montepulciano, and then drove for a few hours and stopped at Orvieto, and explored its unnecessary enormous Duomo, which was situated on the hill, amidst the Umbrian lushness. The tiny town did offer spectacular views and great wine, which they enjoyed with lunch.

 Now

Azriel worked his fingers into the supple warmth of her damp pussy and looked down, before ordering, “wider, Lainey”.

She spread her legs wider, her knit dress folded haphazardly over the belly.

“Wider,” he said and she placed one foot on the seat, exposing herself completely to him.

It was never wide enough for him, for he liked to see everything, liked to spread and open and pull her wide apart for his eyes, for his exploration.

He pressed his thumb to her plump pink clit and began to rub.

She whined impatiently and he smiled,

“We are almost there…”

“I need you,” she moaned, kissing his shoulder through his shirt.

“I need you too, my beauty,” he nodded, “but I think once we get there, you’ll forget all about me.”

She tsked and announced, “I don’t know if anything will impress me as much as your cock in my mouth,”

He started at the blunt words, her amused grin and then burst out laughing.

“Naughty.”

In a few minutes, he rounded a small green hill and Elain’s breath caught in her throat.

“Oh, gods…Az…”

He was smiling.

He’d never been here before, but he’d done his research, finally finding the right spot.

A tiny hidden valley, nestled between a few rolling Tuscan hills, with a small turquoise lake sparkling in the late afternoon sun. In the distance, a mandatory Tuscan villa.

And poppies. Fields of poppies, stretching as far as the eye can see. A blanket of ruby-red poppies, gently swaying in the pine-scented air.

This place was a damn Walmart painting come true, and Azriel loved it for its kitsch, its predictability.

“It’s gorgeous!” she gasped. Then chuckled, adding, “Like one of those mass-produced paintings,”

At that, Azriel roared with laughter, killed the engine and they got out of the car.

“My thoughts exactly!” he nodded vigorously.

She ran into the poppies, brushing her palm over the petals, “But it’s worth it! No painting can ever do this justice! Az…it’s so beautiful!” she twirled in the field of red, her white dress a stark contrast to the vibrancy of the colours around her—the cobalt of the cloudless sky, the emerald green of the hills, the blood-red of the poppies.

He folded his arms and said, “I am glad you like it.”

“Like it? I love it!”

She inspected all the wildflowers that bloomed among the poppies, picking a few purple ones and a daisy and tucking them behind her ear. Another daisy she brought to him and tucked it into his hair.

“There is a blanket in the trunk,” he jerked his head towards the car, and unbuttoned his shirt almost to the navel, “if you want to picnic,”

“I want to picnic!” she squealed and ran to the car to get what she needed.

Soon there was a blanket on the grass and a few bottles of wine in a basket.

He slid down, stretching on the blanket, toeing off his shoes, rolling his shoulders. This was nice. He also relished her happiness, how her high ponytail bounced about as she ran through the field barefoot, and then began twirling, arms outstretched and singing loudly,

The hills are alive with the sound of

Griswold, he helped out.

“Are you coming here?” he called out, throwing his arm over his eyes.

“No,” she yelled, “I am picking flowers!”

“They’ll wilt,” he muttered reasonably, but she didn’t hear him.

Azriel dozed off, surprising himself. But the pleasant heat, the sunshine, the breeze, the birds—all lulled him into sleep. He stirred only when he sensed Elain near, and when he opened his eyes, he was treated by a lovely surprise. He propped himself on his elbows and watched his beautiful girl walk towards him completely naked, with a heap of flowers in the crook of her arm. What she did with her dress he didn’t know and didn’t care. But he drunk in the slim, curvy silhouette of her body, the long, slender legs and the toned thighs. Her smooth, pink sex glistened just a bit with her usual arousal, and full breasts bounced with every step. Her hair flowed behind her, unbound.

“I got hot,” she announced.

He grinned.

“I can see that. I like it when you get hot like this.”

She stood over him, her delicious slit taunting him and he made to touch it, but she dumped all the flowers on him instead and said, “get up”.

“Why?!” he frowned. “I am so comfortable.”

“I can make you a little more comfortable,” she promised, “but for that, you have to get up.”

With a groan, he got on his feet, only to have her slide on her knees in front of him. She looked up and murmured, “by the time you are done with me, I only want to have gelato to soothe my throat.”

He swallowed audibly, watching her unbutton his trousers and then his shirt. She removed the pants completely, but left the white shirt on, before placing a few soft, loving kisses on the thick slabs of muscles on his stomach. The well-defined outline of his Adonis Belt she traced with her tongue, inevitably making her way from his hip towards the final destination.

“And I want my knees bruised,” she added with a wicked smirk.

He flicked her nose and shook his head, “such filthy words coming from this pretty little mouth.”

She licked her lips with impatience, hungrily watching him fist his member and give it a few rough, preliminary strokes.

“Gods, your cock is gorgeous,” she gasped with admiration, watching him work himself with practiced determination.

“You like my cock?” he drew the thick, smooth head of it over her full lips and she whimpered with anticipation, nodding, kissing it affectionately, with slow, open mouth kisses, as he continued to pump it lazily.

She admitted, “more than anything. Az, Az,” she begged impatiently, as he smeared a trickle of liquid that dribbled from the tip over her lips, “please,”

“Please what?”

She rested her hands on his thighs, kneeling close enough so that her breasts brushed against them, “I want it in my mouth. Please.”

He lightly smacked the thick girth of his shaft over her half-opened mouth, making her shake with anticipation, smiling down at her. Her eyes burned with raw, overwhelming desire.

“But I like it when you ask me, baby. Tell me more,”

“That your cock is gorgeous and ridiculously huge?” she chuckled, relishing in his rubbing the tip insistently over her lips, as she licked the little slit.

“Keep going,” he encouraged.

“That I love you and can’t wait to suck it?”

“Alright, babe,” she nodded at last, “I guess you’ll just have to suck my huge dick,” and with that, he slid between her lips.

She smiled around him and pulled on it deeper, dragging her tongue over and under the thick shaft. It was always just a little too big for her, so she gasped, as he filled her mouth more and more, sliding in steadily. She eased her throat as much as she could, accepting the thrust and feeling the smooth head dip down, brushing the back of her throat. He was watching her intently, every bob and swallow of her throat, making sure that she was comfortable enough to hold him in. “Big?” he murmured. Her eyes teared up, but she managed a small nod. Her hands squeezed his thighs nervously, tightly, stroking the backs of them, while he began to pull out slowly, before sliding back in.

Nothing was more exciting than Elain’s ability to mould her throat around his shaft, while those big brown eyes blinked at him, seeking approval. He put his hand over her head, stroking it, then caressing her face, her hollowed cheeks, while giving her mouth a few exploratory thrusts.

She readied herself and pulled back, releasing the cock with an audible pop, and then licking the underside, from the balls to the tip.

“Just like that, my love,” he nodded, watching her tuck her face in the crease of his hip and slide her tongue up and down the sides of his cock. “Is that good?”

“It’s the best,” she vowed, “I love licking!” she added enthusiastically, proceeding to do just that.

He always remembered that she was very innocent and whatever she knew, no matter how sensual, erotic or even perverse, it all came from him. He taught her—gently, firmly and thoroughly the art of the bedroom and whatever they did, he was completely assured that she enjoyed and wanted every moment of it. Thankfully, she was so innocent that she didn’t know how to pretend or fake anything, especially when it came to sex, and didn’t know how to play games. She was eager and loving and excitable because what they did together, with each other, pleased her, and for no other reason. Azriel cherished this level of honesty more than anything.

Therefore, when she said that she loved licking, she showed him just how much she enjoyed it, licking up and down voraciously, over the sides, watching him unblinking. He cupped the pouch of his balls in one hand and carefully eased it into her mouth.

“You are so good to me,” he groaned, as she wrapped her lips around the ball and began to suck eagerly, not caring if she was loud, smacking her lips, tongue working non-stop, caressing the flesh. She hummed appreciatively around the balls, sending a pleasant shiver down his thighs, her mouth completely filled with him. “That’s good, my girl,” he stroked her head, “just like that. Keep going,” his head fell back with satisfaction, and she swallowed hard around his balls, almost moaning at the sight of his neck, the expression of pleasure written on his face.

“Can I tell you a story?” he muttered huskily, looking back down at her, his eyes dark and his face tense. Elain nodded. He gripped his cock and then slid it back in her mouth, almost to the hilt, making her choke and gag at once, watching her eyes widen.

She was drooling, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the pressure of her member in her throat, or from the visual display of his stunning body above her. The thick pectorals, adorned with black and blue ink twitched as he began to pump in and out of her mouth, hard and steady. He held the back of her head, but the clutch of his hand was light and casual, only keeping her in place, as his narrow hips flexed with each deep push. A delicious bead of sweat ran down the cobbled network of his abdominal muscles, slowly making its way to the deep V etched into his hips, towards the thick cock that he was currently ramming into her mouth.

She drooled. She licked and laved and lapped. She didn’t care how messy or ridiculous she looked, because her man loved her and loved her on her knees in front of him.

“I couldn’t stop watching you talk,” he grumbled, “the first time I saw you. Your plump lips…Oh fuck, baby, you feel so, so good,” he rode her smoothly, with deep, expert strokes, “you wore that rose-tinted lipstick…and all I could think of afterward was those lips wrapped around my dick.”

She smiled over his member, lightly shaking her head, as much as her current position would allow.

“I am sorry, honey,” he smiled at her, “this pervy mind couldn’t think of anything else but getting my dick down your throat.”

And demonstrating just that, and the resolution of his dream, he pushed further.

“Alright?” he asked, carefully holding her jaw. She blinked her approval. He was unable to take his eyes off her, her lush lips wrapped tightly around the dark mass of him, her beautiful eyes tearing from pressure. He wiped the tears with his thumbs and then gave a brief nod, “give me those flowers, baby.”

Obviously, she couldn’t glance down, so she blindly grabbed a handful of flowers and handed them to him, her expression amused, a little surprised.

“What’s more romantic,” he murmured, stroking her hollowed cheeks and then pulling out a little, before pushing back in, “than putting pretty flowers into my Lainey’s hair,” and he plucked a small poppy from the heap, and pushed in into her hair, “while she deepthroats me?”

He was heavy and thick in her mouth, salty, delicious and familiar, and as he began thrusting firmly, the thick head hitting the back of her throat, Elain settled in for a ride. She wasn’t kidding when she asked for her throat to be raw by the end of it—she liked being sore somewhere in her body from him, at all times. Between her legs, inside her rectum, in her throat—it didn’t matter, though it was nice if it was everywhere, but she loved being marked by him in some way.

The hum and rumble in Azriel’s throat, that of masculine satisfaction and some kind of primal dominance made her so wet, she leaked down her thighs. But he didn’t tell her to touch herself, so she didn’t. He just fucked her throat steadily, the audible sound of her choking and sputtering around his cock and the satisfied snarls emanating from him, the only sounds around them. His hips rocked hard, pumping deep, as he garbled endearments and praise to her, “is that so good, honey? You feel amazing…”

She squeezed his thighs in affirmation. As he worked on her, he kept putting flowers in her hair, admiring her sucking and his work, “so gorgeous, baby. My beautiful girl…Good cock?”

“Mmmm,” she only managed, saliva bathing her chin and chest, her eyes rolling back with pleasure and exhaustion.

“Can you handle a little more?” he begged, “I don’t want to come yet, my love,” another flower in her hair. “I love you on your knees with my cock in her mouth.”

He set a brutal rhythm, muttered, “choke, baby…” and she did, gagging and panting over his member, the lack of oxygen making her pliant and obliging, her mouth existing for his pleasure. When they played a little rougher, he could request to squeeze her throat a little with his hand, while he choked her with his cock, but today, he was feeling romantic, as was she.

Her hair dripped with flowers of all kinds, as he fashioned her into some kind of Summer Lady. Or maybe a Dusk Lady, since the sun began its descent and shadows spread over the pretty little valley.

“Fuck me, you are so beautiful,” he grunted, looking down at her. “My flower girl, with my cock in her mouth. Bob a little, love, show me how much you like it,” he encouraged and she immediately began to bob her head  up and down on him, drool sliding down his shaft, her eyes pleading for his approval, which he gave generously.

He gently, kindly stroked her face, her throat, feeling his cock deep inside it, moving in her, rubbing at the indentation with his thumb. Then, he cupped her face between his large hands and murmured, “open up”, thumbs brushing over her damp cheeks, as tears slid down when he started to thrust intently, battering her throat. “My girl is sucking so well,” he was relentless now, pounding and pounding, an Elain thought that she might just pass out from the sensation, feeling lightheaded. Azriel had inhuman stamina when he was between her legs, but that also translated to when he was in her mouth, which meant he could ravage her completely. “I’ll feed you all the gelato myself, if you can suck a little more,” he promised with a smirk, pulling out completely. “Breathe,” he ordered, and she gulped in some air, before he thrust back inside, “are you tired?”

She shook her head ‘no’. She was never tired for him. She moaned, though his cock pushed down all sound with brutal, excited enthusiasm, as he cupped his balls tightly in his hand, readying to finally come. “Fuck, baby, you suck so well,” he squeezed her shoulder, stooping over her, the muscled of his abdomen twitching and tensing, his balls tight against her chin. Grabbing her shoulder with one hand, he cupped her under the jaw and kept her head still, as he exploded in her mouth. He poured down her throat with a pleased, blissful moan, throwing his head back, pumping harshly and erratically, filling her mouth over and over. She sucked and drank, swallowing quickly, gluttonously. Azriel always tasted heavenly, but perhaps it was something about being in Italy and all the fruit and wine that they’ve been consuming, but she couldn’t get enough of him now. He shot rope after rope down her throat and she lapped it all with pleasure. He dropped on his knees, exhausted, his cock still in her mouth, and she stroked and caressed his body soothingly, swallowing the last of him.

“Gods, Elain,” was all he managed, as he finally withdrew in an endlessly long pull from her lips.

She gasped, and licked her lips, before placing a loving, playful kiss on the pink, wet head of the shaft.

“Did you have fun, my love?” she cooed tenderly, as Azriel slumped on the blanket, head her on her lap.

“Baby, why do you spoil me like this?” he moaned, reaching for her bare plump breast and cupping lightly.

“Probably because I love you more than it’s prudent,” she smiled, her voice hoarse. “More than anything. Love you like I didn’t know I could love anybody. Also,”

“Yes?”

His chest constricted from her simple admissions, from the pure earnestness of her words, from the love that was shining in her brown eyes. He was undeserving of this woman, of her overwhelming love for him, of everything that she gave him so selflessly. But he listened and listened, because everything she told him was like a balm on all the wounds of his soul, and music to his heart.

Her lips were gorgeously, obscenely swollen, and he dragged his thumb over their plumpness. She added, “you are very hot.”

“Ahhh,” he chuckled. “So you are using me for my body?”

“I’d be stupid not to use you for your body. You got one hell of a body, my mysterious, shadowy Azriel.”

“Well, flower girl, you go ahead and use my body as much as you want, for anything you desire. It’s yours.”

He kissed her hand. Then, reached up and kissed her pretty pink nipple.

“As is my heart,” he added softly. “Anything you want. It’s all yours.”

She lay next to him, both of them sprawled in the blanket of flowers. She picked a poppy and stuck it behind his ear.

“Pretty boy Azriel.”

He propped his cheek and turned to face her. She was still covered in flowers, from all his handiwork.

“We are good together, aren’t we?” she murmured, laying her hand on his neck.

“We are. We are very good together, Lainey.”

She bit her swollen lip and then said, voice quiet, a little uncertain,

“Maybe you want to marry me?” she proposed.

He stilled, waiting for more.

She squeezed the back of his neck a little tighter and continued, no stopping her now, “I know we were thinking later, maybe next y-,”

“Yes,” he nodded, “yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, Elain, I want to marry you now.”

She gasped, tears of joy moistening her eyes, “In Florence?” she begged.

“Yes. In Florence,” he cupped her face in his. “Let’s go get married!”

[jungshookz]

teeny tidbits: jin's trying to teach y/n how to slice an apple properly and she's having none of it

➺ pairing; kim seokjin x reader

➺ genre; culinarystudent!seokjinniverse!! honk honk humour!! smerhaps smut!! y/n's a moron in the kitchen but jin likes to take care of her so it's okay!!

➺ wordcount; 1.4k

. ⋅ ˚̣- : ✧ : – ⭒ ⊹ ⭒ – : ✧ : -˚̣⋅ .

"what... are you doing?"

there are a lot of reasons as to why jin doesn't want you to wander off into his kitchen without his strict supervision

first of all, you're very messy: you leave paper towels everywhere, you place knives on the edge of the counter so that the handles are hanging off and just waiting to be knocked over, and there was that one time you spilled a whole pot of tomato sauce when the two of you were making homemade pizza together

second of all, you don't like to play by the rules (as seen by your ramen can be cooked in a coffee pot and bacon can be fried with an iron! mentality) — but when it comes to the kitchen, jin really, really needs you to play by the rules because you could end up hurting yourself somehow if you start goofing around!

and what you're doing right now is most definitely not playing by the rules, which is why he needs to step in and do something straight away before you lose a limb

"slicing up apples. duh." you jump when the knife slides off the smooth surface of the apple and you nearly catch the tip of your finger

whoops

you look up to frown at jin before jabbing the knife accusatorially in his direction, "see? you're distracting me!"

"you're using a butterknife to slice apples?" jin asks incredulously before shaking his head and hurrying over to you, "no, no- you are not using a butterknife to cut up anything in my kitchen-"

"what's wrong with using a butterknife??" you tsk, "it's a knife, it can slice into things- as long as it gets the job done, i don't care-"

"but i do!" jin interrupts, gently plucking the butterknife from your fist before placing it into the sink, "why can't you just eat an apple whole?"

"well, i wanna make apple sauce!" you gesture to the array of ingredients that you pulled out from jin's pantry (you tend to take advantage of all of the goodies he has whenever you come over because duh, why not?), "actually, it's not really apple sauce. i want to make apple pie filling and just eat it like apple sauce."

"oh my god, okay-" jin pulls a knife out of the wooden block with a swift shing! before placing it on the chopping board in front of you, "in that case, you're going to have to cut your apples up into decently sized chunks with a proper knife."

"fine, but you are making such a big deal out of this-"

jin's eyes widen in panic when you pick up the knife only to suddenly raise your arm and whack it down against the poor apple like some sort of a mallet

"well, how the tables have turned-" you raise the knife to show him the apple that's now stuck on the sharp blade, "your fancy chef's knife doesn't work."

"okay, it looks like i'm going to have to jump in here-" jin moves over so that he's standing behind you before wrapping his arms around you and placing his hands over yours, "let's put this poor apple out of its misery first-" he hums, guiding your hand over and helping you pull the apple off the blade

"i can do this myself, seokjin-"

"you absolutely cannot do this yourself, y/n-" jin snorts, leaning down to prop his chin upon your shoulder so he can get a better view of the chopping board, "do you want a chunky apple pie filling?"

"ooh, yeah!" you nod enthusiastically, jin immediately sliding his fingers in between yours to keep your hand from moving when you suddenly reach for the apple, "i want, like- i want the chunks to be in, like, cute little cubes-"

"okay, darling- no bouncing like that with a knife in your hand, please-"

"sorry." you immediately stop bouncing on the balls of your feet and you look down at the apple, "okay, chef. show me your ways."

"when it comes to cubing apples, i like to take the top and the bottom off first- and we'll use what's called a santoku knife to do that-" jin places your hand securely atop the apple that's now laying down on its side (while making sure your buttery fingers aren't in the way) before his other hand forces yours down in one swift movement, the top of the apple plopping down on the board

he spins the apple around to the other side and you slice the butt end off as well

(you don't want to toot your own horn or anything but you think you're doing a fantastic job so far)

"-and then we're going to use our paring knife to peel the skin..." jin murmurs, moving your hand and making you set the san...tofu(?) knife down, "hold on, this might work better if you place your hands over mine. that way, you'll know how your hand is supposed to move-"

"okay... so the paring knife..." you place your hands over jin's as he picks up the smaller knife and you watch as he digs the tip around the stem before curling his wrist

"there's still a bit of the stem here and you wanna get rid of it since you obviously won't be eating that..."

unsurprisingly, it doesn't take you very long to lose focus on the apple, your eyes now wandering to your boyfriend's very pretty hands

you could spend hours just looking at them

one of the reasons why you like spending time in the kitchen with jin is not only because he lets you taste-test most of the yummy things he makes but also because you get a chance to watch his hands move... from the way his knuckles tighten when he grips around the handle of a knife... to the way his fingers delicately pluck at the ingredients...

you suck your bottom lip in between your teeth as you trail a finger along the prominent veins at the top of his hands and you're suddenly very aware of the fact that jin's basically got you pressed right up against the kitchen counter

"-and then you're going to go around the apple carefully while keeping your thumb right under for more control..."

jin's voice starts to fade out in the background as the little voice in the back of your head reminds you of what else jin's hands could be doing right now instead of peeling an apple

...

"and now you-" jin pauses when you suddenly pull your hands off of his before twisting around, your arms now hanging loosely around his neck as you lean up to press a warm kiss against his jaw, "you... have successfully peeled an apple."

he immediately bites back a knowing grin as he sets the paring knife down, and he's about to ask you what you think you're doing when he decides that acting as though he has no idea what you're doing might be a better idea

"-eating the core is unpleasant, so we're going to cut around the core instead of slicing the apple directly in half," jin swallows thickly when your hands slide down to pull his hips towards yours, his cheeks flushing slightly when he feels himself twitch in his sweatpants, "the- the key here is a good, sharp knife-"

he really thought he had the upper hand here but his body is betraying him!

"seokjin..."

jin mouths a silent 'oh, god' to himself at the sound of the pitiful little whine slipping past your lips

he loves it when you get needy like this

"i'm- i'm trying to teach you a lesson here, sweetheart-" he clears his throat as he stares down at the apple, suddenly blanking on what his next step should be

how the hell did he forget how to properly slice up an apple?!

"-and i'm trying to tell you that i prefer doing my learning in the bedroom."

...

you hear jin set the knife down with a clatter and it's only a second later that you feel your feet leaving the ground

you can't help but let out a squeal of delight as jin bounces you slightly to adjust your legs around his waist

"you're a real handful, you know that?" jin teases, squeezing under your thighs before letting out a laugh, "god, you drive me crazy-"

"i know-" you manage to swoop your arm down to grab the naked apple before jin starts walking and you bring it up to your mouth to take a bite, "you luhv it, fho-"

🎙️help me help you make your wishes come true (send me a request!)

✨why don’t you explore the rest of the library while you’re here? (full fics!)

💫or perhaps you want something shorter to read? (drabbles! mini series!)

🌟or something even shorter? (teeny tidbits like this one!)

[roanniom]

This made my day seeing your requests open!!

I’d like to please request some hot dominat Clyde action. We all know he’s a softy, but we all also know he’s capable of being a big and scary if he needs to. Thoughts on Clyde protecting you from something and then still being riled up with you after, in all the best ways? :)

Hiya anon! I was happy to write this for you. Fun story, what Clyde does (re: the beer bottle) in this story is actually something a bar tender did when defending me from a creep back in my college bar hopping days lol. I WISH it was Clyde who had done it. I would have loved to thank him. 😉

Out of Trouble

Clyde Logan x Reader

Word Count: 2,730

Warnings: NSFW, PIV sex, possessiveness, dirty talk 

You reassess the situation you find yourself in – by no means an unfamiliar one, but definitely out of the norm these days and wholly unpleasant all the same. The man currently harassing you at the bar is clearly not a local. First of all, you don’t recognize the handsy son-of-a-bitch. And secondly, everyone in town knew that you were Clyde’s girl.

You two had only recently made things official, but in a way, hadn’t you always been Clyde’s girl? Your best friendship had always been tinged with a sweetness that surpassed the roles of mere pals. Sure there was flirting, how could you resist with the way a properly timed tease or suggestive comment could make Clyde blush and stammer as if on command? But even more prevalent, and more obvious to the patiently waiting members of the town, was the ownership you both had of one another. People knew better than to hassle either of you, verbally, hypothetically, or otherwise, in the presence of the other. You had Clyde’s back and he had yours, each of you displaying a possessiveness that made others smirk and roll their eyes while hiding their jealousy. You had what they did not, and now that the two of you were finally dating, envy was a common emotion amongst regular Duck Tape patrons.

Something this creep clearly was not privy to it would seem as he reached out to caress your forearm, an action which you flinch to avoid.

“Come on, baby. Let me buy you a fucking drink,” he was saying at this point. He was getting more forceful and though you had previously been courteous in your refusals, you realize that it might be time to fight back. He swayed on his barstool before continuing. “Stop being such a bitch. What could one drink hurt?”

“Every bone in yer fuckin’ body,” comes a low, deep growl that makes both you and the creep look up to the swinging door behind the bar. Your heart swells with relief and other, undefinable emotions as Clyde stalks up, his massive body an intimidating figure as it looms over the other, weasel-y man, threatening even with the bar between them.

“W-what’s your problem?” the creep practically squeaks before clearing his throat and jumping up, trying to draw himself up to his full height, which just comes across as laughable. Of course, next to Clyde, any height would be laughable.

“My problem is yer comin’ onto m’girl. That’s my problem.” His tone is deadly quiet. That’s your Clyde, soft spoken, even as his flesh hand clenches and murder simmers behind his eyes.

“Look, she was sitting here all alone. In my book that makes a bitch fair game - ” the creep begins, but he doesn’t get much farther with his misogynistic diatribe because Clyde reaches over, grabbing a nearby customer’s almost empty beer. Grasping the bottle around the neck, Clyde smashes the bottle down against the edge of the bar. The barrel shatters with a loud crash that silences the din of the room and causes the neck of every patron to whip around for the source of the sound. Clyde stands before the creep brandishing the remaining shards of the beer bottle like a shiv.

“Here’s what yer gonna do,” Clyde says calmly, the violence of his actions not succeeding in raising the volume of his voice. “Yer gonna apologize t’ the lil lady fer troublin’ her, understand?”

The creep stares at Clyde, wide-eyed and panicked before nodding and turning to you hastily.

“I’m sorry! I don’t know what I was thinking, sorry –”

“Good,” Clyde says, cutting the guy off so that he can no longer address you. You eye Clyde as he waves the shattered bottle menacingly. He’s never looked bigger. Never looked darker. Never looked hotter. When he speaks again his voice is even lower, if that’s possible. “Now yer gonna get the fuck outta my bar.”

The creep is gone in a matter of seconds, running out the front door so fast you almost imagine his skeleton being left on the bar stool in his wake like some frightened cartoon character. Before you can look back up at Clyde, his large hand is encircling your wrist and yanking you toward to door to the back of the bar. You let yourself be pulled, barely registering how the conversation kicks back in, customers already basking in the aftermath of Clyde’s rare emotional outburst.

Once the door to Clyde’s office is safely shut behind you, Clyde pushed you to sit down on his couch while he paces back and forth in front of you. You’re bewildered by this response, unsure if you should say something so you remain silent, watching him. After a moment Clyde yanks a hand through his hair forcefully. You swallow and decide to finally speak up.

“Are you okay, Clyde?”

“I’m NOT fuckin’ okay,” Clyde replies and you’re shocked at the way his voice raises with his words. You’re suddenly worried he’s gotten the wrong idea and you’re quick to fold your arms defensively across your chest, your own voice rising.

“Hey, if you’re mad at me you should know it’s not like I encouraged that asshole.”

Clyde is quick to round on you, looking panicked.

“I didn’t say ya did. I know ya wouldn’t…ya’d never…” Clyde trails off into a growl and resumes his pacing, flesh hand clenching and unclenching.

“It’s over, Clyde,” you soothe now, switching tactics and lowering your own defenses. He’s clearly distressed and you’re not sure how to calm him. “He’s not the first and probably won’t be the last guy to bother me.”

“That’s what’s killin’ me, darlin’. What if I hadn’t walked out? What if ya were alone an’ this happened?”

“I can take care of myself, you know.”

“I know ya can,” Clyde says, voice more characteristically quiet now but frustration no less palpable as he waves his prosthetic arm distractedly. “I dunno what’s gotten intuh me. I saw him touch ya an’…an’…” Clyde reaches out and swipes across a table, throwing everything to the ground. His chest heaves with his outburst. Yours is rising and falling rapidly now, too, but for you its stemming from the realization that this man. This sweet, beautiful man is losing his cool over his desire to protect you. To defend you. You’re a modern woman. As you’d just told him, you can take care of yourself and you are very proud of that fact. But something about the dark look in his eye and the way his muscles shift tensely beneath his shirt and the way he stomps before you makes you feel like you want to disappear in his arms and never resurface.

“You’re a good man, Clyde,” you say softly. He shakes his head and gives a humorless laugh.

“Not tonight, I’m not, darlin’. Not with these thoughts. I haven’t felt this way since…”

“Overseas?” you ask. He nods, trying to take a deep breath but releasing an even angrier exhale.

“I’m sorry, darlin’. I can’t seem to calm down. I’m just so fuckin’ mad.”

You watch your big bear, usually so gentle, wrestle with his emotions before you. Immediately you have an idea, standing up and moving to him. Using one hand to peel open his fist and interlace your fingers. He grips you too tight but you just bite your lip. Your other hand slides over his bicep and shoulder, kneading into the tense muscles there as you press your face into his chest. His prosthetic arm winds around your waist, pulling you into his body naturally. This does nothing to slow his breathing, which picks up more speed. Feeling you against his body is reminding him of how small you are. How vulnerable. He feels another surge of rage and desperation course through his veins.

“I don’t know why I’m feelin’ this way,” he mumbles but you reach up and grab his face to force him to look at you.

“Feel whatever way you feel,” you reassure him. You lift up on your tiptoes to give him a kiss, but the force with which he responds steals your breath. His arms wind around your body and crush you to him as his tongue ruthlessly explores your mouth, as if searching for solace can only be done in the space where you are most conjoined. The aggression is dizzying and his fingers are bruising on your frame but you love it. Used to light touches, soft caresses, you feel a hunger burn beneath your skin, as if your every muscle is rejoicing at the deeper pressure, the deeper friction.

When Clyde finally pulls away you are winded and dazed, now breathing just as heavily. His eyes look no less wild but now there is a tinge of concern.

“M’sorry, darlin’. We should stop, ‘m too worked up. Can’t be sweet to ya the way ya like.” His words are husky and rushed but you’re just as rushed to shush him. You’re already working at his belt and pulling him back to the couch.

“I like you in whatever way you’ll have me, baby,” you mumbled against his flesh, kissing down his throat as you pull him down to the cushions. “Take it out on me.”

“What if I’m too rough with ya?” Clyde asks, but his hands are already ripping your shirt over your head and his mouth latches onto your throat, your collar bone, your breast through your bra.

“I want you to be rough with me, Clyde. I’ve wanted you to be rough with me since the moment you walked out and gave that asshole what-for.” You’re pressed down, back against the couch now, with your legs tight around the wide barrel of Clyde’s body.

“Did ya like that, darlin’? Yer Big Bear defending ya?” He’s no longer hesitant in his movements and no longer trying to stop himself. Instead he takes a handful of your ass, pulling your pelvis up off the couch so that your clothed pussy presses fully into his erect and waiting cock. You moan, both at the sensation and at him calling himself Big Bear for the first time. You’d only been dating for a few weeks and things were still new, including shyness around pet names. You’d called him Big Bear the night before in the teasing lead up to some love making and he’d only flushed and stammered in response, busying himself by burying his face between your thighs.

But right now he’s gazing down at your face with an air of intensity and you feel saliva pool in your mouth and wet slick your quivering heat.

“I liked my Big Bear defending me. So strong and big.” You say the last word as you close your hand around his enormous cock through his unzipped jeans. Clyde bucks into your hand and hums from where he’s suckling at the underside of one of your breasts, curved down into you despite your differences in height.

“Nobody else can have ya,” he grumbles before hoisting you higher on the couch so he can position his cock at your entrance. You gasp at the feeling of his member sliding between your folds, getting covered in your waiting slick.

“Nobody. Only you, Big Bear.” Before you can say anything else Clyde has speared into you in one swift motion and taken up an unforgiving pace. There was the aggression he’d been worried about and boy was it rough. You cling to him for dear life as he fucks you into the couch cushions. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and your jaw goes slack.

It hurts – he’s much too big to be going this hard this fast – but his grip on you is so tight it melts your aching muscles. The desperation of his thrusts make you hiccup through your inhales and you feel surrounded. Crushed. Filled. All in the best way possible. You love the darling Clyde who coaxes your orgasms with caresses and honeyed words and languid strokes. But this Clyde – this is your Big Bear. His eyes drink in your bouncing breasts as he’s not able to clutch them with the way he has to support his own weight with his good arm. Your back arches deeper from the effects of a particularly deep thrust, bringing your chest up to press against his and he groans.

“This body. No wonder people’re comin’ on to ya, darlin’. This body’s too perfect,” he practically growls, burying his face into your throat. “Maybe I should just keep ya here on my cock. Stay inside ya. Keep me warm and keep ya outta trouble.”

You moan loudly as his dirty words are accentuated by a change in angle that lets him pound into a particularly sweet spot. Your walls pulse around him.

“Oh god. Oh Clyde.”

“Back to callin’ me Clyde already? Am I not bein’ rough enough for ya?” Clyde asks, biting down into the sensitive flesh of your throat. You cry out, hips gyrating against him, legs and walls clamping down around him with an unconscious need to keep him buried deep inside you.

“F-fuck, oh fuck me, Big Bear. I can take it!” you practically whine.

“Yes ya can. So good, takin’ yer Big Bear.” His trusts begin to bottom out harsher, faster. The pressure and the speed have pulled your muscles as taut as they can go and you know you’re seconds from snapping. It was all so sudden. You’re both so worked up, not only from the experience out in the bar, but from the headiness of being this way with one another for the first time. He may be the one pounding into you, but you’re giving as good as you’re getting, rolling your hips up to meet each thrust. Pulling him down into you and raking your fingernails up and down his back.

It’s desperate and needy and possessive – equally so. He is yours and you are his and ownership never tasted so sweet.

Just as you’re about the cum, Clyde seems to sense it and shoves your legs up by the back of the knee, ensuring his next few thrusts rub up against the spot inside you that makes your eyes cross and makes your moans turn into desperate whimpers. You have the vague thought that this proves how well Clyde has come to know your body, what a great student he is of your orgasm, just as said orgasm crashes over you.

You know for sure that the Duck Tape customers heard you. Your belief in your audience becomes even stronger when Clyde lets out a delicious moan as he cums, too, painting your insides with spend made just for you. You’re sweaty and it’s only 7 pm on a Tuesday. Clyde’s going to have to go back to tending bar and you’re going to have to slink out, so clearly ravaged and thoroughly fucked to the likely amusement of a roomful of people who’d been rooting for your coupling. You chuckle to yourself, as Clyde drops the weight of his whole body on you, crushing you. Those people outside definitely got a chance just now to hear your coupling firsthand.

“That…was amazing.” It comes out breathless, as though you’ve just run a marathon. And because you have the mass of a large man pressing you into the couch. When Clyde finally lifts his head from its resting place at your neck he looks sheepish and embarrassed and pleased and winded.

“’M sorry if I was too much for ya, darlin’. Once ya started touchin’ me I couldn’t think straight.”

You silence him with a kiss, grabbing his face to make it deep. When you pull away your smile is ear to ear.

“If you make me feel like that, baby, there’s absolutely nothing to apologize for.”

Clyde moves to pull out of you, his cum now seeping out around his softening cock, but you tighten your legs around him suddenly.

“What happened to staying inside me, mister?” you tease.

Clyde stands abruptly, pulling you up with him still seated in your dripping cunt. Your gasp and scramble to hold onto him. He takes a few playful steps towards the door and you swat at him.

“No, I think yer right, darlin’. What better way tuh make cocktails than with my lil cockwarmer?”

~*~

Tagging some lovely friends (please let me know if you would like to be tagged or untagged in the future!): @noocturnalchild @thedivinemissn @insufferablelust @historyandfandoms50 @lostinthedrive @thewilddingleberries @edencherries @mariesackler @safarigirlsp @direnightshade @sacklerscumrag @paper-n-ashes @clydesfavoritegirl @wayward-rose @hopeamarsu @thegreenmatt @barbers-glimmerin-darlin @finn-ray-nal-beads @fizzywoohoo @maybe-your-left @aliveandlonely @han-not-solo @morby @emeraldsiren20 @maryforyou @aloneandsleepless @jynzandtonic @renmaulxo @millenialcatlady @leather-flannel-liquor @soggywhore

[internalsealpanic]

Dancing In and Above the Starlight

summary:  There is nothing to do but dance the night away.

a/n: Since I am depresso expresso today here is some fluff! 

warnings: Depression, heights, suicidal ideation

You curl your body into the sheets, limbs escaping the gnawing cold. Your eyes are wide open.  You watch as glittering snow falls away. There’s a press of static in your mind. Maybe your brain is finally short-circuiting. You really should have been asleep an hour or two or five ago. Even if you check the clock now, it won’t make any sense. On some level, you are lucid. You recognize the characters on your taped together alarm clock. The red characters on its screen… you recognize them as numbers and letters. Your head feels like it’s full of cotton. 

You shift again. You hit replay on the voice mail. 

Kon’s voice comes over the speaker, a light warm sound cutting through the viscous atmosphere of the apartment. “Hey, babe! Could you grab like 20 cheeseburgers on your way home? It’s- Uuuuuuh… It’s for science. Yeah, totally-”

You replay it again. 

“Hey, babe!”

And again. 

“Hey, babe!”

And again. 

Kon’s voice always managed to soothe you, smoothing out your fraying nerves even on the bad days.  But today was one of the bad days you never tell him about. The kind that kept your limbs locked together. 

You really should just call Kon at this point. 

You don’t. 

You don’t want him to see you like this. You don’t want to talk to him about these bad days. The days when you have to shuck off the quick wit and unbridled confidence. You don’t want to tell him about how you want to open your chest, peel it back bone by bone until the thing rolling and shifting in your chest escapes. You can’t bear to tell him about how on these days red is your favorite color or how good it would be to step out of your skin. You will never tell him about your feverish need to feel the wind as you fall from a great height. 

Waking up like this feels like waking up in a coffin with your hands bound. There is a shriek caught in your throat between your lungs and throat. It sits there sharp and unreachable. You feel so small. 

You shift, looking into the soft glow of your screen. You type Kon’s number.  It’s easy. You don’t think too much about it. At least not until the dial tone. 

You sniffle brushing away the tears as if he could see. 

The dial tone keeps ringing. 

He hates you. 

You massage your throat. You test out your voice. It comes out a mockery of itself.  It’s scraggly and unpleasant. 

The dial tone keeps ringing. 

He hates you. 

You brush away the tears again. They won’t stop. They streak down like fat rivulets of syrup down your face. 

The dial tone keeps ringing. 

He hates you. 

You hang up. You’re shaking and sniffling and you can’t stop crying.  Your body is caught between existing and not. There isn’t enough of your mind there for you to feel substantial. 

Once your nerves settle and your body reforms into something tangible, you pull on a sweater. Your feet touch the floor.  It’s cold like you expect but the solidness of the feeling makes you jump back. You look at the clock. It still makes no sense.  

You slink out to the balcony. You wrap your arms around yourself, phone burning in your pocket. 

You lean you over the railing, head in your arms, eyes fluttering closed as you drink up the scenery.  You can hear the honking of car horns and the flutter of wings. The city below you was alive. A living creature with flowing blood and a beating heart. 

Living was what happened to other people. For you, there was no room for it. Not when you are filled with everything else. It was just a skill you never quite got a hold of. You think this as the wind whistles past your face.

You open your eyes a fraction then shut them again mimicking the shuttering of a camera. Behind your eyelids, you can see the glittering lights of the city. 

Your phone rings. You flinch. Maybe it’s your boss. Or a coworker. Or…

You fish it out of your pajama pants. You debate on whether to answer it or just let the phone fall. 

From this height, your phone would be obliterated. Completely. You balance it carefully between your fingers. If it falls, you’ll have an excuse to ignore your boss. But you’ll have to pay for a new one and more importantly, you won’t be able to listen to Kon’s voice mails. You make an exasperated noise and decide to answer. 

“Hey sugar,” comes the smooth cream of Kon’s voice. It kind of reminds you of freshly made custard. You smother the catch of your breath by pressing your mouth into your sleeve.  “Babe, you ok?”

Of course, he heard. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you breathe, voice sounding frighteningly robotic. 

“Liar.”

“Prove it.”

You can hear the playful hum in Kon’s voice. “I can make you sing all kinds of tunes, hun,” Kon teases. You can just picture him winking. “I’ll make you talk, doll.”

“Hilarious, Kent, ” You bite out, fighting down a blush. 

“Seriously, Sugar, what’s up?”

You hate the concern in his voice. No, no. You don’t. You love your boyfriend. You just- You just hate that you made him worry. “I- I’m just a bit down, Kon. I promise I’ll be better tomorrow.” You run your hand through your hair and you bury your face further into your arms. “I promise.”  

“Babe, tilt your face up.” You sigh, shaking your head but thankful for the change in subject. You tilt your head, keeping your eyes closed. “Kon, wha-” You feel the press of warm lips against yours. They’re chapped ever so slightly and you can smell the scent of leather and popcorn on the wind. Kon smiles against your lips, mischief tugging at his them. Slowly, you open your eyes and you’re greeted by the column of his throat. It takes the span of a few seconds to realize that Kon is hanging upside down, limbs angled like he’s Spiderman hanging from his we b. Your eyes widen in surprise and Kon laughs, realigning himself to face you properly. 

“Lemme guess, you guys watched the original Spiderman trilogy?”

“You know us so well.”

“I just know that there's only one of you that owns a  flat screen the size of my wall and that bastard is a nerd.”

“Don’t call Tim a nerd. That’s extremely rude.”

“He deserves all the rudeness I have to give after last week’s… what’s the word?”

“Fun?”

“Fun?” you snort. “If you find being thrown by a supervillain fun, then yeah.”

“I just call that kinky.”

“I’m going to hang up.”

Click.

Ring.

Click.

“YOU ACTUALLY HUNG UP.”

“I stick to my word.”

“Lil’ shit.”

“I’m your little shit.”

Kon kisses your nose. “Ain’t that the truth.”

“Did you need anything, Kon?” He hums floating away from you drawing out the silence. You are going to smack him. Probably not but you like to think you can stay mad at him long enough to follow through with the threat. 

“I want to show you something,” he says, extending a gloved hand towards you. “It’ll be good. Promise.”

You stand on the balcony railing, feet feather-light. You hold on, gripping the wall tightly. Your eyes do not wander down even as a rush of wind blows the hair out on your face. Your blood is thumping in your ears.

“Trust me?” The words  weigh too heavy sending you into a dizzying vertigo. He can’t ask that of you. He just can’t.  You almost slip. You don’t know whether you would fall forward or backward. You take a breath, long and deep. 

“Kon, do I seem like the kind of person who would just stand on a balcony railing just for anyone?”

“Dunno, babe, you’re quite the Romantic.”

You blow out a breath, shaking hands steadfast on the wall. The drop is dizzyingly long from this angle. The length of it feels mind-boggling and uncertain. 

“C’mon, gorgeous,” he coaxes, voice honeyed iced tea. The taste floods your mouth mixing with the bitter doubt clambering your throat.

He reaches his hand out, grey eyes alight with sincerity. You swallow even when your mouth is bone dry. You take his hand, feet peeling away from the metal as you let Kon’s powers take hold of you. Your skin tingles, gooseflesh prickling here and there. It tickles and it’s almost enough to distract you from the hundreds of feet of empty air beneath your feet. 

You’re light, insubstantial. Your breath ceases. Your body braces for gravity to take hold. Your eyes screw shut, lips brushing against Kon’s neck as you breathe in his familiar scent. A scream is burning in your throat until you feel Kon’s hands firmly on your waist, his chin resting on your hair. 

“Don’t let me fall,” you breathe, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders. 

Kon gently cups your face. “Wouldn’t dream of it, gorgeous,”  he winks, “I have better ways to make you scream.”

You laugh, pressing your lips against his, your laughter passing as vibrations between your lips. 

“Are you gonna open your eyes yet, gorgeous?”

“Nope!”

“Not even for lil’ ole me?”

“Why would you pull that on me you manipulative shit?”

“Because I love you?”

“You are the definition of ‘you’re lucky you’re cute’ ”

“No, I think I’m lucky cus you’re cute.” You open your mouth to protest but the syllable die on your tongue. 

Above you is a tapestry of stars extending beyond eternity. Below your bare feet is a sea of lights, incandescent in its vividness. The wind in your chest rises. Wonder and awe and miracles swimming in your veins as you go through vertigo for the second time that day. It was like the first time you saw the racing roll of a jet. A marvel. Pure wonder plucked from the abstract and made solid.

Your breath catches as you take everything in. The world is so wonderful. Your grip on Kon loosens as you maneuver your body so you could see it all. Your mouth whispers something that is lost in the wind. 

“What do you think, sugar?”  Kon asks, grip on you firm. He won’t let you fall. You are slack jawed and speechless. Eyes wide as you stare back into his, all the lights above and below you making his glitter in a barrage of colors. He pulls you close, one arm wrapped around.  A gloved hand brushes a tear away from your face. He kisses your forehead, all softness and warmth. He doesn’t beg you to stop crying or tell you that it’s all going to be ok. He just lets you be. Your head bows, forehead pressed against his shirt. You let the tears fall towards the bustling city. 

Kon rests his chin on your head and you feel the rumble in his chest before you even hear the tune. “Fly me to the moon~” he sings into your hair as he holds you close, his hands sliding to your waist,“let me play among the stars~” You sniffle, resting your head on his. You smile against his shoulder. You feel a giggle tugging on your lips as you two sway in rhythm with his singing. 

“”Let me see what spring is like on, A-Jupiter and Mars~” 

“You are so fucking cheesy,” you laugh, sore and bright and genuine. 

"Still your favorite cheese ball though," he chuckles. You do not argue. You simply press a kiss to his jaw and watch the twinkling lights around you.

"Fly me to the me to the moooon~" This time you sing along, careful not to step on Kon's toes. He presses his forehead against yours as you both sing off key and sway haphazardly in the wind. 

You sing and dance in and above the starlight. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanks fir reading!!! Happy New Years. I will edit more later.

Tag list:  @batarella, @anothertimdrakestan, @lucy-roo, @multifandomgirl-us, @idkmanicantenglish,@birdy-bat-writes,  @boosyboo9206, @americasmarauders , @l-horizon11, @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay, @wunderstell @hyp-oh-critical

[peachypizzicato]

"horror movie but the protagonist smooches the monster and everything is okay :)"

Run as fast, as you can. Do not stop, do not pause for breath, it can appear at any second, and get you. It's so damn dark, the walls of the hotel are the only thing you can hold onto to comprehend where you're going. You just wanted to have fun at a party with your friends, why did the power have to shut off, why did you volunteer to check what was going on, and look for help, why did you stop when you heard its roaring, why did you have to watch that... Thing... Stumble out of one of the apartments? You barely saw anything but bloodied limbs and fangs, as well as two dots darting around, possibly in search of prey.

Don't even think of turning back now. You've seen what happened to the guy that slammed the door on the opposite end of the hallway open, you've seen him shooting at it. You've seen the creature pounce him, you've seen it raise a clawed hand, before your legs instinctively started moving on their own, dragging you away from the scene. Despite being unable to look away, you didn't really see what actually happened. There was another shot, and the creature let out a deafening roar. Then the man below it screamed, and fell dead silent. That's when you stopped walking, and began to run up the stairs to the floor where you think everyone else was.

When you came to look for help, did you go up or down?

Within seconds, you heard loud stomping in the distance, making the steps below you rattle. That thing was big. You had to hold onto the railing, trying not to collapse, as its weight and the darkness all worked against you, making you miss some steps, trip, you almost hit your head against the railing, trying to get up. You heard it approach, and then you remembered you had a flashlight. Pulling it out of your pocket, you shone a ray of light into the thing's eyes, causing it to let out a strange yelp. There it was, six feet away, jaw hanging just lower than humanly possible, dark red coating its claws and mouth, bite and claw marks on the areas of skin seen rarely between its torn clothes, like rather than ripping people open, it was hurting itself for some reason, something streaming down it's face and upper lip. A part of you couldn't help but wonder for a hot second. Was this creature a human once too?

It covered its face, trying to back away from the unpleasant sudden light source, and let out another screech, tumbling down the stairs. Go. Don't listen to the gurgling noises, don't try to decipher words our of its growls, don't be a fool. You need to warn others, make sure everyone locks their doors, and barricades away, call for help, go, go, go! Most doors on your way were locked anyway, you chose not to bang on them, in case some unfortunate Soul would open it too late, and the creature would be right in the doorway. At least get back to the apartment with the gang, they have some sort of way to-

Wrong floor. You should have ran down. This is the rooftop. The warm wind of an early Autumn washes over over you, you didn't even consider that slamming this door open would have led you here. Shit. You quickly close it, and look around for a way out. You can't jump off, there's at least twelve floors in this building. The nearest roof you could jump over to was so much lower your legs would snap like twigs. Probably would make it easier for that thing to catch you. You hear it battering the door. There has to be a way out. Maybe lead it over to the edge, maybe shine a light in its face again? You frantically search your pockets. No. No, you didn't drop it, you couldn't have- No. Nononononono, dear God, please no.

You shut your eyes, hearing the door fly open and slam on the ground. This is it. It approaches... Carefully. It must be playing with its food. It must want to prolong your suffering, like you prolonged the chase. You pray that this thing makes it quick. And then you hear it whimper. Its stomping turns into steps. Quiet and soft, as if it's trying not to scare you away. Like you've got anywhere to run. You feel heavy breathing on your face, a distinct smell of human blood from its teeth. Without any other option, you turn your head to face down, so that even if it forces your eyes open, you won't have to watch its face.

- Please make it quick, - Your voice sounds much more wet than you expected. Of course you'd be crying. You're gonna die. It lets out a much quieter growl. Sounds almost like an apology. It takes a step back. Is it preparing to pounce on you too? You peel one of your eyes open, and notice a hole in its hand, as if a bullet went through it, while it tried shielding itself. It stands still. Gathering your courage, you look up, and see its face again. There is something that was once distinctly human about it in the Moon's light. Its eyes are not hungry, or enraged, no, it... They... They look as horrified as you are. He seems lost.

* * *

It hurts. What's going on? Is this the punishment? You feel like something grabbed at every muscle in your body, and tried stretching it far beyond its limits, it hurts so bad. Something grows inside you, you feel like someone rowed your mouth with knives, they poke your tongue, you grab at your own head, trying to subdue the ache within. There is something moving in your flesh, like a hunch of snakes slithered in there, you see your own skin bubble up and want to tear out whatever is in there. You claw at your own arms, throat, chest and legs, ripping away pieces of yourself, hurting yourself, hoping that whatever is happening to you stops. You scream so much your throat feels like someone shoved a blender in your mouth, your own blood, tears and snot born from crying from pain mix into a taste you never wanted to know. You can barely hear what you sound like.

You stumble out, hoping to find someone in the building who could call for an ambulance, even during this blackout. A door opened. Help? Help, finally! A gunshot rings in your ears, as a bullet cuts through your shoulder. The man that shot you aims for you again. Without thinking, you jump farther than you knew you could, and try to hold him down, you swing to knock the gun out of his hand, but barely cover up your face with it as another bullet meets your palm. This is getting annoying. When you finally look into the guy's eyes, he stares at you for a second, and yells so loudly your sight falls dark. And then he's out. Do you really look that bad...? You hear footsteps. Someone else is here. They need to listen, they have to help you too, they must, please, you are in so much pain, you don't know what's happening, please, wait!

* * *

He must have seen his reflection in your glasses. Did he not know what he looked like? Was this form new and unfamiliar to him? Was he a bloodthirsty monster or an unfortunate person? Are you sure you want to help him? You reach out, and he carefully, terrified of hurting another stranger, takes your hand, yours almost slipping out of his, now soaked in his blood too. You try not to think about it.

- Can you speak?, - He lets out a groan, which doesn't sound too close to English, - ... That's alright. We'll figure something out, - He grimaces. Or, maybe, that's just how he smiles.

Waga baba bobo.

- Evil Anon.

… the jailor has decided to execute you

god this is so fucking GOOD i know i say it every time but this is HIGH QUALITY CONTENT got DAMB!!!

also… my take on (somewhat) communicating with The Beast :)

[kanonsarchivedblog]

Late Night Thoughts

Word Count: 2,956 Rating: E Ship: Kiyomi/Madara/Tobirama Characters: Uchiha Madara, Senju Tobirama, Fujihara Kiyomi (OC) Genre: Smut ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ It was late- far too late for any civilian to be walking about alone at night. The streets were empty, save for the lone shinobi rushing home from a mission, or leaving in the dead of night to attend to a mission passed down from their kage. The occasional stray dog or cat would dart across the street and into an alleyway, chasing after it’s prey. Quiet; calm- one could even venture to say it was peaceful, though that word was nearly taboo to speak within a shinobi village. To speak of peace is to bring the omen of war to the border.

And no one wanted a war, not now.

A sigh slipped past ruby painted lips as Fujihara Kiyomi settled against the railing of the balcony. The hotel was nice- then again, she’d expect nothing less of the Hokage. Tomorrow, she’d meet with Hashirama to decide whether or not Konoha could offer a decent trade route through the Land of Fire- something that was debated quite a lot. Kiri needed the wood; Konoha needed the iron ore that Kiri had within it’s mountains. These negotiations were tiring, but she was good at her job. She’d always been good at negotiating- her life, others lives.

It was fun- dangerous, but fun.

Her gaze drifted from the horizon to the streets, watching as the Hokage finally left his office, his little retinue in tow. Uzumaki Mito- a beautiful woman with a terrifying beast that lived within. She was fierce, respected, a terror on the field. Senju Tobirama- his younger brother who managed to master all five elements; he was handsome, but cold. Smart, too. And at the back, Uchiha Madara, who laughed at something Hashirama had said. Now that was a man- the long hair, the prowess both on and off of the field, the reputation alone was terrifying, but the man himself? Not as terrifying, not off of the field.

One could even say he was handsome.

She watched like a wraith in the shadows as they passed beneath her balcony before rounding a corner, Madara going left, the Senju clan going right. If she squinted, she could see the Uchiha clan compound from her room. How peculiar- then again, all of the clans here were spread out.

No one was close to one another. Smart; clans needed their space, lest they begin to feud over land once more.

But the Uchiha Clan, from what she had gathered in her three weeks of being here, were treated differently- as if they had created some sort of awful creature and were now being shunned for it. It made her skin crawl in an unpleasant sort of way.

Konoha could act as if it were high and mighty, better than the other nations because it looks like it has its act together, but scrape away the surface layer of varnish, and you see the painting for what it truly is. This village was no different from Kiri- and time would certainly tell the truth of that.

She gathered herself, slipping back into her rooms and closing the doors behind her, drawing the sheer curtains. The moonlight spilled softly through the thin fabric, illuminating the room in a gentle silver light. Konoha summers were different from Kiri summers; the air was neither dry nor wet. A strange mixture of the two that left her night robe clinging to her skin like it was trying to become one with her. Disgusting. She felt restless; sleep would not come, not yet. Her mind was clouded with a hundred different thoughts; it made tension rise in her neck. She could go to the Onsen, but given the late hour, it would be difficult to get in.

Scowling, she all but flopped onto her bed, groaning into the mattress. If Jushiro were here, he'd already have her pinned to the mattress, fucking her until she was sobbing. And then he'd clean up and go to his own room, because they slept separately. Their marriage was not one of love- they did love one another, but not in any form of romanticism.

But that wasn't what she wanted- not what she craved. Sure, she wanted to be pinned down and made to sob- she always enjoyed that. She enjoyed many different things. But she wanted more than just one quick round. She wanted to be taken, to be held, to be used until she forgot her own name. Now THAT would put her to sleep without issue.

Rolling over, she studied the ceiling for a moment. It wasn't as if she didn't come prepared- she did! In many senses of the word! She wouldn’t dare go to the Entertainment District that Konoha had up and working- no, she couldn’t be seen there. It would ruin her reputation. She could henge, but fucking with a henge on never felt the same- too detached, not truly her skin.

Nimble fingers worked on the knot of her robe, making quick work of it before she peeled the robe from her form, a pleased noise escaping as the slightly cooled air of the bedroom graced her skin at long last. No bindings wrapped around her chest, her breasts free. She ached- her ribs ached as her hands reached up, rubbing over the slowly fading red marks of her bindings. She couldn’t wait to return home, where she did not have to bind beneath the layers of her formal robes. But for now, she couldn’t walk around unbound- that would be a touch too distracting.

And she had already caught the Hokage looking at her chest.

Hashirama was a handsome man, she’d give him that. But not her type- something about him made her squirm, and not in a pleasant way. How his gaze lingered a touch too long, how his smiles never reached his eyes. Snake, that’s what he was. A snake hiding beneath a bouquet of roses.

She leaned down, taking hold of her rucksack, and tugged it up onto the bed. She knew she’d be here for an extended period- and like hell she’d be stuck here without bringing along some entertainment. And teas- those were necessary to aid with the pains that came with her cycle.

Her hand took hold of a bottle first, cool to the touch as she pulled it out. It was clear, filled with a clear liquid that was thicker than water, yet not a solid. She set it aside for a moment- that would be necessary soon. Her nose scrunched as impatience settled in- where was it? Oh! Her lips spread into a grin as she took hold of the phallic shape, tugging the toy free. Perfect!

Excitement coursed through her veins as she settled onto the bed, propping herself up with the pillows the hotel provided. Now- she wasn’t wet enough to not bother with any foreplay, sadly. But foreplay always had been her forte- both for herself and her partners. Working people up is what she did best, after all.

Eyes closing, she allowed herself to relax, breathing deeply for a moment before her hands raised, slowly trailing along her sides. An image swam into view of calloused hands larger than her own and dark hair, a pair of gentle lips caressing her throat. Her head tilted back, a soft sigh pulled free as a hand massaged her breast, giving gentle squeezes. Sensitive- much more than normal. Perhaps from wearing the bindings too tightly- or if her cycle was close… She’d need to check later, but for now, it was not her hand squeezing her breasts but another’s.

“Yes,” she whispered, hips shifting thighs spreading for the phantom. A hand slipped down, dragging nails across her left thigh, drawing free a gasp from her lips, her back arching up and into the phantom lips she pictured closing around a nipple. A different hand was on her thigh, one belonging to another man- one with hair the color of starlight and eyes the shade of blood. “Please- don’t tease…” She whined, bottom lip jutting out in a pout.

The hand on her breast crept upwards, pausing at her throat to squeeze- to test the waters. It had her thighs squeezing shut, hips shifting, breath quickening. She could hear his chuckle in her ear as the hand lifted to her mouth, two fingers slipping inside, pressing down against her tongue. "Be a good girl for us, Kiyomi," Madara murmured against the shell of her ear. A keen, high in her throat, filled the room as her thighs rubbed against one another, hoping to gain some friction.

"No, no," the swat to her thigh nearly startled her out of her fantasy, but she quickly slipped back in. "Did I say you could move?" Tobirama asked, his gaze hard as her legs spread once more.

“No, sir,” she breathed, though her fantasy quickly stills at the sound of footsteps outside of her room. She held her breath, gaze trained on the ceiling as she listened- someone returning to their room down the hall. The door opens, then clicks shut. Silence in the hall once more. Her breath leaves her in a rush as she shakes her head. She’s a grown woman, and yet she still jumps the moment she fears getting caught being intimate with herself.

How amusing.

Her gaze drifts, studying the vague shapes in the dark room. A desk- oh. Oh-

Her mind runs wild with that thought. Both of those men have their own desk- hell, she has a desk back in Kiri that has certainly seen plenty of things during its use. Her eyes slip shut once again, dark lashes casting soft shadows against the apples of her cheeks as her fantasy comes back to the forefront of her mind.

Madara, his front pressed to her back, his hands wandering across her skin, grabbing handfuls. "Look at this- you're already wet for us," he crooned, rocking his hips forward to press against her. Hard- oh, Gods, he was hard as a rock. It draws a moan out of her lips as her hand dips down, slipping beneath the dark, lace fabric of her underwear. Her fingers were hesitant at first before confidence took hold, picturing not her own hand but rather his. How the fingers would dip low, spreading her lips to fully feel how wet she had grown. "My, my, what have we here?" He’d ask as his middle finger teased at her entrance.

"Someone's excited," Tobirama would murmur, watching from his desk, leaning back in his chair. So casual, even though his yukata was open, baring his chest- and giving her the smallest peak of what lay below. "So needy already."

“Just for you two,” Kiyomi whispered into the air of the bedroom, lost in her fantasy as her fingers slipped in, curling upwards. The feeling had her toes curling, a keen rising high in her throat. “Madara-” she whined, voice wavering as her hips rolled into her touch.

Oh, his fingers would be larger than her own, thicker- the hands of a shinobi. “There, there!” She gasped as her fingers curled, pulling backwards before pushing forwards once more. He’d be cruel like this, she imagined, teasing and taunting her until she couldn’t take it anymore. Pressing against that one spot, his thumb against her clit, rubbing tight circles as Tobirama watched from his desk, his arms crossed over his chest. Unimpressed, he’d be- but his ruby gaze would be growing hazy, especially as Madara would reach up to cup one of her breasts through her kimono. “Don’t- Madara, please, don’t stop!”

Wet, so very wet, her hips raised off of the bed as she cried out, a hand against her chest. “There! Right- right there! Yes!” Madara would be grinning against her shoulder, gaze trained on Tobirama across from them as she jolted, knees threatening to give out from the harsh pleasure.

"Should I let her cum?" He would ask, watching as Tobirama’s gaze darkened. Predatory.

"Not yet." Tobirama would respond, leaning forward to reach out, brushing a strand of hair that had fallen into her flushed face. "I want her to cry. I want to see how she looks with her makeup ruined."

“No, no, no,” she pleaded, whining as the fingers left her. Empty- she felt so empty suddenly, her lip jutting out in a pout. “I was so close, don’t do this!”

"Do what, little snake?" Tobirama asked as Madara chuckled, reaching down to undo his trousers. No armor- none of them were wearing any. Too much in the way for hands to touch. And oh, she would love to be able to touch- from the few instances in which she’d been close enough to Madara, she’d felt how solid he was. How sturdy, how much those robes hid the muscles that laid beneath. And Tobirama- she’d gotten a good feel after being tripped by one of the elder council members, causing her to fall against him. He was solid, too- taller than Madara, a touch more lithe, but still solid.

What she wouldn’t give to be stuck between those two…

“Oh- oh!” She had to slap a hand over her mouth as her middle finger worked over her clit quickly, her breaths coming in harsh pants. “Good, good, good,” she whispered, brows furrowing, toes curling as the pleasure built higher, higher, higher-

Her hand withdrew, leaving her teetering on the edge before backing away. So close, so very close. “Tobirama,” she whispered as a hand raised to settle around her throat. In her mind, it was his- large, strong, squeezing as he loomed over her. “Fuck me, please- please-” her voice bordered on a sob before she reached out, taking hold of the bottle of lube. She made quick work of slicking the toy up, of ripping off her underwear and tossing them aside, of spreading her legs and settling a pillow beneath the small of her back.

“Oh-” she squeaked as the toy pushed in slowly, her brow furrowing at the slight sting of stretch. It was larger than her husband, that much was certain- the length almost the same as his. But oh, how good it felt as it sank in. “Yes,” came the soft sigh as it bottomed out, settled deep within.

"So tight," Madara would groan, his brows drawn inward, panting softly. He’d have laid her out on the desk, her head resting at the edge, giving her the perfect view of Tobirama’s face. "Should feel how tight she is, Tobi. Gripping my cock..." his voice trails off as he leans down, pressing kiss after lingering kiss to her throat, letting her get used to the stretch.

Her gaze settles upon ruby hues, watching how his gaze trails across her and Madara’s joined forms. His hand reaches down, cupping himself. She could reach down and help him out if her hands weren’t captured in Madara’s own. His lips part as he begins to stroke the same moment Madara begins to move.

“Oh- oh, yes, Gods, yes,” she gasps, eyes widening at the slow, deep thrusts. The drag against her inner walls is wonderful, creating sparks that cause her to jolt. “Madara- Madara, please, faster,” she begs, but her gaze doesn’t leave Tobirama’s. “Fuck me faster, Madara!”

The growl she gets in response is one she swears is real, rumbling against her ear as she moves the toy faster in her cunt, not bothering to hide her sounds any longer. If she were a more innocent woman, she’d be embarrassed by how wet she was- how she could hear it with each movement of the toy. But she wasn’t innocent, hadn’t been in many years, and god, did it feel good. “Ah! Yes- yes, Tobira-Mada-ah!” She cried out, hips rutting down against the toy. “Please, please, please-”

"Please what, little snake?" Tobirama murmured as Madara moaned against her throat, getting lost in the pleasure himself. "Use your words, pet."

“Wanna cum!” She keens, back arching. “Please, lemme cum, lemme cum, please, please-”

"Gonna be a good girl and cum for us?" Madara whispered against the shell of her ear. "Gonna cum on cock like a good girl? Let me fill you up?" He asked, hand slipping between them to toy with her clit.

She whines, biting down on her lip hard enough to draw blood. Tobirama would have laughed at that- oh, she could see it so clearly, how he would have reached up to pull her lip free, to swipe at the blood before leaning down for a kiss- how he would groan into the kiss, his own fist moving faster.

“Close, close- gonna cum, gonna-” Her voice catches in her throat as she tips over the edge, back arching, mouth dropping open into a silent scream. Her hand doesn’t stop despite how jerky the movements have become. “Don’t stop, don’t sto-ah-ah!” Kiyomi gasps, hand finally stilling as the aftershocks begin to subside. After a moment, she pulls the toy out and all but tosses it aside.

Her hands drop to her sides, a laugh trickling free as she shakes her head. “What a shame,” she murmured, voice hoarse. A shame it was only her imagination and not the real thing. She rolls onto her side, nose scrunching up at the wet little puddle she’d left on the bed. That could be fixed later.

For now, a hot shower sounded lovely. She rose and stretched with cat-like grace, her hands high above her head. She slipped into the en suite bathroom, door closing behind her. Not once had she noticed how the temperature had cooled, how the curtains had begun to dance with the light summer breeze.

Old window latches were oh so tricky, after all.

[pinnithin-writes]

more of a feeling

Mission to Zyxx fic, mild spoilers for season 5 if you're not caught up. This started as rambling about our bodies sabotaging us and turned into a conversation about our bodies taking care of us. 2117 words.

It was simple, really. It all came down to chemistry.

C-53 knew how emotions worked, of course; he’d even go so far as to call himself a veteran by now. Every frame he’d inhabited was a different experience, but the emotions he felt in those frames were a reassuring constant. He knew the programming for joy. He could trace the source code for anger. His cube felt it all the same, and no matter how many diagnostics he had to run in an unfamiliar body, his thoughts, his feelings, and his personality grounded him through the flux.

Until, that is, the failed clone of a scientist shoved him in a meat suit without his consent.

Emotions were different when he was piloting flesh. They governed his body more than he was used to. They still generated from C-53’s cube, but now that cube was hooked up to nerves and synapses, blood and organs, and those living, breathing parts responded accordingly. He was a miracle of a machine, truly – a code given life – but he couldn’t wax poetic about something like that when his pores leaked and his muscles tired and his stomach twisted in knots.

It was hard enough dealing with a body that resisted his will at every turn. It was worse still that every fleeting feeling affected him on the molecular level. He didn’t know how organics got anything done like this. Frustration made his head pound and his guts churn. Despair burned his eyes and locked his throat. Even pleasant feelings – affection, mirth – stole his breath, made his pulse race. It was distracting at best and debilitating at worst. Surely there was a way to bypass these effects.

Unable to connect his consciousness to high speed internet, he had to go about this the old fashioned way, which made it a slow process indeed. Thankfully, the USS Synergy owned a vast library, which he took advantage of to scan every file they had on hermanns, discovering himself.

He did most of his research at night. He told himself this was because he was less likely to be interrupted, but in truth he was embarrassed at his own inefficiency. Even in the old loader frame, downloading the data would have taken all of ten seconds. And though he knew his crewmates wouldn’t humiliate him, he still didn’t want to be seen like this. Having to move his eyes across a screen, absorb and process the words they scanned, and then file that information away in his slippery maze of a brain, line after line after line after line after line.

The hours of learning made him feel childish. C-53 was tired.

But he was getting somewhere. When exhaustion pulled at his eyelids and his thoughts went fuzzy in the late, still hours on Bargie, he knew it was adenosine flooding his neural pathways and inhibiting his functionality. No code existed to override adenosine. Caffeine, however, could counteract it for a short time (with the unfortunate side effect of upsetting his stomach and tasting like tar).

C-53 pored over chemistry texts and neuroscience studies, learning what made hermanns - and thus, hermanoids - do what they did. There were no comparable texts on tellurians in this galaxy, but the science, from what he could remember, was quite similar. It was all chemicals, and those chemicals told his brain to tell his body how to act.

It was exceptionally overcomplicated. There was always some other influencing factor to his body, a sensory input or a thought or even his DNA - Jeremy’s genetic memory - that scrambled a system that could theoretically be very streamlined.

An example: he could eat something that tasted good (peanut butter and chocolate), triggering a flood of dopamine that caused him to feel happy. But Jeremy was allergic to tree nuts, so his immune system attacks him for a perceived threat that doesn’t exist, so forcefully that he could die from it. It was as fascinating as it was annoying. Who knew organics could have glitches? Too bad he hadn’t figured out how to debug anaphylactic shock.

He didn’t know what he hoped to accomplish by doing all this research. In a way, studying why his body actively sabotaged him was a comfort, but the more he learned, the more faults he discovered. Evolution was a temperamental thing. He much preferred the elegance of engineering.

At present, it was a dark hour on Bargie, docked and slumbering with her crew on the Synergy. Half awake in the conversation pit, amidst a tangle of textbooks and portable screens, C-53 sat alone under the red glow of the security lights. Sprawled as he was, C-53 didn’t immediately notice Pleck wandering into the room until he said his name.

Blurry lines of text sharpened as he startled, then relaxed. “Hm? Oh, hey Pleck,” he said.

“C-53, it’s like, three in the morning,” Pleck responded. Bare footsteps signaled his approach, and then he dropped onto the couch next to C-53, a glass of water in one hand and an orange fruit in the other. He reached over and set the glass precariously on the cushion between them. “Y’know, tellurians usually sleep around this time,” he pointed out helpfully. “What are you doing out here?”

The info tablet C-53 held was inches away from his face. “I’m learning about my pineal gland,” he announced dully.

A hormone regulator located near the brain stem. Releases melatonin and influences one’s circadian rhythm. Well, it wasn’t doing a very good job right now, was it?

“Cool, is that something like - do tellurians have that too or just, y’know,” Pleck drew his feet up to sit cross-legged, “whatever you are?”

C-53 couldn’t help but smirk mirthlessly at that. “It’s found in most vertebrates, so yes, I would imagine both you and whatever I am have one.” He set the tablet aside to look at Pleck, but the screen made him night blind, and he could only see the afterimage of a splotchy red rectangle in the darkness. “Why are you awake?”

“Oh, I woke up thirsty,” Pleck explained easily. He fiddled with the peel on his fruit as he spoke. “And then I thought, well, while I’m up I might as well grab a snack, and then I saw you sitting there so,” he shrugged, “here I am.”

It was a better explanation than what C-53 had. And it was a far better explanation than Pleck would have given several months ago, when the Allwheat was still worming into his brain and keeping him up at odd hours. C-53 was thankful those days were behind them. As the afterimage of the tablet faded and Pleck became a collection of grays and blues beside him, he quietly mourned the loss of his night vision. And his regular vision.

“You ever had one of these, C-53?” Pleck asked. He finally got his fingernails under the skin and began peeling. “The Themm grow these instead of oranges. They’re kind of sour?”

“I haven’t,” C-53 answered. He hadn’t eaten an orange before, for that matter, but he wasn’t too interested in expanding his food horizons. Most things had an unpleasant texture to him.

“Do you want some?” Pleck went on, adding pieces of rind to the small pile in his lap. He slanted C-53 a glance. “Oranges are the most shareable fruit.”

“No, thank you.”

Pleck shrugged again before separating a slice of not-orange and popping it in his mouth. As he chewed in silence, C-53 picked up the glass between them and placed it safely on the coffee table. Piles of nearby notes were scrawled in his own clumsy hand, amateur diagrams and chemical formulas with lots of arrows and exclamation marks littering the margins. Writing it down helped the nonstick pan of his brain gain some traction, he found, but the coffee table was starting to look like Nermut’s conspiracy wall after so many hours of research.

His neck ached. His head pounded out a protest.

He’d been pushing his brain and body to its limits and had what to show for it? A newfound disgust with himself? A frustration he only knew more intimately? C-53 frowned and used one of his papers as a coaster.

Beside him, Pleck happily ate his fruit, unbothered. Being organic was easy for him; he was a native to his body and didn’t know anything else. C-53 pitied and envied him in equal measure.

“You’re going to bed soon, right C-53?” Pleck asked after making his way through half the orange. He reached to retrieve his glass from the table, but condensation stuck a note about the amygdala to the bottom. “Oh,” he remarked.

C-53 peeled it off for him. “I don’t like sleeping,” he explained, crumpling the note and tossing it on the table. “So I’m reading.”

Pleck took a sip of water and frowned. “You gotta sleep sometime.”

“I know,” he answered shortly. He’d read dozens of articles about the side effects of sleeplessness. Fatigue, irritability, memory issues, hallucinations if you waited long enough. He knew he’d crash eventually, he just wasn’t especially motivated to avoid it. “It feels bad,” he went on. “Waking up is disorienting.”

There was a thoughtful crease between Pleck’s brows; C-53 could barely see it under the security lights. Pleck took a moment to set his glass back down on the table before turning the remainder of the fruit over in his hands. “Is it because you don’t feel safe?” he asked without looking up.

“I’m… sorry?”

“It’s just - y’know, when I was having trouble sleeping-”

“Pleck, I’m not a lunatic,” C-53 interrupted. “I know I’m perfectly safe on Bargie. I just don’t like sleeping. I don’t need you to teach me how to be tellurian, okay?” He gestured at the pathetic mess of research before him, scrawled in an obvious lunatic’s hand. “I’m figuring it out.”

Pleck fed himself a section of orange and didn’t answer right away. On C-53’s other side, the info tablet’s screen auto timed out and went dark. They were bathed in red completely now, one of them frustrated and exhausted, the other watchful and concerned. C-53 removed his glasses and rubbed at his stinging eyes.

“Sorry,” he said after a time. “I’m just…”

“Tired?” Pleck offered.

C-53’s sigh went through his whole body. “Yes.”

A stubborn, senseless part of him didn’t want to overcome this. He didn’t want to be an example of perseverance, some epic struggle conquered by learning to live well. He wanted to kick and bite and throw a fit over this new frame. It wasn’t fair.

“C-53,” Pleck broke quietly into his thoughts. “You don’t have to, y’know, have the answer to everything all the time. Sometimes you have to just… do what your body is telling you to do, even if you don’t want to.” He offered an orange slice in C-53’s direction. “It’s trying to take care of you.”

“You say that like this flesh suit has a soul,” C-53 grumbled, but he took the fruit anyway, staring glumly as it lay in his stupid, sweaty palm.

“Well, sure it does.” Pleck smiled and prodded his shoulder with an index finger. “It’s you.”

C-53 fell silent. It was strange, learning things from Pleck. He was used to the roles being reversed, and it shifted something uncomfortably inside him every time it happened. Dutifully, he put the orange in his mouth, felt the tart flavor burst on his tongue, and chewed past the slimy sensation until he was able to swallow it. He was unable to hide a shudder.

Pleck watched him with one hopeful eye. “Not your favorite?” he guessed.

“It’s the texture,” C-53 explained, grimacing. But he held his hand out for another slice in spite of it.

Pleck grinned. “We can find something you like to eat instead of this,” he said, scooping the orange peels out of his lap and leaving them on the coffee table for later cleanup. “It doesn’t have to all be bad. Come on,” he rose from his seat and offered C-53 his hand. “Let’s check the kitchen for something better and then, y’know, maybe try and get some sleep?”

The please was unspoken, but C-53 could see it on Pleck’s freckled face. He was trying to take care of him, just like his clunky, unfamiliar body was. C-53 didn’t like his body very much, and wasn’t sure he ever would, but he liked Pleck enough to go along with him for now. He didn’t know what kind of chemical governed trust. He didn’t even let himself ask.

C-53 took Pleck’s hand, tried not to flinch from the zing it sent up his arm, and followed him out of the pit.

[cannibal-witchh]

Reader(Fem) x Alcina Dimitrescu

(PART 2)

Written by cannibal_witchh

Part 1

:https://cannibal-witchh.tumblr.com/post/641589115086929920/readerfem-x-alcina-dimitrescu-part-1-written

⛓Trigger Warnings⛓

Story contains: Gore, sexual elements, vulgar language, violence, elements of sub/dom behavior, and captivity.

Notes: This is the 2nd part of the story and it will progressively get more sexual, and the elements between the reader and Alcina will become more dom/sub. It is a little bit of a slow burner so bare with me. It will get juicy soon! I want to add, I do not support in any fashion abuse, and or non consensual actions. ⚠️ I have clearly placed trigger warnings to indicate there may be elements that are not for every reader. I heavily gravitate with dominance and submission/gore so thats where the relationship in the story will go ⚠️ Again, limited information so nothing in the story really is canon.

The reader is referred to as:

Y/N- your name

Y/L/N- your last name

She/her- in italics and bold

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Her blood boiled as she felt the weight of humiliation and rage filter through her. She was in poor shape, bloodied up, bruised, and very little hope could be found within her. She stared at Alcina with a hateful expression, but the vampress had full awareness beneath that thin surface of loathing was absolute fear. "Don't be foolish. I will not say it again.", she continued a smirk as she rested her elbows up on the edge of the bath. Even in absolute indecency she was wicked and intense. Her body at full exposure, water glistening off her porcelain skin, and gentle beads of water trailing down her breasts. The moon was illuminating off her soft tall figure, as she tipped her head back and relaxed it on the edge. "I think I've been more than patient with you."

Y/N, had so many emotions cycling through her, there was disgust, hatred, and anxiety. But she had concluded that there was no point in stalling. Alcina would grow tired and eventually kill her if she wasted anymore time. She began to strip, peeling an article of clothing at a time, trying desperately to cling on to every second. Her hands trembling as she slid her panties down her ankles before the wicked vampire.

She submerged her body in the warm water, blood began to scatter out from her knee, and she watched fragments of the water become crimson. Fuck. "Relax, I'm not a shark. I can smell your wonderful nectar but I have no need to feed at this exact instance just because you're coloring my bath water red.", she teased pulling her head up. Loose black waves stuck to her wet skin, spreading out like a small web on her smooth pale skin. Her intense bright eyes focused on Y/N, her eyes looked so preditorial, and so hungry. Those eyes burned deep in Y/N's soul, it was haunting.

After about forty minutes of soaking and cleansing, Alcina decided to privilege Y/N by showing her the cellar room. She held a lit candlabrum guiding them deep inside. It smelled foul, there were variations of fresh corpses everywhere, limbs lost in other areas of the large hallway, and it was incredibly dark. The walls and floor were built with thick cobblestone, and there were numerous cellars with rusted bars. " Now, I believe I have treated you kindly with allowing you to stay in an actual guest room.", she said as she continued to lead Y/N deeper into the cellars. Abruptly, an incredibly dry groan echoed through the cellar, it sounded as if it was in absolute suffering and pain. Y/N darted her head in the direction she believed it came from but it was too difficult to really distinguish actually where it sounded. " Relax, I won't allow them to touch you.", she assured as she stopped and turned to face her. "Those are family.", she stretched a pearly grin, her fangs teasing under her satin red lips. Alcina instructed with just her hands for Y/N to come closer to her, and she obeyed the demand. "You look much better being cleaned up, pet.", that name alone flooded a pool of humiliation in her, being stabbed, bitten, and beaten countless times to this nonsense- it just delivered a wave of embarassment to her. Alcina let out a soft giggle, and for moments there wasn't words being exchanged.

Thud! With swift impact, there was a heavy hit that landed to Y/N's head, and she flew several feet back away from Alcina. She tried to gather herself but her vision grew blurry, and her knee still in poor condition to make quick movements. Dwindling in and out of clear vision, the sounds of agonizing groaning reverberated through the corridor infront of her. She felt shivers, hair raise, and another dose of adrenaline greet her. What could this be? Within moments, a strong smell of decay flooded through the damp cobblestone hallways, and echos of pain continuing to sound. A group of corpse like creatures swayed in, their bodies detierating, bones exposed, long sharp aged nails, and hollow dark eyes. Her family. Absolute horror welcomed Y/N, Alcina had lied, she wasn't going to protect her. The creatures began to hobble towards her, surrounding her, their stench choking her, and their groans ringing in her ear. She was fucked, no available escape was present for her to attempt. She closed her eyes and she felt the stroke of long thin nails brush against her face and arms. Felt the cold breath of their hissing near her ears, as she tried to control her panic. This was it. "Enough!", Alcina screeched, and immediately the creatures shrieked and fled away in the tunnels. She relaxed her hands on her hips and walked over to Y/N with a pleased expression. " This is what will become of you but worse if you do not submit to me. Do we have ourselves clear?", Alcina watched as Y/N nodded trying to control her panicked breaths, and maintain her shivering. "Good."

Without effort, Alcina had carried Y/N in her arms all the day back to her captive room. When they arrived, she locked the door, and rested Y/N on the sheets. Y/N felt some release of tension the moment she establish this was her room. She spread her arms out, tracing the creases of silk that collected under her. The presence of the fabric brought her slight comfort. "Honestly, you truely are pathetic.", she sighed as she sat the candlabrum on the wooden nightstand beside the bed. Y/N felt beside her sink, Alcina had sat beside her and began to run her fingers through her hair. Despite the cruel treatment, this minor kindness felt relieving to Y/N. She let out a small sound of relief as Alcina continued to lace her fingers through her hair. "I feel despite some tension, you have gathered an understanding of your place as my feeding pet. I appreciate that submission. I have mutually contributed. I awaited feeding until you were cleansed and in the comforts of your room.", a sharp spike danced in Y/N's stomach, she felt acidity well up, and her knee twitch with discomfort. It was time.

This time, Y/N did have opposition towards the situation this time. She fully gave in to the unfortunate circumstances. Her pants were removed, revealing a blackened knee with blood stains feathering out from the site. "I'm quite surprised how quickly you've adapted to your position to me. I have to admit, I am pleased with you.", Alcina leaned to her side, hovering over Y/N's wounded knee, her large breasts nearly spilling out from her nightgown. The closer she leaned towards her knee, the more her alluring breasts pressed gently against Y/N. "Despite my daughters, I have control over my hunger. I will treat you well, and I will know how to savor you slowly.", she looked down at her knee and let out a sound of disappointment. "So much for being patient. Its scabbed. I suppose I will make a new feeding site."

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"My f-femoral atery?", Y/N muttered as she felt her cheeks grow hot. A major artery, not even her daughters had fed on. The violent feeding they did more than likely would've killed her if they attempted to. " Yes, now please relax. I have fed in this location before and no one has ever died. I have lived a long life and acquired quite the knowledge on self control.", she began to move close to her upper thigh, her nose brushing lightly against her skin, and her mouth leaving light streaks stained from her rouge. The sound of skin break was heard through the cold air, Y/N let out a pained moan and held her breath. The pain was unpleasant, it was like having a canine bite but with small thin teeth. She tried focusing on the candle wicks, watching them sway and dance softly in the distance. The warm occasional crackle it did from time to time. It was the closest thing to resemble peacefulness during this taxing time. Alcina began to feed, siphoning Y/N's blood, she made sounds of utter bliss as the sweet flavor danced along her desperate tongue. Her body stiffening in surprise as pure satisfaction greeted her mouth. Her nipples growing erect through her night gown, brushing against Y/N's leg. Y/N felt light headed, feeling blood leaving her as she grew quickly cold. Strangely, she had no presence of panic, perhaps, the loss of blood delivered her brief emotional insensitivity. Alcina stayed down there for quite sometime, muttering muffled sounds of bliss, occasionally latching off revealing a bloodied chin, teeth, and lips. She met Y/N's eyes and immediately flashed a wide smile, it was almost sickening but in a way bewitching. Maybe the lack of blood was making Y/N confused. " W-why am I so relaxed?", she muttered feeling a heavy weight of tranquility possess her. " Shh...its the lack of blood. Soon I will stop.", Alcina whispered as Y/N felt her tongue lick her inner thigh. Her long tongue tracing and prodding the bite marks. Desperstely trying to drain whatever was left of the site.

" I believe, I am full. Thank you for the meal.", she wiped her crimson stained lips and chin with the back of her hands ,now tarnishing it with red. " I believe, I owe you a thank you, pet. You have been surprisingly obedient the whole time, and quiet too.", Alcina slowly adjusted herself until she was on all fours above Y/N. Her large smooth breasts draping down reaveling down her well tailored gown. She began to crawl slowly towards Y/N's face, her chest lighting brushing against Y/N's body. It was incredibly soft yet cold. " I am going to need you to open your mouth, won't you, pet?", without hesitation, Y/N dropped her mouth open for her. Alcina licked her lips and pressed her right fang into her plump bottom lip. Blood began to trickle out and run down her chin and onto her chest. Her hand traveled slowly up to Y/N's neck, gentle gripping it, and holding it against the mattress. Her opposite hand, explored under her shirt, and rested on her heart. Y/N, felt the a wave of heat flush away the cold that was residing in her. What was she about to do? "Can't let my obedient food die on me, yet.", Alcina leaned herself forward, pressing her lips against Y/N's. Her tongue inviting itself into her mouth, brushing metallic crimson inside. The flavor was terrible but Y/N did not seem to object. Alcina continued to kiss her, muffled sounds escaping between their lips as a warm blanketed feeling continued to lay over Y/N. Blood had managed to escape their lips, trickling down Y/N's chin, it was incredibly cold as it traveled down. Alcina ceased the kissing, her face revealed itself to be flush and pink. Strange for a creature of the undead. She moved her long delicate fingers along Y/N's blood covered lips and chin. Collecting whatever escaped under her finger tips. "Don't waste it.", she whispered softly nudging her fingers against Y/N's lips, as they slipped their way inside her mouth. More of that bitter flavor met Y/N's tongue, and she felt her body grow warmer and warmer. Alcina took her fingers out after a few moments, examining there was no trace of remaining blood present. She made a sound of approval that trailed with a small smile. An overwhelming amount of insatiable hunger found Y/N, she felt her body perk with energy, her senses incredibly alert, and her heart accelerate as if it was injected with caffeine. She brought a hand to Alcina's cheek and drew her to her own. Lips reuniting again, her tongue pressing its way into Alcina's mouth, and Y/N biting her lower plump lip. She was hungry, the introduction to Alcina's blood was intoxicating, addictive, and restoring. It brought her energy and she needed more. A small line of red flowed from Alcina's lower lip, and Y/N quickly licked it from her face. Her tongue returning back to Alcina's mouth the moment she collected all of her crimson. Alcina muffled a small moan, as her hand tightened around Y/N's neck, the opposite hand no long resting on her Y/N's heart but traveling down her stomach. Her incredibly sharp nails dragging into her sternum down to above her navel. She felt blood seep from those insicions, and she let out a pained moan. She buried her lips against Alcina's for a few more passionate moments until she broke it. Her lips pressing against Y/N's neck and her tongue dragging down her neck to the freshly bloodied cuts on her sternum and navel. She kissed and licked the bloodied wounds hungrily. Little delicate moans left her mouth as she glanced up at Y/N with her appreciative smile. Still continuing to clean the newly made cuts with her tongue. "Dont act as if this is an invitation of making love, foolish one. Vampires have restorative blood that gives humans the ability to briefly recover, replenish energy, alertness, and on some occasions enhance their libidio.", she rolled her eyes, " In this case, you acquired all of it. What a headache. I just wanted to make sure you didn't die of blood loss.", She sighed. " I suppose I will find more uses for you, pet. But don't think it will entirely feel good."

To be continued...

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[encyclopika]

Animal Crossing Fish - Explained #198

Brought to you by a marine biologist who wishes she’d known sooner...

CLICK HERE FOR THE AC FISH EXPLAINED MASTERPOST!

Had I known back when I covered the Zebra Turkeyfish (which we actually found to be the Luna Lionfish) that I would be covering the ACPC fish and those fish included the Red Lionfish, I would have saved my talk about the Lionfish invasion of the Atlantic for this entry. Oh well, I can’t undo the past. But yeah, this is the guy running amuck in the reefs of the Caribbean.  

The Red Lionfish appeared in ACPC for the 37th Fishing Tourney in April 2021, and like many special fish in ACPC, it hasn’t been seen since.

There are 12 different species of lionfish within the genus Pterois, and they are all venomous, as is customary in the family Scorpaenidae. All lionfish species are native to the Indo-Pacific and don’t appear natively in the Atlantic. To review, today’s fish, the Red Lionfish (Pterois volitans) makes up the bulk of the lionfish invasion in the Atlantic by about 93%. The other 7-ish% belongs to the Devil Firefish (Pterois miles). They are two different species and are pretty difficult to tell apart, but, yeah, that’s a fact. I have a love-hate relationship with this species since, yeah, it’s invasive af but I also spent my 2015 summer in Florida creating scientific illustrations of their larvae as my Master’s internship. At the very least, I don’t think I’ll ever forget how to draw them.

By Alexander Vasenin - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=25523559

ACPC did a pretty great job differentiating the Red’s sprite to the Zebra Turkeyfish/Luna Lionfish’s sprite, with the very noticeable spots on the tail fin. 

Now, of course, lionfish are best known for their venomous spines, as mentioned before. These spines are formed kind of like sheathed capsules. As the needle-like spine is injected into its victim, the skin covering peels away to reveal the spine and inject its venom. The venom itself is pretty potent as well. Although it won’t kill you as long as you’re a healthy grown adult, it is still incredibly painful, as well as causing nausea, vomiting, headaches, and many other unpleasant things for days. These effects are capable of killing people who are elderly, very young, or just plain allergic to the venom, because vomiting wasn’t enough, y’know? Don’t get stung by a goddamn lionfish, please. 

And lionfish know they’re toxic. These spines are generally for defense, and the fish will actually arch their backs towards predators and attempt to ram them with every intention of envenoming them. So, yeah, even in their native range, lionfish have few predators, and that is such a big frickin’ problem when they invade a place, because they are so unique in this way. They are insatiable predators in their own right, gobbling up any small fish that can fit in their mouths. At a max of 18 inches (47 cm) that could be a large swath of reef species. And, of course, they breed monthly and can disperse really easily. Lionfish larvae have been found as far north as New York and New Jersey, and thank goodness for our winters that end up killing them off. Tropical areas, like Florida, Mexico, and the Caribbean islands, don’t have winters strong enough to kill them, so this thing is a monster there. So, every year, many places hold lionfish derbies, a competition to see who can kill as many lionfish as possible (basically taking the place of a predator). In many cases, the fish go to good use feeding people in need afterward. 

Now, before you get shocked at that, remember what venomous means (venom is injected; poison is consumed) - this animal isn’t poisonous. If you remove the spines (carefully!) you actually get a really delicious white, flaky fish fillet off a lionfish!  

And there you have it! Fascinating stuff, no?