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thetalesofno-one · 11 months ago

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Curse of Strahd, Act I: Pt. 1, Ch. III -43 Tallies-

D&D Campaign Retelling Part 1/6 Chapter 3/5 ~5.3k words Content Warnings: Curse of Strahd typical content, Read at own risk

Summary Forced together by the mists and lost in a strange new land, our four strangers run into a grim omen along their path and a fork in their road. The Ghost, the Rebel, the Charmer, and the Holy Man finally reveal their names where the deadmen carve their messages on the bones of trees. Read Previous Chapters also available on AO3

Time seems timeless in this place.

No light wanders behind shaded skies, no sun, no stars. All the heavens diffused entirely behind grey skies hung so low the tops of the barren trees stretch their fingers to touch the clouds. A heavy shroud without breath, suffocating the land. Grasses greyed and withered, thin as straw, dry as hay. Their stalks rustle lightly in the rain with an endless shifting that carries the mind to places beyond. Luring thoughts away from the land like a dream.

Left in the rustling silence, Emet’s mind wanders.

The dim dissonance with the world bringing back memories of a darkened shop thick with the scent of paper and leather. Of a worktable scattered with various tools and thread, half sewn signatures left in a neat stack beside a half drunk and forgotten glass of wine as he remeasures a board and pares the edges of supple smooth leather, the scrapings curling across his fingers. Of candlelight flickering long through the sunken day, windows ever cast in the shadows of spires. Of night slipping over the city like a thief, light fingers pocketing the sun in velvet black without so much as a blink of notice from the little shop. The candles burning ever bright, the day’s end only realized when the flame flickers thin and the darkness steals the workman’s light.

Fingers pricked with needle thin scars and paper thin cuts lighting another candle. Hair loosely tied back, a few strands always slipping free as he smooths the marked tape along a new edge and carefully notes the measurements with a tailor’s precision. Of a guillotine blade sliding through a stack of vellum and trimming its edges to a fine point, a perfect block to be folded. Of the smooth texture of bone between his fingers, the gentle scrape as he runs the folder across the edge of a bent sheet, turning a bowed page into a sharp crease. Glue sticks to his wrist from a missed spot on the wooden table, the book shaping in his mind before its pieces are folded and glued and sewn together.

And all the while, the quiet loneliness whispering at his back with a phantom silence. Not of presence, but absence. Empty. The weight of a space where someone should be, infinitely loud in its stillness. Its siren voice chased away by the endless work. Its words unheard and yet unignored. Every movement his, every breath slipped through his teeth with no other lips to catch it. Scarred hands reaching for tools no other fingers brush across. And all the while knowing when he finally stops, the kitchen will be empty, the home devoid of spiced currents in the air, the bed cold. The bitterness left in tasting the flavors of an old life when you know now the sweetness of another.

“There is a scent of death.”

Emet’s attention snaps from lullaby memories. The holy man stopped along the muddy road, bent nose turned up and sniffing the air.

“Maybe undeath.”

The blades are in Emet’s hands before the old human even finishes his sentence. The broken glaive hanging dangerously from his hand, vicious tip polished to perfection and flashing brilliantly in the dim light. A stark contrast against the dark bloodstained cloth wrapped around its shattered haft.

The charmer knocks an arrow into his charred longbow with the fluidity of someone who has fired it under dire circumstances. A faint scent of smoke whispers past as his fingers tug the string lightly, ready for trouble.

“I don’t like this,” the rebel whispers, slipping her arm through a shield—a small round thing of black and gold painted metal. A coil of whip hangs from her belt but she reaches for metal instead. The short blade slips free of its sheath with a faint hushed breath.

The all too familiar stench of death doesn’t yet reach Emet’s nose, but he has no reason to doubt the holy man in this. Eyes flickering through the mist, resentment wraps itself around Emet’s chest and burns through his scars. But there is no place for spitting out what has been earned because of the hand that offers it. Not when it comes to undeath. Emet calls on his forsaken power. Soul reaching out beyond himself with clawed grasping hands ready to take what might be denied, he stretches out his inner self toward a god he isn’t sure will answer. Toward a god who heard his screams and turned away.

Power floods through Emet’s irises in a dim display. Pale grey light ignites his faded eyes in a hollow glow burning with ghost fire, and though they do not shine with the brilliant white of beacons as they once did, the divine sense is not gone entirely. Not yet.

The rebel glances up at him with an unreadable expression, but he ignores her and scans the mists around them. If anything undead or fiendish in nature lurks nearby, the divine power flowing through him will draw his attentions like someone taking his chin and gently pointing him toward unseen dangers. But no phantom fingers grace his scarred jaw or pull at his divinely heightened senses. Whatever smells of death here must then truly be dead.

Giving a nod to continue on, the holy man presses forward with the slow and quiet feet of a hunter stalking its prey. The faded light falls from Emet’s eyes after a moment and he feels the divine slip away from him with a cold chill. The rebel still stares at him with narrowed eyes and uplifted brow, but her lips remain sealed. Whatever question lurks in her mind, he suspects she no longer needs to ask it. A curiosity that seems less about the ability and more about the person wielding it.

Though he no longer wears his holy symbol or any sign of faith emblazoned on his person, no trace of a past better left buried, it is not uncommon knowledge to those of faith that only paladins—knights of gods—are blessed with such an ability. And Emet realizes he’s let something of himself slip in front of knowing eyes.

The rebel’s lips part—

The scent finally reaches them.

Sickly sweet and turning the stomach with a heavy wave of bile. Both enticing and revolting in that way only death can be. Corpse rot. There’s no doubt. Not but fifteen feet down the road, a human body decomposes half off the path with arms outreached toward the road as though it breathed its last in a desperate crawl. A young man once, clothes torn by brambles and thorns with flesh pockmarked by the beaks of birds feasting on an easy meal. A tarnished copper compass spills out from that outstretched hand, its red needle trembling and twisting uncertainly as though unable to find North.

The holy man kneels beside the body and looks it over without touching the overly soft and rain sodden flesh. The boy’s skin shifts across his bones with gelatinous ripples as the old man accidentally shifts the mud in taking a knee. A slimy sheen has already settled over the pale flesh like melted fat. Long strips and sharp pecks break through the wet surface to expose the black and purple insides, dark as a bruise, the blood long clotted and rotting. White bone peaks out from cheeks a fingertips, the nose half consumed. The birds have eaten well.

The holy man narrates his findings softly. Scratches from branches and brush, gaunt flesh, sunken eyes—what remains of them, at least—but no visible mortal wounds. The young man died from exhaustion of all things. The holy man’s eyes take on a dark and certain stain when he says the word.

Exhaustion.

How the holy man knows, Emet isn’t sure. But he never was the best at healing during training. Healing required not just blind faith like those outside of holy orders assume when they beg healers to fix their every ailing, but also knowledge of medicine. A bone cannot be knit together without knowing how its structure is woven together. A crushed hand cannot be reconstructed if one does not understand the pattern of nerves and vessels, tendon and ligament. Or rather, it will heal with faith alone, but it will never be the same again without knowledge behind it.

Emet has always been better at the unmaking…perhaps that’s why they were put together during training.

Him and Azemir.

Wrapped eternally like wax around the cold stillness of Emet’s heart, his name brings warmth to the hollows of Emet’s soul where nothing grows. Ever a flame without shadow, a sun without night. Healing and warmth have always been more of Azem’s specialty and Emet wonders how long it will be before he can touch those healing hands and feel their warmth. How far he must go to set things right again. When they will talk without so much distance between them. Or if whatever has happened in these mists will delay his journey. He will walk a hundred lifetimes seeking a way back if that’s what it takes. He will carry the weight of that name forever.

Sickening chills drift and trail cold fingers across Emet’s body snuffing out the thin flame of Azem’s name within his soul—always touching, always grasping. He shudders and crawls within his own skin wanting to shrink away, wanting to claw them off. They touch and grasp and choke and scream—

The calming coolness of one washes away all the others for but a moment. And Emet can breathe. Just one breath. Before they drift back like the sea and cling to him as algae on an anchor. But it’s enough. Why they grow restless, he doesn’t always know. Perhaps a reminder of the promise he made them so it doesn’t settle unfulfilled.

Emet’s eyes follow the old man’s ministrations with that name balanced delicately on the tip of his tongue. The way the old man’s rough and calloused hands move light as feathers over the boy’s corpse as though the kid can feel anything anymore. Pain is beyond him now, but still the old man moves gently. Emet isn’t sure what he is searching for. Perhaps some other answer than the one he already knows and something in the holy man’s expression settles like wet sand over a stone when he finds no other. The warm candle flame in his eyes dimming beneath a cold and familiar wind.

The old man rests a hand over the boy’s rotting one in a strange gesture of comfort. Bowing his smooth shaved head, he whispers blessings beneath his breath. Emet isn’t sure why the old man bothers. There’s nothing left to save.

Nudging the broken compass after his prayers and looking to where the boy’s hand falls, the holy man quirks his mouth sadly. Perhaps seeing another blessing where there is none.

“The boy was going this way,” he points to the opposite side of the wagon trail toward a tree bearing faint tally marks—43 of them. An arrow carved into its bark points away from the muddy road toward a thin path cutting deeper into the woods. A jagged knife cut through the trees, all but unnoticed if it weren’t for the arrow to point the way.

“You want to follow the dead’s path,” Emet asks incredulously.

“Why not?” The charmer steps over the rotting corpse’s outstretched arm to get a better look at the path behind the body rather than ahead, “He’s probably a criminal trying to leave, so I’d say follow where he came from and we’ll find civilization.”

“Why would you say he’s a criminal?”

“Why else would he be out here?”

“Why are we out here,” the rebel counters.

The holy man looks up from body, “And we are not criminals.”

The rebel gives the holy man a nod, “What the old man said.”

“I am not that old.”

Emet looks over the kneeling holy man. Crows feet spiderweb out from his eyes into well worn paths, tracing old channels. Deep lines folding into the leather of his human face, ripples and cracks where great emotion has marked it forever in memory. The echos of pain and joy held forever in weathered lines. Calloused rough hands scarred with the burden of much hardship dust off his knees as the holy man stands from the corpse. But no light cracks and pops fill the air as his bones settle. And he springs back from his crouch with ease, not even bothering to lean on his shepherd’s staff. The skin past his toughened hands bears much scarring and yet a youthful smoothness.

If he is not old, then he lived a life full of immeasurable hardship.

The holy man quirks his head to the side and returns Emet’s stare, “Why are you looking at me like you are reading stones in the sand?”

“Human ages are a bit difficult for elves to determine,” Emet admits.

“I am thirty-two.”

The charmer and rebel both snort.

“Nah, mate,” the rebel crosses her arms and grins, “You’re at least sixty.”

“I am not lying.”

She smiles, “Whatever, old man.”

The holy man scrubs his scrawled salt and pepper beard, gesturing off to Emet, “I am not old, he is old. Elves are always old.”

Emet concedes that with a shrug. He’s already lived more years than most of those with him could hope to ever reach and lifetimes before that.

“Yet he looks closer to thirty-two than you, old man,” the rebel continues, picking her nails with a sly grin.

“That is because he is an elf.”

“And I’m not?”

The holy man sighs.

“Ah, I’m just fucking with you, grandpa” she chuckles, “I know I’m half human.”

“You are half—what are you doing?”

The charmer barely pauses his light-fingered search of the dead boy’s pockets, finding more interest in stealing from the dead than their idle chatter. The holy man is about to admonish him further when the tiefling carelessly flips the body onto its stomach and continues his search through pockets.

The holy hand throws up a hand, all conversation on age and good looks forgotten.

“Eh! Eh! Devil boy! Respect the dead! I already took his compass if that is what you are looking for.”

The charmer ignores him, his hands continuing to wander across the ragged clothes and slipping into the pockets and folds as though it is a dance they have performed many times before. His fingers wander with a speed born of practice, seeking whatever the dead may hide. But his search is fruitless, the tiefling finding little more than a small pocket knife like used to carve the tree with its 43 tallies. He turns the small blade this way and that in his red hands, dark nails tracing the edge before pricking his thumb atop the tip. No blood flows along the blunted edge.

With one quick toss, the useless blade flies over his shoulder, “I’m a bit too far gone for respecting the dead at this point.”

The holy man frowns deeply, those ancient lines creasing in old paths. He turns away from the grim display and takes out his feather once more. Whispering more quiet words meant only for the far reaching ears of gods, the old man holds the brilliant feather out before him like a candle in the dark. After a breath, he releases the stem and watches it flutter listlessly to the wet ground. The stem settles first in the mud, its tip angling lightly toward the deadman’s path.

“I think we should go this way.”

Emet’s lips curl into a faint snarl, “How much faith do you have in that feather?”

“A lot of faith.”

“Do you honestly trust that more than the actual, factual compass you have in your other hand?” The rebel asks with no small amount of skepticism, the moment of warmth shared between them only a moment ago blowing away with the breeze.

“It has never lead me wrong, nor has my god. Besides,” the holy man tosses the tarnished bronze compass to the rebel, “this does nothing. It is broken.”

“I can’t fucking map-read,” she growls as she snatches it from the air with a loud clang as the compass hits the edge of her shield. The rebel palms the bronze and glass bauble in her hands, watching it a moment and expecting the needle to settle. But the sharp red spine continues to wobble and spin as though unsure.

Her eyes narrow, “I don’t think it’s meant to do that.”

“I have never had a compass,” the holy man shrugs, “but I did not think so.”

“Hey, poncy bloke,” the rebel looks up at Emet, “You look like you know how to use this kind of shit.”

Emet arcs a sharp brow at the nickname. In the absence of anyone having offered up their names, it was inevitable they’d all call each other something. But poncy bloke? Not exactly his first guess. Most people went with ‘giant’ or ‘tower’. He’s even heard ‘statue’.

The rebel’s arm swings out with the compass and all the world slows. Emet’s breath catches and his eyes lock on that approaching hand like a blade plummeting toward his gut. For a moment he can’t see, his vision crystalizing on that hand and blurring all the world around it as he instinctively steps away before he’s even realized what he’s done. His body moving without thought, shifting back as though about to be skewered in a fight before the moment ends and only an open palm offering a compass hangs before him.

A strange look crosses the half-elf’s face.

Emet thought he was starting to get better about this. Hand-shakes, fingers brushing when taking a drink from a server’s hands, shoulders getting bumped in a crowded tavern. All of these things he could handle with a steadying breath. But all of those things are expected touches. Expected moments that he can predict and prepare for, ready his nerves to stand firm. But the more unexpected the approach, the more he steps back into the shelter of himself like a fox cornered between stones with nowhere to run from the wolf’s shadow. And his body reacts with all it knows in that moment. Fear.

Emet shifts his blade arm deeper beneath the dark cloak draped over his shoulder, drawing attention away from the hand wrapped tightly around the glaive’s broken haft with a light cough as he forces his clenched fingers to release. He breathes, thankful he did not draw steel this time.

Acting as though nothing happened, Emet stiffly leans over when the rebel gives the compass a little shake, beckoning him to take a look. Her face immediately screws up, recoiling as though he’s some shit-faced drunk at the bar thick with the scent of whiskey and lust and offering her the best lay of her life. Emet doesn’t understand the shift in her expression a moment before he realizes he’s a very large man looming over this young woman despite the distance his previous reaction put between them. The half-elf’s discomfort is readily apparent and Emet quickly puts some space between them after a brief glance down at the compass.

“No, it’s not supposed to do that,” he says gently.

The compass disappears in one of the rebel’s belt pouches as she shuffles away from him, risking a look over to the holy man as though asking him to interpret what the hell just happened. The old man only shrugs lightly.

Everything is going wrong, that’s what happened.

He almost apologizes, but the words catch in his throat. What if doing so makes them ask why he practically jumped away from her. Those aren’t questions he’s ready to answer, so better to not give an opportunity for them to be asked.

“So we have a feather, a broken compass, and I’m hoping you’re a tracker,” Emet says to the charmer, trying to plough through and trample into dust whatever walls this disaster of a conversation brought up before anyone thinks too hard on it.

The tiefling regards him a moment before flicking away a piece of dried grass twirling between his long fingers, “I rely on instinct and I’m with the old man on this one. His dumb feather pointed to where I wanted to go anyways.”

“Thank you, young boy,” the holy man nods.

“Watch it.”

“You keep calling me ‘old man’, why can’t I call you ‘young boy’. It is better than ‘devil boy’, no?”

“You’re fair game,” the tiefling bites back, “I’m not.”

Emet pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing, “Would it not be better to call each other by our actual names instead of these substitutes.” He cuts a glance at the rebel to his side, “Creative as they are.”

The charmer scoffs, “Let’s not get sentimental.”

“First names, then.”

The holy man’s eyes widen incredulously, face scrunching as though Emet just suggested the moon is an illusion, “I only have one name. Are you supposed to have more?”

“Typically…Your name and a family name.”

The rebel murmurs something under her breath about having too many.

“That is a…weird revelation, but okay.” The holy man lifts his hand in greeting, “My name is Roshan, but you can call me ‘old man’ if you like.”

“Emet. We’ll leave it at that for now.”

Both the charmer and rebel suddenly find great interest in some moss on a tree and a particularly long strand of dried grass as Emet and Roshan’s attentions fall on them in expectant silence.

“I can just call you ‘devil boy’ and ‘lovely elf lady’ if you want,” Roshan offers.

The charmer rolls his eyes and flicks away the chunk of moss, “Evrrot. You can call me Evrrot.”

Kicking a loose stone on the ground, the rebel keeps her voice low. Perhaps hoping no one will actually hear her, “Most people call me Evie.”

Roshan nods after each one, fingers twirling in his beard as though he can tie each name to his memory, “Emet, Evrrot, Evie. Everyone is an ‘E’. That is strange, but okay.”

“So we’re done here?” Evrrot asks, “Everyone all happy with their little names?”

He walks off down the deadman’s path without waiting for an answer, abruptly ending the conversation that was more akin to pulling teeth than basic introductions. Roshan quickly follows with a grin, resuming his practice of trying to walk ahead of Evrrot, further irritating the charmer tiefling into a faster pace.

Emet and Evie watch them hastily disappear between the trees, left behind again. Realization slowly dawns on them as they share another look that this will likely be their shared fate quite often in the days ahead.

“You know,” Evie says, “I get the feeling that wherever we go, we’re gonna end up in the same place anyways.”

“As do I,” Emet sighs.

“We could just keep following this muddy slop road and they’d probably end up right behind us.” She shrugs, “We could just go.”

“Tempting, though I get the feeling we shouldn’t be separating in a place like this.” He glances around the dark and silent forest pointedly, the mists shifting into strange shapes and shadows in the distance.

“Mmm, probably right,” she groans. “Come on then.”

Evie ushers Emet ahead of her and they follow the already fading silhouettes of Evrrot and Roshan. Both still vie for who gets to lead without there ever being a winner. Though from the near permanent curl to the old human’s lips, Emet suspects Roshan takes the game itself as a win.

The arrow carved into the tree above forty-three sharp tallies—every slash bearing down harder than the last, the groupings becoming more sporadic and wild, telling a tale of madness and desperation—points them down a narrow footpath. The trail is thin, quickly forcing them into a line as the trees and brush crowd in eagerly to either side. Branches reaching out to snag on their clothes and boots sinking in the thick slosh of earth. Roshan and Evrrot are forced to relinquish their game of footsie. ‘Devil boy’ comes out on top as he slips ahead of the holy man through a rather narrow bend where two barren trees crowd as desperately close as lovers in a storm. Despite the loss, Roshan casts a secret little amused grin toward him and Evie. A promise their game is far from over.

Though the scent of decay and rot gradually gave way to bitterly sharp winter air as they walked beyond the corpse along the road, it returns again, thick as ever in their lungs and threatening to make them choke. Ahead, an eerily similar tree with another forty-three tallies looms near the path with a bowed back, its branches nearly sweeping the dried grasses. Another arrow continues to point further down the path. But it’s the second body that makes this repetition unsettling, a shiver passing through their bones as though someone walked over their graves.

A bulking husk, ribs splayed open in grim offering to the meal of its soft blackened innards spills out across the path. Bloated gases wafting from the entrails with fresh release as though only recently released from the prison of bone. A half eaten yawning skull grins up at them through the sinew of the face it once wore, hooves splayed out in deep grooves as though the beast tried to keep running until the very moment of death. The rotting horse rests on its side, never to rise again.

Evrrot studies the body from a good distance where the smell is not quite so overwhelming. Emet notes he doesn’t pinch his nose from the stench as though it is one he well accustomed to. In fact, none of them do. An odd revelation, but one Emet isn’t yet sure of what it means. His own line of work often sent him delving into crypts and left him covered in the rot of decay for hours before he could finally scrub it off. But the average person does not easily handle such a scent without practice. The newest recruits to the order often went on several missions before they could stand it without bile filling their throats. His own first experience left him nauseated for days and unable to keep anything more than light broth down.

Evrrot steps over the splayed hooves, “Alright, so that dead guy was on this horse obviously. Probably riding away from whatever settlement is down the path. His horse dies, he goes on foot, and then he dies.”

“Or the other way around,” Evie counters, “Horse could’ve thrown him, then the horse went and died.”

Roshan hops lightly over the body, kneeling by the tree with a dagger of his own and carving a new tally to the set, “Maybe he was carrying the horse,” the old man offers sagely, “He was very tired.”

All eyes turn on him and Roshan simply grins.

With the tally carved, Evrrot quickly jumps ahead of the holy man and presses the group further down the pointed path. Emet steps carefully over the corpse, glancing back at Evie to see if she desires a hand. But the half elf stares off behind them, unawares. The path they’ve walked is already half swallowed by mist, the large wagon trail long gone from view. She twists back with a sigh, face quickly shifting as she gives him a glare to move. They continue on.

Eerie becomes troubling when the path leads to a third tree with the same forty-three tallies and another arrow. The lack of a corpse this time does little to alleviate the hook twisting in Emet’s stomach. It lifts and snarls his insides, not in pain, but in anticipation. Anticipation of the moment it will all go wrong.

This is what it felt like that day. The day he should’ve listened to his instincts.

The arrow points to a swallowed path. All sign of trail and trees vanish behind a solid wall of fog so thick Emet cannot see even a glimpse of what lies beyond. It bisect everything perfectly, trees ending abruptly as though severed by blade. As though a curtain were drawn across the land on a giant stage. The line the mist cuts across the path is unnaturally defined, too sharp and perfect and to be natural, yet permeable as proven by the grasses swaying in and out, vanishing instantly on the other side, yet returning again.

The foreboding hook twists deeper with the echo of Emet’s past. Of dark crypts and silent darkness, a day that started in laughter and ended in screams. Blood spilled beneath the sickening brightness of beautiful sunny day, the color forever tainted in red. They should’ve stayed on the well-worn wagon path. They never should have cut through these godforsaken woods. His instincts tell him to turn back now, but going back on his own still seems a far more foolish idea in these unknown lands.

Emet steels himself. A chilled touch settles over his shoulder. If the self-chosen leaders get him killed—if they ruin what he’s given everything for—Emet will never allow them a moment’s peace. Not in this life or the next. He already knows Kelemvor will never collect his twice damned soul. Not after what he did. So he’ll have all the time in eternity’s glass to make good on his vow. Maybe this one he’ll keep.

“This repetition is how the kid died.” He glares at the severed path, “We’re going in circles.”

“This isn’t the same as the last tree,” Evie says, “The old guy put an extra mark in that one. Plus, no dead things.”

“Not yet.”

But Emet suspects they will pass that tree again and the horse one beyond. And if his instinct proves right, they will do so again and again until they too die of exhaustion, carving tallies into trees until they can carve no more. There’s madness here and he’ll be damned if it catches him off guard. But the dead kid probably thought the same thing. Now he rots with a skeletal finger ever reaching for the path that killed him. A warning they did not heed.

The wall looms before them, vast and endless until it vanishes into the grey of the skies. Tendrils of thick mist swirl and twist like eels against the edges, unseen bodies pressing against the glass but never breaking through. The snaking, winding movement is almost hypnotic in the terrible silence.

Evie’s eyes narrow, “Anyone else think this fog is fucky?”

“Yes,” Emet and Roshan answer in unison.

The holy man taps his staff, warm dawns light spreading across the wood like honey. Though it glows in the deep reds and oranges of the morning sun, the light does little to chase away the sickly grey of this place.

He nods satisfied, “But this is the path, so let’s go.”

Emet blanches as Roshan lifts his shepherd’s crook and presses toward the wall of fog without another thought. He vanishes instantly. Whatever god this holy man follows, Emet hopes they have as much faith in their followers as Roshan does in them because this is about as foolish as sticking your hand in a nesting viper’s den and trusting it will not bite.

Evrrot—never more than a half step behind the holy man—strolls past the moon elf as casually and carelessly as choosing a garden path to stroll, vanishing almost instantly behind the old human. Not even a shadow is left to hint at their passing.

Emet stands speechless, too shocked to believe what he’s just seen.

The words finally come to him, “Well, fuck.”

#curse of strahd #dnd fic #strahd von zarovich #barovia #dark fantasy #gothic fantasy #gothic fiction #adventure fiction #fantasy fiction #fiction #fiction writing #my fiction #my writing #creative writing #writeblr #writers on tumblr #Tales of No One

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shyambhaviseo · 5 days ago

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Subtle integration of lighting such as hidden LED strips.

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A modern bedroom pop design can make the room feel fresh, clean, and spacious. It complements a variety of interior themes, whether you prefer Scandinavian, minimalist, or industrial decor. For modern design lovers, Toskie connects you to professional designers who specialize in creating these sleek and innovative designs.

2. Royal Pop Design for Bedroom

A royal pop design for bedroom is perfect for those who want to infuse their room with elegance and opulence. Inspired by regal palace interiors, these designs feature intricate detailing, elaborate moldings, and ornate decorations. It brings the feel of royalty right into your bedroom.

Characteristics:

Use of luxurious materials such as gold or silver leaf, intricate moldings, and decorative borders.

Ornate detailing such as floral patterns, crowns, or arches.

Elegant lighting elements such as crystal chandeliers or antique-style lamps.

Rich color schemes with tones of deep gold, royal blue, burgundy, or cream.

A royal pop design for bedroom can turn your bedroom into a majestic haven, giving it the feel of a king or queen’s quarters. If you want your bedroom to reflect opulence and grandeur, this design style is the way to go.

3. Luxury Pop Design for Bedroom

For those seeking ultimate comfort and elegance, a luxury pop design for bedroom is an ideal choice. Luxury ceilings are often a blend of classic beauty and modern elements. They combine rich textures, high-end materials, and sophisticated lighting to create a room that feels both cozy and extravagant.

Characteristics:

Premium materials like plaster, fiberboard, and gypsum.

Integrated lighting features like recessed lights, hidden LED strips, or dimmable options.

Artistic, sculptural elements that enhance the beauty of the ceiling.

High ceilings, with creative use of height for a more dramatic effect.

Luxury pop ceiling designs for bedroom often focus on creating a sense of space, light, and comfort. They are best suited for larger rooms or those looking to make a bold statement. Toskie allows you to connect with designers who specialize in these high-end designs, ensuring that your bedroom gets the luxurious treatment it deserves.

How Toskie Helps You Find the Perfect Pop Ceiling Design

With Toskie, finding the right professional for your pop ceiling design for bedroom has never been easier. Toskie is an online platform that helps you connect with reliable service providers for home improvement projects, including pop ceiling installation. Here’s how Toskie can guide you in your search for the perfect designer for your modern bedroom pop design, royal pop design for bedroom, or luxury pop design for bedroom.

1. Browse a Wide Range of Services

Toskie is home to a wide variety of interior designers, decorators, and contractors specializing in ceiling design. By simply entering your requirements—such as location, style preferences, and budget—you can browse through multiple service providers who can help you create your dream ceiling.

2. View Designer Portfolios and Reviews

Each designer or service provider on Toskie has a detailed portfolio showcasing their previous work. This allows you to see examples of their design styles, craftsmanship, and expertise. You can also read customer reviews to get a better understanding of the provider's reliability, quality of work, and customer service.

3. Get Customized Quotes

Toskie allows you to request quotes from multiple service providers, helping you compare prices, designs, and timelines. This enables you to make an informed decision based on your specific needs and budget.

4. Book Appointments and Schedule Projects

Once you’ve selected the perfect designer for your pop ceiling design for bedroom, Toskie makes it easy to book appointments and coordinate project timelines. You can discuss your ideas in detail, allowing the designer to create a personalized plan that matches your vision.

Conclusion: Transform Your Bedroom with Toskie’s Expertise

A well-executed pop ceiling design for bedroom can turn your ordinary room into an extraordinary sanctuary. Whether you're looking for a modern bedroom pop design, a royal pop design for bedroom, or a luxury pop design for bedroom, Toskie is the platform that connects you to the finest professionals who can bring your vision to life.

By choosing Toskie, you get access to top-rated designers who specialize in crafting intricate, elegant, and modern ceilings that not only enhance the beauty of your bedroom but also increase the functionality of the space. The best pop design for bedroom is waiting for you, and Toskie is here to help you find the perfect professional to make it a reality.

Start your journey today and explore the endless possibilities for your bedroom ceiling transformation. With Toskie, the ceiling of your dreams is just a few clicks away!

#pop ceiling design for bedroom #best pop design for bedroom #modern bedroom pop design

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starseedfxofficial · 1 month ago

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Crack the Weekly Forex Code with Reinforcement Learning The Secret Sauce to Trading Success: Weekly Timeframe + Reinforcement Learning Have you ever felt like your Forex trading strategy was missing that special something? Like you’re following every rule, yet your profits resemble a low-budget sequel—predictable and uninspiring? If so, it’s time to stop chasing pip-sized dreams and start thinking like a quantum physicist on a caffeine high. Enter the game-changing duo: Weekly Timeframe analysis powered by Reinforcement Learning Models. This advanced cocktail of precision and AI smarts will not only shake up your trading approach but will also make your weekend coffee chats with fellow traders infinitely more interesting. Let’s break it down. Why Weekly Timeframe? Because Patience Isn’t Just a Virtue—It’s a Strategy Let’s start with a classic trader mistake: obsessing over 5-minute charts like they hold the secrets to life’s mysteries. Spoiler alert: They don’t. The Weekly Timeframe, however, is like a well-aged wine—it gives you the bigger picture and eliminates the noise of intraday fluctuations. Think of the Weekly Timeframe as the Zen master of Forex charts. It teaches you to: - Spot Long-Term Trends: Weekly charts smooth out the chaotic ups and downs of lower timeframes. They’re like noise-canceling headphones for your trading brain. - Identify Key Levels with Precision: Support and resistance zones on weekly charts act like magnetic fields for price action. They’re more reliable than the weather forecast (and certainly more accurate than your horoscope). - Avoid Overtrading: Trading less often reduces emotional decision-making. Plus, who doesn’t love having fewer reasons to panic-check their phone at 3 AM? But here’s where it gets spicy. Pair this Zen-like focus with the analytical firepower of Reinforcement Learning Models, and you’ve got yourself a trading strategy that’ll make even Wall Street veterans raise an eyebrow. Reinforcement Learning Models: Your Personal Trading AI Sidekick Imagine if Tony Stark built an AI specifically for Forex. Reinforcement Learning (RL) is like Jarvis, but instead of managing a superhero’s suit, it optimizes your trading performance. In case you’re not an AI nerd, here’s the TL;DR: RL is a type of machine learning where an agent learns to make decisions by interacting with an environment. In Forex terms: - The Agent: Your AI model. - The Environment: The Forex market (duh). - The Reward: Profit, baby! RL models can: - Learn from Historical Data: By simulating countless trades on past data, RL models identify patterns that human eyes would miss. - Adapt to Changing Market Conditions: Unlike rigid algorithms, RL models evolve with the market, making them perfect for dynamic environments like Forex. - Optimize Risk-Reward Ratios: They’re programmed to prioritize strategies that maximize gains while minimizing losses. Think of them as your risk-averse yet opportunistic best friend. Where the Magic Happens: Combining Weekly Timeframes with RL Models Here’s the juicy part. Using RL models to analyze Weekly Timeframes is like combining peanut butter and chocolate—individually great, but together? Pure magic. Step 1: Define Your Parameters Before letting your RL model loose, decide what you want it to focus on. For Weekly Timeframes, this could include: - Identifying weekly support and resistance zones. - Calculating the average true range (ATR) for volatility insights. - Analyzing candlestick patterns for trend reversals. Step 2: Train Your Model Feed your RL model historical data from Weekly charts. Pro tip: Include data from different market conditions (bullish, bearish, and ranging markets) to make your model robust. Step 3: Backtest and Refine Test the model’s performance on out-of-sample data. This step is critical for avoiding the dreaded overfitting, which is the AI equivalent of being too smart for your own good. Step 4: Deploy and Monitor Once your model starts generating signals, cross-check them with your human intuition and the Weekly Timeframe analysis. Remember, AI is a tool, not a crystal ball. Real-World Example: How One Trader Nailed It Meet Alex, a mid-level Forex trader tired of inconsistent results. By combining Weekly Timeframe analysis with a basic RL model, Alex: - Spotted a bullish breakout on EUR/USD that traditional indicators missed. - Set a stop-loss based on weekly ATR, reducing risk by 30%. - Achieved a 20% ROI in three months by sticking to AI-generated signals. According to Alex: “It’s like having a cheat sheet for the market, except it’s 100% legal and 1000% smarter than me.” Common Pitfalls and How to Dodge Them Like a Pro - Over-Reliance on AI: Don’t treat your RL model as gospel. Use it alongside your own analysis. - Ignoring Fundamental Analysis: Weekly Timeframes and RL models thrive on technical data, but fundamentals like economic reports still matter. - Poor Data Quality: Garbage in, garbage out. Ensure your historical data is clean and comprehensive. Game-Changing Tools to Elevate Your Strategy Ready to take your trading to the next level? These resources can supercharge your journey: - Forex News Today: Stay updated with real-time market movers at StarseedFX Forex News. - Free Forex Courses: Master advanced methodologies at StarseedFX Courses. - Smart Trading Tool: Automate your lot size calculations with this nifty gadget at StarseedFX Tools. Stop Guessing, Start Strategizing The Weekly Timeframe and Reinforcement Learning combo is not just a strategy; it’s a revelation. It’s the difference between throwing darts at a price chart and executing trades with laser-like precision. So why settle for mediocrity when you can trade smarter and sleep better? Try it out, and who knows? Your next trade might just be the plot twist your portfolio’s been waiting for. —————– Image Credits: Cover image at the top is AI-generated Read the full article

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urbanrise · 9 months ago

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Welcome to Urbanrise Paradise On Earth: Your Entryway to Luxurious Living

Discover Urbanrise Paradise On Earth, a unique pre-launch premium villa development situated in the vibrant heart of one of Bangalore's most desirable residential areas, Kanakapura Road. Urbanrise spanning 24 acres, this upscale project offers a selection of sophisticated 3 BHK, 4 BHK, and 5 BHK villas.

Exclusive Pre-Launch Pricing:

Urbanrise Bangalore presents a special opportunity to take advantage of our Exclusive Pre-Launch pricing for the 4 BHK units. With sizes ranging from 2472 to 3009 square feet, prices range from RS. 2.88 Cr to RS. 3.61 Cr.

Prime Location:

Located in the peaceful landscapes of South Bangalore, Urbanrise City with Infinite Life is a sanctuary of tranquility while also offering easy access to tech parks and IT hubs. This makes it a perfect option for both homebuyers and investors. The area is well-known for its residential developments and its proximity to numerous amenities.

Urbanrise Whitefield, a prominent name in the real estate industry, is leading the way with this ambitious project, recognized for its groundbreaking innovations and iconic expansions. Our commitment to designing exquisite homes with modern architecture and cutting-edge features distinguishes us in the market.

Unmatched Connectivity:

Conveniently located in South Bangalore, Urbanrise Kanakapyra Road is designed to provide smooth access to essential services and robust transportation networks. Its strategic position allows for quick travel to all major destinations within Bangalore. The Urbanrise is ongoing extension of the Namma Metro line from Puttenahalli to Anjanapura via Kanakapura Road boosts connectivity, making this development an even more appealing choice.

Experience the epitome of opulence at Urbanrise Paradise On Earth, where modernity meets comfort, and dreams are realized. Welcome to a world of convenience, elegance, and unmatched sophistication. This is your home, where every moment feels like a new beginning.

#urbanrise whitefield #urbanrise bangalore #urbanrise city with infinite life #urbanrise housing #urbanrise

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dolcevalentinaofficial · 1 year ago

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Baby Bangles: Tiny Treasures That Sparkle with Love and Joy

The arrival of a newborn is a joyous occasion, and a thoughtful gift can help celebrate the special milestone. Baby bangles are a popular choice for new parents, as they are a symbol of love, protection, and hope.

The Enchantment of Baby Bangles

A Symbol of Infinite Love: Baby bangles are a way to show the new baby how much they are loved and cherished. They are a physical representation of the bond between parent and child, and they can be passed down from generation to generation.

Tiny Treasures with Lifelong Stories: Baby bangles can also be a way to commemorate special moments in the child's life. They can be worn on the day of the child's christening, first birthday, or graduation. As the child grows, the bangle will become a cherished keepsake that reminds them of the love and support they have always received.

Versatile and Timeless: Baby bangles can be worn for any occasion. They can be dressed up or down, and they can be worn with any outfit. Their timeless design means that they will never go out of style.

Styles That Steal Hearts

Classic Elegance: Traditional baby bangles are made from precious metals such as gold, silver, or platinum. They often feature delicate engravings or simple designs.

Personalized Wonders: Personalized baby bangles are a unique way to show the child how much they are loved. The bangle can be engraved with the child's name, birthdate, or a special message.

Charm-Filled Dreams: Charm bracelet bangles are a fun and creative way to celebrate the child's unique personality. The bangle can be adorned with charms that represent the child's interests, hobbies, or milestones.

Choosing the Enchanting Baby Bangle

Material Magic: The material of the baby bangle is an important consideration. Precious metals such as gold and silver are durable and will last for many years. Stainless steel is a more affordable option that is also tarnish-resistant.

The Perfect Fit: It is important to choose a baby bangle that fits snugly but comfortably on the child's wrist. Many bangles come with adjustable sizing features.

Safety First: Safety is always a top priority when choosing a baby bangle. The bangle should have smooth edges and a secure closure to prevent it from falling off.

Conclusion

Baby bangles are a beautiful and meaningful way to celebrate the arrival of a new baby. They are a symbol of love, protection, and hope, and they will be cherished by the child for many years to come.

#dolcevalentina #baby bangles #protection #hope #new baby #gift #milestone #christening #first birthday #graduation #precious metals #stainless steel #adjustable sizing #smooth edges #secure closure #personalized #engraving

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cosmictapestry · 2 years ago

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when i’m writing lucienne i’m like, writing someone who has achieved Perfect Immortality. like, an infinite existence that she has found total contentment in. the polar opposite of the Gone Mad With Eternity archetype. time has smoothed out all the roughness from her. her love of stories and the art of telling them has become her purpose. she has lived through a million tragedies and come out the other side without so much as a fissure because she lets herself feel everything, experience everything, heal from everything. because she, like dream, is a being MADE of story, though she’s more a vessel where he’s more a conduit. the core traits she’s retained from her mortality—the poise, the humor, the curiosity, the wicked intelligence—are just about the only things that haven’t changed because she doesn’t MIND change. she’ll change a thousand times more before all’s said and done. she’s at peace with time. she’s also very horny

#sorry i’m having Feelings i love her so so so so so much #the sandman #lucienne #we divinity

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jaetaimjadore · 3 years ago

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You Watched

Pairing: reader x Jaehyun Genre: Angst, lovers-to-friends!AU, unrequited pining from reader, Word Count: 0.7k a/n: Just something I whipped up in 10 minutes deep in my Jaehyun feels (also the first work I’ve ever written EVER, but we don’t talk about that). Inspired by his I Like Me Better cover.

“Here looks perfect.” Jaehyun nods his head to the side.

You turn in the same direction, awestruck by the stunning view you’d somehow managed to ignore being stuck in your own thoughts.

Allowing your feet to hold you still on the smooth walkway beneath you, fully bearing yourself to the panorama, you sigh, eyes lighting up with a thousand unsaid emotions. “Wow.” You breath, captivated by the scene before you, where the coral-tipped clouds delicately kiss the apex of each skyscraper, the colossal city reflecting in blurred ripples among the warm salty ocean waves.

It’s, no doubt, a scene from your dreams. Picture perfect; a beautiful cascade of blinding city lights and soothing pastels, all somehow twisting perfectly together into one mesmerising frame.

You feel a wave of goosebumps rush over your skin as a small breeze whispers its way through your hair, and look up at Jaehyun. He now stands merely a foot away beside you, also bearing himself to the view alongside your still frame, small dents etching into his cheeks as he smiles softy up at the sight.

You watch Jaehyun’s eyes silently as the city prepares itself for the night; watch as the shadows of his eyelashes fade away from his cheeks with the setting sun, as each tiny light within each window begins to reflect in those beautiful orbs, twinkling like newborn stars among the growing darkness of the evening.

And it’s at this moment that you’re reminded the city is not all that captivating compared to the man standing right beside you.

But you frown.

Because you know you can’t have him.

You're reminded of this as everything starts flooding back again, the rush of memories overwhelming you like a ice cold shower.

All the shared drinks and foamy lips.

All the Polaroids and shy smiles.

The secret glances and knowing thoughts.

The loving touches and infinite nights.

All the memories.

But they truly are just that, aren’t they?

Memories.

For, way back when - during a time when coffee no longer became a joint morning commute, when hands stopped searching each other for comfort - you simply stood in place and watched as your true love sealed his heart away to another.

You watched.

That’s who you were…and quite possibly who you are now; too afraid to take a chance at true happiness as long as the possibility remained that Jaehyun may one day slip from your arms altogether.

And it hurts.

“I knew you’d like it.” He speaks softly, the sweet cadence pulling you out from your drowning thoughts.

You almost wonder if it’s the phantom of your memories that speaks to you in this moment, doing nothing but blinking up towards the tallest building in front of you, gaze concentrating all too firmly at its peak as if to anchor yourself…to anchor your mind, the memories, the emotions and unsaid words.

But as your eyes silently flicker downwards, the glare of sparkling water serves as a reminder that everything is all too real.

Not a phantom, but a presence.

And it's all too real.

In your periphery you see the subtle movement of Jaehyun’s head turning to look at you.

You all but steal a quick glance at him, but manage to take note of the way all the worlds’ richest diamonds make a home in those sparkling city eyes, how his hair flows as if it were silk in the ongoing breeze, how his smile could never have been more peaceful than it is now.

Surely you must have missed something. Was there not an ounce of pain hidden in those divine features? No sign of regret?

Desperate for an answer, you look back at him as he once again gazes ahead.

Nothing.

You see nothing.

You’re not sure how much more you can take as a brief pain courses through your chest at the sight of him.

Still, you muster a smile.

“Right yet again, Jae.”

You feel like crying as his smile widens.

So you turn back to the skyline and mask your feelings with a long sigh, watching the city fade away into the night sky.

You simply stood in place...and watched.

#jaehyun drabbles #jaehyun fanfic #jung jaehyun imagines #jaehyun fanfiction #jung jaehyun angst #jaehyun angst #nct drabbles #jung jaehyun #jaehyun fic #jaehyun imagines #jaehyun x reader #jaehyun scenarios #nct jaehyun #jaehyun au #jung jaehyun x reader #my fics #my drabbles

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infinitewarden · 3 years ago

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Okay I'm going to phrase this in a more coherent manner than I did on my main.

So we all know that weapon names often reflect the loretabs that come with them and I've been wracking my brain for the past two weeks on why "Wolftone Draw" would be connected in any way to the tab about Osiris's perspective while he's trapped elsewhere.

Then I realized it was a musical term. A "wolf tone".

A wolf tone, or simply a "wolf", is a sustaining sympathetic artificial overtone that amplifies and expands the frequencies of a played musical note. It is produced when the pitch of the played note is close to a natural resonant frequency of the body of the musical instrument. A wolf tone is frequently accompanied by an oscillating beating (due to the uneven frequencies between the natural note and artificial overtone), which may be likened to the howling of a wolf.

Wikipedia

For those who have trouble picturing what that may sound like here's a video: (That also explains it a bit more clear than wikipedia does.)

youtube

Wolfs are inherent to stringed instruments, and they aren't necessarily always bad. They're considered flaws but it's possible to work around them. Let's connect this back to the Traveler.

We know that the Light isn't perfect, we know that the Traveler isn't perfect. In fact, the one who first seems to come to this conclusion (from what we know of) is Osiris.

"Oh. Let him go." Osiris releases. The Ghost dissipates. "Sagira?" "He needed someone strong. A fighter." "Nothing more?" Sagira pauses. "The Traveler was… wounded when it created us. That pain echoes. Some of us make choices we shouldn't. Some of us are scared. The process isn't streamlined." "Flaws." Osiris shrinks against the forest's aphotic density. If there are flaws in the Light, then it could be corrupted. It is not indomitable, and so in time would be challenged. "We're pieces of a whole, but distinct. Unique. You're not Mr. Perfect yourself." He would need to learn patience.

5: Moths to a Flame Part II

Hmmm....

We also know that music is... inherent to Destiny's narrative. There's even the connection between Osiris pursuing the tones Vance discovered with the Lighthouses. How does Vance describe the tones?

There was a hum; the timbre consisted of two distinct resonating tones—one smooth and warm, the other sharp and cold.

Chapter 4: Reflections

A resonating tone... a wolf tone is often described as just that.

Now... what exactly does a wolf have to do with Osiris?

There's more than one meaning that can be drawn from this as well. We all are aware (or at least most of us are) of the Traveler's connection with wolves. From being called Alpha Lupi to even the vision Clovis Bray had of the Traveler speaking to him as a wolf.

At this point it's become a bit of a meme for me but... I believe that Osiris is connected to the Traveler in ways we have yet to see. A couple weeks ago I drew upon a parallel between Wolftone Draw and Dreams of Alpha Lupi

Very little was left, you are sure, because you feel insignificant now. The hard slick heart of your soul: That is what remains. A body small as a river stone, and just as simple. You picture yourself as a piece of indigestible grit, a nameless nothing hiding among other nameless stones. Perhaps you glitter like a gem, yes. Pride makes you hope so. If only you could see yourself. But you have no eyes. Not the dimmest sense survives. What lives is memory, and what slim portion of these thoughts can you trust? The knife stole much more than your body.

Ghost Fragment: The Traveler 3

The slithering dark is cold against my face. I cannot speak, cannot breathe, I reach for Sagira but then I remember… I form a fist but feel nothing, I am bound, and as I thrash the images cut fissures through my mind— Someone… the Awoken prince? He helps me to my feet… but still I struggle in the dark, and now SHE is standing, thanking him, but she uses my voice, MY voice— She has stolen my form, my voice, but someone will see my failure and cast her out… they MUST— ... I am weeping but I cannot weep. I am nothing, only heat and hate, only sickness and shame.

Wolftone Draw

Do you see the similarities?

And at this point I'm sure you've all heard me say the phrase "here's how Speaker Osiris can still win" at least once but... I truly believe that there is more than we realize happening between Osiris and the Traveler.

Osiris's Light was... honestly incredibly strange in comparison to literally everyone else's Light. From making reflections and echoes to all of his elemental Light abilities even outside of Solar Light being gold. It's STRANGE, and he has often had a strange sort of... wisdom and knowledge that seems to often reflect the Traveler's.

Here's an example:

“The best voices,” she said, with infinite grief and unending hope, “never let themselves be heard at all. This lesson is worth teaching again and again. The choice is never mine. It is always yours.”

Clovis Bray's Logbook — Missing Pages: Third Vision

You must say just enough so that the few who can listen will hear. I have done all I can. The rest is up to you. You must trust in me. You must trust in yourself.

Future Safe 10

(As a side, I think it's important to note the prophecy in Future Safe 10.

See who's robed as if a god, who stands with pride above the rest! Destroy this ancient nameless fraud! Destroy the one whose death was blessed!

hmmmm)

So yeah. Uhhh. TL;DR Wolftone Draw has a double meaning: one in its musical meaning and another in its connection to wolves that the Traveler has and it's Totally all connected.

#lore.exe #theus.exe #osiris #destiny osiris #osiris destiny #this is all speculation btw #well most of it is #the stuff about what a wolf tone is true LKFJALSKDFJ #Youtube

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featherymalignancy · 4 years ago

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How About a Hug, Hm? REMIX

So a few days ago I got this ask about my Elriel one-shot “How About A Hug?” because I messed up the formatting and I you basically have to to read it as a reblog. I also was really unsatisfied with the end result.

So, I did the most Feathery™️ thing every and REWROTE THE WHOLE GODDAMN THING.

Please enjoy, and know that I will go back and tag people/clean up formatting tomorrow. Right now I just need to post and 😴

——————————————————

Elain Archeron was running late.

Granted, it was only by seven minutes, which—in many social circles—was still considered well within the accepted boundaries of punctuality.

The problem was that a) being late made Elain anxious, and b) there was absolutely nothing polite about Nesta Archeron when she was made to wait, even by her own kin.

Yet another reason it had been critical that Elain arrive on time: Nesta was already likely to be somewhat hacked off when she saw what Elain was wearing tonight, and Elain had hoped to avoid any further dramatics on her elder sister’s part.

She spent half the cab ride downtown trying to convince herself that it was fine that she’d borrowed something out of Nesta’s closet (even if it had been without permission) and that she hadn’t had a choice; she simply didn’t own anything appropriate for dinner at a four-star restaurant. However, by the time the cab slithered under Trump Tower’s unsavory shadow and into Hell’s Kitchen, she’d given up pretending.

The truth was she had half a dozen cocktail dresses that would have been perfectly suitable for dinner in the West Village, even if the place they were going was one of the nicest sushi restaurants in the city. No, Elain had raided Nesta’s closet for a far more embarrassing reason: she’d been in search of a dress she hoped might finally win her Azriel’s attention.

She wasn’t proud of the absurd crush she had on the guy, but it really couldn’t be helped. He was gorgeous, and smart, and darkly funny when he wanted to be, and she’d been secretly mooning over him since they’d met through Feyre’s fiancée three years ago. God, what she wouldn’t give to have him return even a fraction of her feelings.

Apparently not her dignity, Elain thought with a glance down at her neckline.

The worst part was that Azriel seemed oblivious to her interest in him. He was always polite to her, always made a point to talk to her when he caught her hiding out on the balcony during one of Feyre and Rhys’s crazy parties or sit next to her at their big family dinners, but he’d never once given her any indication that he was in any way that he reciprocated her feelings, which should have been reason enough for Elain to pack it in and stop harassing him.

And that was to say nothing of Mor.

Mor was the friend who’d first introduced Feyre and Rhys, and from what Elain could gather, she and Azriel had a long and complicated history. It didn’t seem to matter that Mor had been dating the same girl for over a year now. When she was in the room, Az’s eyes were always on her. Not that Elain blamed him—Mor was gorgeous in a way girls like her could only dream of being. Still, there was no denying the sting of watching the guy you were interested in pine over someone else.

Given all this, Elain wasn’t really sure why she’d gone to such lengths to dress up for this dinner. Mor would surely be there wearing something incredible and couture, thereby rendering everyone else invisible to Azriel. Still, Elain was a hopeless optimist, and she’d stubbornly sold herself on the idea that if she found the perfect dress, she could finally convince Azriel that she was a woman worthy of affection, rather than Nesta’s bookish, boring little sister.

She had to admit, there was nothing bookish about her tonight. The dress was tighter on her that it was her waifish sister, and dear god it deserved a Medal of Honor for the way it managed to keep her boobs looking so perky even without a bra. She didn’t suppose Nesta would be too happy about that bit, either, so she could only hope her sister was in a good mood by the time Elain arrived.

Just then Elain’s phone buzzed, and she looked down at it and groaned. It was from Nesta.

Where the 🤬 are you?

Running late, Elain quickly typed back. Is everyone waiting?

She watched the gray ellipsis pulse at Nesta responded.

Feyre and Rhys aren’t even fucking here yet. But hurry up, Cash is already driving me insane.

Elain rolled her eyes. She wasn’t sure who Nesta thought she was fooling when she and Elain shared a bedroom wall. Nesta and Cassian, Rhys’s other best friend, ended up banging almost every time they saw each other, which—since Rhys and Feyre had gotten engaged four months ago—was fairly frequently. In fact, Cash was at their apartment making Nesta scream so often that Elain had been forced to invest in earplugs and a sound machine. From Elain’s perspective, it seemed rather pointless of Nesta to pretend she wasn’t completely hot of a guy she called “Daddy” in bed.

Elain shuddered at the thought, hoping that Nesta would end up going to Cash and Az’s loft in Williamsburg tonight instead. Though, she realized glumly, they only ever seemed to go there when Azriel was out, and the only person who seemed able to keep Azriel out later than Cash was Mor. That meant Elain’s options were either to pop an Ambien and hope for the best, or stay out and watch Az make moon eyes at Mor all night. Neither one was particularly appearing.

Elain ignored Nesta’s text as the car pulled up outside the restaurant and she wiggled out, smoothing the back of her tight dress before giving her curls what she hoped was an artful tousle before slipping inside.

Elain’s heart felt into her stomach as she took in the elegant but understated interior of the famed Sushi Nakazawa. Given the prices, she’d assumed the place would be all black granite and swanky chandeliers—the kind of place cleavage like hers wouldn’t seem out of place. Instead the place was elegantly spare and distressingly well-lit. God, she was such a prize idiot.

Unfortunately, she was also out of time, because a quick survey of the interior found that her group was already gathered at the bar, Mor, Feyre, and Rhys having showed up in the interim between Nesta’s text and Elain’s arrival.

Elain’s eyes went to Mor first, who stunned in a cardinal red lace and net sheath. It clung to her frame like it had been made for her, and despite a latent jealous she couldn’t quite contain, she was relieved to find that she at least wouldn’t look overdressed.

Elain’s stomach only wended in a tighter knot when Mor’s eyes fell on her and lit up, a reminder that not only was Mor prettier, she was also an infinitely better person than Elain.

“There she is!” Mor beamed, coming forward and hugging Elain. “I love that dress, Ellie!”

Elain braced herself for Nesta’s inevitably remark, but it was actually Cash who reacted first.

He’d opened his mouth to comment seemingly before he’d actually looked at Elain, because the second he realized what exactly she was wearing, his eyes they snapped the ceiling, as if looking at her chest directly might turn him to stone.

“Whoa, El, all dressed up tonight!”

Nesta, wholly unmoved by his attempted chivalry, elbowed him in the ribs.

“Don’t be vulgar Cassian!” She snarled before narrowing her eyes. “And that’s mine!”

Cash smirked, seeming more at ease now that Nesta was his target.

“I knew I’d seen that bef—ow! Goddamnit woman, what was that for?”

He scowled down at the dangerous stiletto Nesta had just jammed into his toe box.

“Sorry,” she cast over her shoulder, not deigning to look at him. “Did I accidentally step on your foot?”

“I’m an adult,” Elain interjected, cheeks burning as she faced her sister down. “Stop acting like I’ve fourteen and stuffing my bra.”

“They’re just boobs, Nes,” Rhys added, arm slung over Feyre’s shoulder. “Relax.”

“Watch it,” Nesta warned him, but Feyre only laughed.

“I agree!” She said, turning to smile at Elain. “And I think they look amazing.”

“If I’d have known they were going to be such a topic of conversation,” Elain mumbled, grateful Azriel wasn’t here to witness this circus. “I would have worn something else.”

“No, I’m with Feyre,” Mor said, wicked grin forming. “Breasts that nice deserve to be shown off.”

Elain wasn’t so humble that she didn’t feel herself preening a bit at that comment, even if she was still flustered by the prolonged attention. Either way, she was grateful when Cash interrupted with a somewhat sheepish laugh.

“Teenage me would be furious if he heard me say this, but can we please stop talking about boobs?”

“Elain’s boobs or just any boobs?” Feyre said with a smirk.

However, before Elain could admonish her for it, Feyre was crushing her into a hug.

“Hey you,” she said, wrapping her arms and Elain’s neck and whispering in her ear, “let me and Rhys know if you wanna stay at our place tonight; Cash already grabbed Nesta’s ass twice when she thought we weren’t looking.”

Feyre indicated the mirror behind the bar with her eyes as they pulled away, and sure enough, Elain watched Cash’s hand as it drew lazy, dangerous circles just above the swell of Nesta’s well-formed behind.

Elain groaned, hugging Rhys now as well. God , her sister was such a hypocrite sometimes.

Ignoring a lingering twinge of annoyance, Elain forced herself to glance in false realization before casually asking, “So where’s the Birthday Boy?”

“He was on his phone out back,” Rhys said, before raising a hand in greeting to someone over Elain’s shoulder. “There he is.”

Elain tried not to look to eager as she turned and drank in all six feet four inches of perfection that was Azriel Macar. He was dressed all in black, from his prada boots to the soft, expensive t-shirt fitted enough to show off his toned physique. Elain honestly had to fight not to swoon as he ran an effortless hand through his glossy sable hair, the longer pomaded pieces on top stand up for a second before falling into an artful tousle.

“Hey Ellie,” he said, gaze on her and gone so quickly that he never even had time to notice her much-discussed cleavage. Instead, his eyes flicked to Mor and held for a long, meaningful beat before he turned back to Elain and added politely, “Thanks for coming.”

“Sure,” she chirped, trying to ignore the fact that he was coming closer, and that in another second she’d be able to smell that divine Givenchy cologne he always wore. “Of course!“

She bent her head, pretending to be fixing the clasp on her bracelet as his scent hit her and she had to bite back a groan. Sweet Jesus, he smelled good. When she looked up again, everyone else was shuffling to their table and Azriel was lingering, a soft smile threatening to the reveal the absolutely devastating dimples in both his cheeks.

“Do I get a hug?” He asked. “It is my birthday after all.”

He extended his arms, and she gave a nervous laugh, accepting the gesture by stringing her arms around his neck.

“Of course,” she repeated stupidly, trying to ignore the way the muscles in his arms flexed as he embraced her. “Happy Birthday.”

At this he squeezed her a little tighter and she fought off genuine giddiness.

It was a friendly gesture, she warned herself, and it ended the minute Mor called, “Az, come sit by me.”

Elain cleared her throat as he pulled away, turning to where Mor was still beckoning. However, before Elain could get too flustered, he turned back to her.

“Shall we?” he said, indicating Elain go ahead of him. To her delight, they reached the table to find that the only two seats left were next to each other. She tried not to give her eagerness too much leash as he pulled out her chair for her before sinking into the one between she and Mor. Mor leaned over to give him a soft peck on the cheek, and he flushed.

“Where’s Emmy tonight?” Feyre asked as Mor tried to wipe the lipstick from Az’s copper skin and he battered her away, like child trying to fend off an over-bearing mother.

“She’s sick, poor little thing,” Mor said, giving a tiny pout. “She hasn’t been able to get out of bed in days.”

Elain didn’t bother to her disappointment. Emerie had been one of Nesta’s best since they’d met in college almost ten years ago, and she not only was she like family to the Archerons, she also happened to be the only person in the group who knew about Elain’s crush. Elain had sworn her to secrecy at the time, and though it would have been reasonable to assume that once Emmy knew, Mor would know, Elain appreciated that she could trust Emerie to keep her secret.

Elain felt Emerie’s absence keenly and Nesta and Cash began bantering back and forth at lightning speed. Emerie was a master at slowing the tempo of Nesta’s quick wit, making it easier for Elain in particular to feel she could keep up.

More selfishly, Elain also missed Emerie’s ability to keep Mor distracted. When Emmy was around, she was all Mor could focus on. However, in her absence Mor’s attention had reverted almost completely to Az, a fact he didn’t seemed to mind a single bit, if his growing smiles were any indication.

Still, he seemed to be going out of his way to make sure Elain didn’t get lost in the chaos of conversation surging around them, even if he never looked at her for more than a moment or two before his eyes flicked back to Mor, studying her dark brown eyes and crimson lips.

After they placed their drink orders and the waiter came over to begin explaining the omakase menu, Elain wondered if she had time to dodge under the table to throw on some lipstick of her own. Assuring herself everyone was suitably distracted she bent down, hastily uncapping the tube before looking up just in time to see Nesta brush a very deliberate hand between Cassian’s splayed quads.

Elain jerked back, banging her head on the table.

“Fuck!” she swore quietly, straightening and rubbing her head.

Nesta shot her an alarmed look across the table and Elain flushed.

“All you alright?” Azriel asked, and she tried not to bleat in excited panic as his fingers brushed the back of her head. “What happened?”

“I—dropped something,” she fumbled, cursing her sister for being such a salacious wench.

Wasn’t it enough that she and Cash were already going to keep her up all night? Did she really have to make Elain look silly in front of Azriel, too?

“Does it hurt?” Azriel said, still studying her head before letting his eyes go to the server. “Do you need ice?”

“No, no,” Elain said hurriedly, trying to regain her composure. “I’m fine.”

“Did you at least find whatever you were looking for?” Mor asked, and Elain’s flush deepened.

“And then some,” she grumbled to herself, and Cassian gave a quiet but unmistakable laugh before letting out a surprised exhale. Elain had a fairly good idea what Nesta was squeezing to shut him up.

“Should we order, then?” Mor asked, hand falling onto Azriel’s arm. “Any particular requests, Birthday Boy?”

“He’s thirty now,” Rhys pointed out. “I think that makes him a Birthday Man .”

“Birthday Old Man,” Cassian amended. “Don’t worry champ, I’ve already put some viagra in your bathroom.”

“You’re not supposed to share your prescriptions, Cash,” Azriel said with mirth, eyes sparkling even as his face remained neutral. “And besides, I would feel dead back if you needed one tonight and couldn’t find them.”

“Checkmate,” Mor purred as Cash flipped her off.

Beside Azriel, Elain was fighting not to blush again. Cash’s comment, however sophomoric and lewd, had her imagining what Azriel was like in bed. She wondered for a moment if Mor knew before dismissing the thought and the twinge it induced.

“Let’s put this poor souls out of his misery and order,” Feyre said, smiling at the server where he still waited patiently. “Maybe if Cash’s mouth is full, he’ll stop talking.”

Cassian grinned, and, after placing their requests for the chef’s tasting menu, they all settled into an easy conversation. Cash and Rhys regaled them with stories of Azriel at various ages, from the gawky child he’d been when they’d first met him to the shy teenager who’d been terrified of girls.

“Let him be,” Mor said, touching her friend’s shoulder. “He was sweet in high school!”

Rhys laughed.

“It took him a year to pluck up the courage to say three words to you,” he pointed out.

“And they were ‘here’s a pen’ in response to you asking him the time. Nice work, Shakespeare,” Cash said, attempting to muss Azriel’s perfectly styled hair before being batted away.

“I can’t imagine Az ever being awkward,” Elain blurted. “I bet girls thought he was mysterious and cool.“

“See?” Azriel said, gesturing to Elain. “This is why I sat over here.”

“Oh please ,” Rhys said, bubbling his lips. “Ellie’s just being polite. If you two had known each other in high school, we all know how to would’ve gone: you’d have had an obscene crush on her and your dreams of true love would have been dashed after she politely signed your yearbook ‘have a good summer, Adrian’, leaving you heartbroken and alone.”

Azriel gave Elain a soft smile, and her heart burst open as thousands of butterflies flitted out of it.

“I hate to say it, but he’s probably right,” he told her. “I assume high school Elain was very popular.”

“She was,” Feyre said. “Eight different guys asked her to prom.”

“I’m not surprised,” Az said, and Elain made a great show out of drinking out of her masu to avoid having to answer.

She was relieved when the food began arriving to distract everyone, if only to save her the temptation of telling Azriel that there was no universe in which she wouldn’t have been into him, high schoolers or no.

Instead discussion turned to the Feyre and Rhys’s wedding as they ate, and as final plates were being cleared, Cash took the opportunity to once again mocked Azriel for the fact the latter had lost the rock-paper-scissors competition to be Rhys’s best man.

“I lost on purpose,” he told Elain quietly, taking a sip of the Yamasaki Single Malt he’d ordered after dinner.

“Why?” she laughed, following his gaze across the table to where Cash and Nesta were now bickering about whether Rhys’s stag night in Vegas would be better than Feyre’s hen do in Napa.

“Because Rhys told me that you’d convinced Feyre to pick Nesta as her maid of honor, and no offense, but your sister terrifies me. I’d much rather be with you.”

She laughed, biting her lip. It felt so terribly like they were flirting, but she couldn’t decide if it was her imagination or not.

“She terrifies everyone,” Elain said. “And I have a feeling this won’t our last trip down the aisle together.”

Azriel only quirked a bemused brow at this, which had Elain flushing scarlet.

“Not like that! She laughed, fumbling to pretend the idea of them being together was absurd rather than her heart’s desire. "I meant for Cash and Nesta’s wedding. Don’t tell me those two aren’t going to end up together.”

“We’ll have to work out a custody agreement when they finally get over themselves and start dating properly,” he agreed. “I’m spending a fortune on earplugs.”

She laughed, and he seemed warmed by the gesture, because he flashed a modest—albeit dimpled—smile being turning back to the larger conversation.

After dinner they’d gone a cocktail bar, then an Irish pub, and finally—much to Azriel’s chagrin—a karaoke bar. Rhys and Cash spend the majority of the evening trying to wrestle Azriel on stage while Mor and Feyre sang duets to Beyoncé and Spice Girls.

Elain was content enough to sit back and simply observe the scene as it unfolded around her. It was hard to contain her giddy, dreadful anticipation when Mor left around one to check on Emerie and Azriel—besides bidding her farewell with a soft kiss on the cheek—didn’t move a muscle.

Less than an hour later, Cash and Nesta both disappeared about an hour after without so much as a goodbye. Elain groaned, hoping they’d be asleep by the time she got home.

She’d have to rally if she wanted to manage it; they would be at it for hours yet.

By three the place was clearing out, and besides them, only a few tables of marathon drinkers and a girl on stage performing a beautiful rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide” remained.

“We’re gonna go,” Rhys said, arm slung around a rather drunk, giggling Feyre. “Ellie, do you want to come with us?”

Elain glanced at Azriel, who’s glass still had two fingers of whiskey in it. If she wanted a chance to be alone with him, this was it.

“I think I’ve got one more in me,” she said, smiling.

“If you mean drink, I’m in,” Azriel said.

“Oh c’mon, brother,” Rhys goaded. “Just one song. I wouldn’t even film it….much.”

“Do Beyoncé!” Feyre chimed in, and Azriel shook his head.

“You know I’d play in traffic before I ever sang karaoke,” Azriel said mildly, making Feyre laugh. "Thanks for coming.”

He rose, embracing Rhys and pressing a kiss on Feyre’s head.

“C’mon, my little drunkard,” Rhys told her. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“Let’s have sex when we get home,” Feyre said, her attempted whisper fully audible. Rhys pretended smack his forehead with his palm and a mimed, “ Oh brother ”, to Azriel and Elain before coax a still-singing Feyre outside.

Azriel chuckled before draining the last of his drink and rising. Elain pretended not to notice the way his well-tailored jeans fit his lean legs and…other parts of his anatomy as he adjusted his belt buckle and glanced down at her.

“Bud Light?” he asked, and she nodded, bobbing to her feet as well.

If she wanted a way to get closer to him that was more elegant than her increasing urge to crawl across the table and into his lap, this was certainly it.

“I’ll come with you.”

He flashed her a modest smile before indicating she lead the way. He ordered and waved off Elain’s attempt to pay before leaning on the bar to avoid towering over her. The gesture brought them nearly eye-to-eye, and Elain had to actively fight not to let hers roll back in pleasure at the bergamot and amyris wood notes in his sinful cologne. Up close Elain could see how much green he had in his hazel irises, and she wanted to tip into them and swim until she drowned.

“Did you have fun?” she said, desperate to get the conversation flowing again, and he smiled, making her stomach flop.

“I did, yeah,” he said, glancing around the bar in bemusement, as if still wondering how he’d ended up there. “Thank you for coming.”

Elain shrugged, grinning.

“You say that like you didn’t think I’d show,” she said, resting a cheek in her hand. She knew by now her expression was not her less than a swoon, though she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Hadn’t been this been her plan all along? Finally get Az’s attention long enough to tell him how she felt? Now was the best chance she’d probably ever get.

“No, I figured would,” Az said, interrupting her reverie. “Or hoped you would, whatever.”

Was that—

Did that mean what she thought it did?

Normally she would have chalked it up to wishful thinking, but the way he rubbed the back of his neck, dimples appearing as he huffed what almost sound like a sheepish laugh, had hope igniting in her chest.

“What does that mean?” she pressed, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

For the first time all night, he didn’t look away. Instead, his eyes skated back and forth across her face, as if she were a riddle he only had seconds to memorize. She watched, transfixed, as he wet his plush lower lip with his tongue before biting it almost self-consciously.

“It means I’m glad you came,” he admitted. “And that you didn’t go home with your sister and Rhys.”

It wasn’t the confirmation she’d been hoping for, and the ambiguity of the statement had her conviction waning. That could just as easily have been mean platonically, and if she pushed him and ruined things between them by making it awkward—

“Of course I’d be here for your birthday,” she said, giving his shoulder a playful shove. “That’s what friends are for.”

She couldn’t help the way her voice got stuck on the word, not when her throat suddenly began to clog with tears.

She had to get out of here, right now. Before she started crying and made things worse. She made to retract her hand but Azriel grabbed it, grip gentle but intent.

“El, don’t go,” he said, and she was surprised at the frank discontent in his normally-impassive expression.

She waited for him to explain himself before instead he let out another strained laugh, grip on her wrist easing. However, he didn’t let go entirely, choosing to intertwine their fingers instead.

Holding hands.

She and Az were holding hands.

And he—

She glanced back up to find he was studying her again, his face a mixture of terror and delight. When she gave his hand a soft squeeze, he let out the breath he’d been holding.

“Jesus, I am bad at this,” he said, reaching up to tuck a curl behind her ear. She wasn’t sure if she’d imagined it, but she thought his gaze flicked down to her lips as he continued to study her with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Bad at what?” She asked, though she’d begun to suspect she knew exactly what, even if it seemed too good to be true.

“At least my timeline is improving,” he breathed instead. “And I haven’t offered you a pen you didn’t ask for yet.”

Hoping she wasn’t misreading the situation, she let her finger trail down to trace the circular buckle of his Gucci before glancing back up at him and purring, “Do you have a pen?”

He smirked before raising his right wrist and glancing at his watch face over her shoulder.

“It’s….3:17 am,” he said, smile spreading as she gave a low sound of approval and flicked her gaze to his lips.

“Smooth,” she said, and tried not to lose her mind as he let his raised hand fall to the back of her neck and bent to kiss her.

He had almost girlishly full lips, and they opened for her as they settled into the kiss. Immediately his hand tangled in her hair so he could alter her head position slightly and get a proper taste of her. She groaned into his mouth he pulled at her lower lip with his teeth. He tasted like oranges and the expensive Japanese whiskey he’d been drinking all night, and pleasure tightened in her low belly as his tongue brushed hers. Her brought his free hand up to cradle her face, and in response she pushed closer to run her hands underneath of his shirt and down the silken skin of his back.

“Fuck,” he breathed with a heated half-laugh, nose brushing her cheek as he bowed into her touch. “You’re killing me, woman.”

She only smirked, feeling more confident now that she had before. She could hardly believe this was happening, but she was too excited about it to fully care.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said, and he bit his lip, as if restraining himself from kissing her again.

“Like to another bar?” he asked, dazed as he continued to stare at her lips.

“Like to my bed,” she said boldly. “Or yours, depending on where Cassian and Nesta ended up.”

He didn’t speak immediately, just studied her, and she panicked.

“I mean, only if you—I’m sorry, should I not have—?“

He only kissed her again in response, more gently this time.

“Please stop apologizing,” he said, kissing her jaw now before seeming to realize something and pulling back, brows synced.

“I—Jesus, do you seriously not know?”

She felt a bit sheepish at his incredulous tone and fought not to stiffen.

“Know what?”

He laughed softly, though their was a edge of self-deprecation in it that kept the gesture from seeming conscending.

“I really am the worst at this.”

“At what?”

“El, I’ll crazy about you. I have been crazy about you since we met.”

“You have?” she blurted, horror fading into genuine—if elated—confusion.

He laughed.

“Did you think it was coincidence that you and I are always sitting next to each other at dinner? That I always find you at Rhys’s dumb parties?”

“I—“ she began, still trying to decide if this was a dream or not. “What about Mor, though?”

“Mor?” he repeated, confused now, too. “What about her?”

“I thought you and she—“

He leaned in to brush his nose against hers, and she blushed at the innocent affection in the gesture.

“Not at all,” he assured her. “I did have a thing for her in high school, but I got over it after she and Cash slept together at prom. We’re just friends, I swear.”

“But she’s always touching you, and every time I see you together you can’t stop looking at her.”

At this he laughed, his smile so genuine and open she almost didn’t recognize him.

“She’s always been touchy-feely,” he said. “She grew up in Madrid, and people are just more affectionate there, I guess. And I only watch her when you’re around because she called me out for having an absurd crush on you, and I was afraid she was going to get drunk and blow my cover by telling you.”

Elain shook her head, still not quite believing what she was hearing. Reading her expression, he bent to kiss her softly.

“What guy wouldn’t be crazy about you?” he breathed. “You’re incredible.”

This seemed to break the spell, and she twined her fingers in his hair and pulled him down for another steamy kiss.

“Text Cash,” she said a little breathlessly when they broke away. “I don’t want an audience.”

She couldn’t felt but feeling smug when he almost dropped his phone at those words. It felt good to know that she wasn’t the only one affected by all this.

“Cash and Nesta are at the lof—“ Az began after a minute, but Elain cut him off with a kiss.

H rose, pulling her against him as his tongue brushed the roof of her mouth.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he said as she kissed his neck and tugged on his earlobe with her teeth, earning a low groan. “You’ve been drinking.”

She grabbed his chin so he would look at her.

“Not that much,” she said, and it was true. “And besides, I wanted this way before tonight.“

“Good,” he breathed, pressing a hand to her low back to bring her close to him. “Because so have I.”

Though they spent the majority of the ride up town and the elevator up to her apartment making out, something seemed to shift as Elain’s door clicked shut behind him, as if the gravity of what they were about to do had finally caught up to them.

Reluctantly Az peeled his lips from where they’d been glued to her neck as he took a small step back, as if to give her space.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, feeling embarrassed for how much she still wanted him even now that he seemed to have come to his senses.

“Maybe we should—” he broke off, looking somewhat guilty. “Hold off.”

She nodded, trying to keep the tears at bay again.

“Are you worried this could mess things up in the group? Because I understand—“

“No,” he said hurriedly, coming forward again, as if he could no longer stand to be away. “Not at all. I just—you’re special, El. You deserve to be taken out and spoiled.”

“Az, you just took us to a $1,800 dinner! Or did you think I didn’t see you pulling our server aside?”

Azriel opened his mouth, and she covered it with a finger.

“You don’t need to earn my affection. It’s yours already, free of charge.”

“I’ve just been—I waited so long to make my move and I’m terrified of fucking it up,” he said with a soft laugh.

“Why, are you bad at sex?”

Azriel laughed, seemed to relax at her teasing.

“I’ve never had any complaints,” he breathed again her lips, kissing her deeply again.

She gently bit his lower lip in response.

“Then I’d say you’ve gotten nothing to worry about,” she said, kissing him a third time.

She moaned softly when drove his fingers into her hair, hips canting towards her as he pressed her more fully into the door.

She could feel his body’s reaction to her pressing between her thighs, and she moaned again.

“Fuck,” he breathed onto her skin. “You are so gorgeous.”

“So are you,” she said, running her hands up the back of his t-shirt and feeling the mosaic of muscles flexing underneath. “Take this off.”

He laughed and pulled the offending garment over his head, making her groan in delight.

“God, this body ,” she breathed, running a hand down his chest and enjoying his shiver at her delicate touch.

He responded by spinning her away from him and gently dragging down the zipper of her dress until he could slip a hand inside of it.

“I knew you couldn’t have a bra on underneath this thing,” he said, voice a touch smug as he cupped both bare breasts and her breath caught in her throat..

“I’m surprised you even noticed,” she said, voice somewhat. “I wore this dress for you, and you didn’t even look at it once the entire evening.”

She laughed, the sound into a soft moan as he twisted one nipple in experimentation. When she sighed and let her head fall back onto his shoulder.

“Of course I noticed the dress,” he corrected. “You have the most perfect tits I’ve ever seen. I just knew that if I let myself look, I might not be able to stop looking.”

“You shouldn’t say that until you’ve seen them without the sorcery of underwire,” she said.

With that he spun her to face him, catching her gaze to ensure he had her permission before tugging down the top of the dress so her breasts fell free.

“Gorgeous,” he said, easing to his knees so he could replace his fingers with his mouth. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

“If I known this was going to be your reaction, I would have worn a bodycon dress in front of you ages ago,” she said, threading her hands through his hair as he dragged his teeth and tongue along her nipple.

“You don’t need some tight dress to be sexy,” he said, resting his chin her her sternum so he could gaze up at her. “I’d take you in your overalls and pigtail braids any day.”

“Is this some Pippy Longstocking fetish we should all know about?”

He grinned, rising to his feet and giving one of her curls a playful tug.

“Because as devastating as you are playing dress up in your sister’s clothes, I prefer you as you.”

“You can’t say that when I’m naked,” she said with a smile, touching his cheek.

“Why not?”

“Because I may start crying and ruin the mood.”

He cocked his head to the side, tracing her lips with a finger.

“I wouldn’t mind a few tears from you in bed. But only if it’s from you sobbing in pleasure.”

His words sent blood pooling south, the intensity cause a dull throbbing.

“Why do I feel like you could do it, too?” She asked, reaching down to free his belt as he heeled out of his boots.

“Don’t tempt me,” he said, taking her hand and guiding it between his legs. “Forget this,” he said, squeezing gently so she could feel how hard he was. “I could go down on your all night and be the happiest guy on Earth.”

Emerie had said as much once, at a drunken girls’ night.

Azriel strikes me as the type of guy who loves eating girls out. It’s why gay women find him so easy to befriend; we recognize kindred spirit.

Elain vowed to never tell the others she’d been right.

“Will you let me?” He asked, gently nudging her dressing off her hips until it came free and pooled at her feet.

“Is this a trick question?” She said, voice going hoarse as he slipping a hand into her underwear.

“Some people don’t like it.”

“I’m not one of them,” she said, he smiled, coaxing her legs around his waist so he could carry her.

“Thank God,” he replayed. “That would break my heart. Which way?”

She pointed him in the right direction before giving into temptation and kissing him again, looking to way she could feel like body reacting to hers as he held her close. Only when they reached her room—which was decidedly messier than she’d have liked considering Azriel Macar was now in it—did he set her down.

He wasted no time into coaxing her onto the bed, taking only a moment to admire the silky black thong she wore before dragging into down her thighs and discarding it.

“Spread your legs for me, El,” he said, brushing kisses to her knee as she slowly did as he commanded.

The light from the nearby street lamp made the room a lot less dark than Elain was used to during sex, and for a moment she though to be embarrassed or postpone. Then she glanced down to admire the contrast of Azriel’s inky black hair framed against the pale skin of her thighs, and she forgot what it even meant to be self-conscious as he finally put him mouth on her.

She swore at the first brush of his tongue, which was both deliberate and extremely delicate. She threaded a hand through his hair at his second stroke, the touch more intentional this time.

“Azriel,” she breathed.

She watched the muscles in his beautiful back shift at this, as if hearing her moan his name had untethered something in him. When he put his mouth back on her, it was clear he was no longer attempted to tease her. Instead he felt right to where she needed him most, refusing to relent until she tipped over the edge.

Even then he didn’t seem satisfied, it and it was only after he made her come a second time did he pull back, licking his lips before bending to kiss her.

“Take your pants off,” she demanded. "Right now.”

She felt him grinning against her neck as he peeled off of her, slowly working the buttons of his pants before sliding them down his trim hips. He wore black boxer briefs underneath, and he honestly looked like an Armani model. She bit her lip, eying the sizable swell of him through the cotton.

“Those too,” she breathed, greedily drinking in his well-defined adonis belt and the bare trace of hair above the band.

He did as she commanded, and she nearly melted. Naked he was a God, all rippling muscles and smooth unblemished skin, save for the chest piece tattoo that extended onto his shoulders and halfway down his arms. She let her eyes sink lower. Even half-hard he was big, and her belly clenched.

Wasting no time, she urged him to take her place on the bed before kneeling at his feet and putting her mouth on it.

“Shit,” he hissed, driving a hand into his hand then down his face. “Ellie, you’re kiling me.”

She looked up at him through her lashes, and he growled in approval, seeming to decide something before breaking her grip on him and hauling her to her feet. He kissed her again, and she could feel his cock as it practically pulsed between them.

She still wasn’t sure she could believe it was for her, that somehow he wanted her as much as she did him, and had for almost as long.

“Condoms,” he breathed against her mouth. “I need to be inside of you.”

She froze.

“I don’t have any,” she said, dismayed.

How could she be so stupid? Why didn’t they stop on the way home? The closest bodega was six blocks, and she knew everyone who worked there. The last thing she needed was all of them knowing—

Azriel pressed a swift kiss to her lips before tangling from her.

“Where are you going?”

“To grab a condom.”

“Naked?

He flashed her a slight grimace, “Let’s agree you won’t ask where I get it from.”

“Oh Moses,” Elain said, face flushing scarlet as she listened to Nesta’s door creaking open.

Azriel was back in less than a minute, tossing an entire box onto the nightstand as he pulled open one of the foils with his teeth, using his free hand to push his damp hair, long enough to brush his cheekbones now that it wasn’t styled, out of his eyes.

“You found those distressingly fast,” Elain said, unsure if she was amused or mortified at the situation.

“Cash is predictable with his hiding spots,” Az said, eyes hooded as he stroked himself several times before rolling the condom onto his length.

“And why did you take the whole box?”

Azriel laughed softly.

“Because I have a feeling we’re going to need them.”

Without another word Az sank to his knees again, one hand lazily stroking himself to maintain his erection as he went down on her again.

This time it only last three seconds or so before he pulled back, resting one knee beside her hip to steady himself before pulling her onto his shaft in a single wet stroke. Using her left bent leg as leverage, he adjusted his angle, smirking at her low, guttural moan of pleasure.

“Good to know your g-spot is as sensitive as the rest of you,” he breathed, and she laughed and tugged him into an ambitious rhythm.

Soon the only sound was their shared breathing, and the sliding on their bodies against one another. She came first, and he followed even before the dizzying waves of pleasure ceased. He pumped lazily in and out of her for another half dozen stroke before gently extracting from her and peeling off the condom.

She curled against him, cheek pressed to chest as her hands continued to explore. Her fingers caressed his swelling pectorals and each of his abdominal muscles before lazily venturing back between his legs. He gave a hiss of pleasure as she began to work his silken shaft in earnest, and in minutes he was fully ready again.

He groaned when she snatched one of the condoms and rolled it onto him before swinging a leg over and sinking astride him.

Her third orgasm hit her only a short time later, and she sighed when he bucked up into her before going languid under her ministrations.

She leaned down to kiss him as he ran a soothing hand down her back.

“Jesus,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to hers and swirling his hips, still inside her despite his orgasm. “That was incredible.”

She purred her contentment, feeling something even more alluring than desire swell in her chest as he discarded the second condom and tugged her into his arms, tangling their legs. He still smelled like cologne, but it had mixed with her perfume, and sweat, and the scent was intoxicating. She wanted to bath in it—in him—until she died from bliss. She listened to his breathing even out, and as she was drifting off to bed, he felt his breath ruffle her hair.

“Do you like pancakes?” he murmured. “I want to make you breakfast in the morning.”

“Really?” she said, looking at him over a shoulder and melting at the warmth in his smile, less guarded now than it had been even hours before.

“I want to make breakfast for you every morning,” he breathed. “I have since I met you.”

She smiled, nestling closer to him.

“I’d love that, but I should probably be the one making you breakfast. It is your birthday, after all. You have to let me give you something other than a bj and a few orgasms for your birthday, even if it is your dirty 30.”

Az choked on a laugh.

“Say you‘ll dinner with me, then. No family or nosy friends around, just us.”

“I think the word you’re looking for it ‘date’,” she said, laughing as his cheeks flushed before realizing something. “Or is the idea just too formal for the situation? I know we did things a bit backwards...”

“We did,” he agreed, stroking her cheek. “But that doesn’t mean I want to spoil you any less. So yes a date, if you’ll still have me.”

“I will,” she said, meeting his hazel eyes before gently kissing him. “With pleasure.”

He smiled against her mouth.

“Then that’s the only birthday gift I want or need from you.”

She smiled, feeling happy to the point of bursting when he kissed her ear and closed his eyes again.

"Happy Birthday, Az.”

His hum of contentment vibrated through her back.

“The happiest,” he breathed.

#featherywrites #elriel smut #elain x azriel #acotar modern one shot #four word prompts

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caiminnent · 3 years ago

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reasons I have kissed you today [domestic kylux fluff, rated T]

Prompt(s): Day 1 - Comforts by @kyluxpositivity, based on a @foxes-in-love comic.

Summary: It dawns on Kylo, how empty his life had felt before Hux. It still feels like a dream, sometimes: something that may slip through his fingers like sand if he opens his eyes. Ben had never imagined that he could be loved with the focused, intense way Hux loves Kylo—never thought he could love someone so fiercely, either. How in the world did he get so lucky?

Or: a marriage in ten kisses.

Fandom: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy

Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Married Couple, Armitage Hux Wears Glasses, Established Relationship, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Coffee as a Metaphor for Love

Notes: Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash.

3.2K || Also on AO3

i. we woke up

Kylo wakes up in the middle of the night.

Taking a deep breath, he blinks up at the ceiling with aching eyes, distantly wondering what disturbed him. The room is bathed in the dim, half-light of early morning, the streetlights drawing orange shapes on the far wall.

Too kriffing early to be up on a Sunday.

Hux is still sound asleep next to him. A car passes, the headlights illuminating the room enough for Kylo to see the lines of his face for a moment: smooth and relaxed, the way they rarely are while his high-strung husband is awake.

The urge to reach out and run his touch over the long lines of Hux’s hands, to feel the skin-warmed metal on his finger grips Kylo. It’s not insecurity; Hux headed off half-joking remarks about Hux eventually taking the ring off so swiftly that Kylo doesn’t carry more than the passing, baseless worry brought by the occasional bad brain day. He just enjoys the physical reminder that Hux is his.

Hux’s alarm goes off, startling Kylo. Unlike the groggy, half-hearted way Kylo wakes, Hux commits to it: When he opens his eyes and reaches to turn his alarm off, he’s ready to take on the day ahead.

Scratching his stubble, Hux looks over to Kylo, finding him already watching. “Good morning, you creep.”

Kylo smiles, rising on an elbow. Brushing a strand away from Hux’s eyes, “Mornin’,” he mumbles, leaning over to kiss Hux.

“Ugh, morning breath,” Hux grumbles, but he’s smiling, too.

-----------------------------

ii. you made me caf

The next time Kylo wakes, the room is finally bright with the morning light. Hux’s table clock reads half past nine.

He rolls onto his back, running a hand down his face. His body feels anchored to the bed, the caked warmth of the room weighing his eyelids down. Part of him wants to press his face on the cold side of the pillow and ignore the world for a few more hours. He might have, maybe, if the other side of the bed weren’t despicably empty.

The bitter scent of caf filtering in through the ajar door helps with the decision, too.

Stepping into yesterday’s shorts, Kylo shuffles to the kitchen, where Hux is making himself his nth cup of tarine tea as the caf machine drips Kylo’s java into the pot. Hux’s favorite coaster sits next to his book on the kitchen island, the bookmark sticking out somewhere near the end.

“Hello, sleepyhead,” Hux says without turning, mixing low-fat milk into his tea with the preciseness of a surgeon.

Not ready to be awake yet, Kylo grunts in response, grabbing the A/C remote off the caf table before dropping himself on the couch. He sets the temperature as low as Hux can stand—which isn’t much, but it’s infinitely better than getting cooked in the summer heat that’s seeping in through their south-facing windows.

Hux comes over with a big mug and a coaster, placing the latter on the caf table. Keeping the caf hostage, he extends his cheek, awaiting his payment of a kiss first. Kylo is more than happy to give it.

Satisfied, Hux surrenders the mug and returns to his book. The A/C kicks in in full force, blasting cool air right onto Kylo’s heated skin.

It’s perfect.

-----------------------------

iii. I passed you by on my way to the kitchen

They have different ideas of how a Sunday works.

For Kylo, it’s time to finally leave the workweek behind and enjoy himself. He likes to curl on the couch with Hux and watch a movie, go out for a late lunch, take evening walks without his phone. Hux, on the other hand, sees it as an opportunity to prepare for the next week; he takes up laundry and deep-cleaning, while Kylo is tasked with cooking meals to re-heat for dinner over the next week and ironing.

Kylo manages to postpone the inevitable until the third time Hux reminds him of it, the thin line of Hux’s mouth promising hell if Kylo doesn’t get on with it already. Kylo dutifully closes the lid of his laptop and heads to the kitchen, pausing to drop a peck on Hux’s lips in apology.

“Don’t think you’re forgiven,” Hux says after him, his tone already softer.

-----------------------------

iv. you passed by while going to the shower

Once done with the cleaning, “I’m going to take a shower,” Hux announces, going through the folded pile of newly pressed clothes. Putting the flat iron aside, Kylo helps him find a shirt and the pair of khaki shorts that make Hux’s thighs look sinful, wrapping an arm around his waist to show how much he appreciates the choice already.

“Kylo, I’m reeking,” Hux complains, batting a hand at him. Kylo puts a wet kiss on that spot under his ear before letting him go.

Hux shakes his head in disapproval, but his look is fond.

-----------------------------

v. you were gaming and didn’t hear me sneak up on you

Long after the shower turned off, Hux still hasn’t come back to the living room.

Kylo finds him at the study, hunched over his cherished desktop with Kylo’s sound-cancelling headphones on. Perfect. Seizing the opportunity, Kylo tiptoes into the room until he’s right behind Hux, grabbing him by the shoulders.

Hux jumps with a loud curse, the mouse tumbling off the desk as he rips the headphones off. The look he pins Kylo with over his work glasses is almost funnier than the reaction, though Kylo keeps his laughter in check. Hux is nothing if not vindictive.

“Sorry,” Kylo says with an apologetic half-grin, kissing the top of Hux’s head to appease him. On the screen, that city building game of Hux’s is on, snowy plains and mountains interspersed with black and gray buildings stretching on and on. “Still working on Starkiller Base?”

Hux grunts in affirmative, bending to pick up the mouse. A few clicks take care of whatever Kylo messed up; Hux switches to the live view afterwards, watching the flow of movement in different parts of the map.

A month ago, the base was a big, almost brutalist complex seated in the middle of vast whiteness, most of the structures placed underneath a dome until Hux built proper snow protection—or so Hux explained while giving Kylo the grand tour. It looks more like a military base now: Pairs of white-clad soldiers stomp through long, well-lit hallways in rhythm while spaceships with hexagonal wings circle around, black shuttles whizzing around underneath them.

Hux switches back to build mode, scrolling to the edge of the base, where a large watercourse—that might be a stream or river; Kylo can’t make sense of the scaling in this game—circles a white building with red, blinking lights at the top.

“What’s that?” Kylo asks, pointing at the building. Admittedly, it looks about the same as most others to him, but it seems like something Hux might be excited to talk about.

Hux pushes the glasses higher, giving him a sidelong glance. “A fusion power plant,” he says gruffly, deleting some of the pipeline between the plant and the body of water. “I thought one of these would be enough to power the entire base, but the upgraded stations are draining all the electricity. I’m trying to see how many more plants I can build without having a drought problem.”

Kylo hums, leaning in to get a closer look. Hux breaks into an explanation on how the plant works, outlining the current infrastructure at large and his next plans for the base, scrolling around the map where needed. Kylo watches the way Hux’s hands dance on the keyboard, the glint in his eyes and falls in love all over again.

-----------------------------

vi. I was bored

Money never sleeps; neither does First Order Inc., apparently.

“I’m so sorry,” Hux says for the hundredth time as Kylo brings him a new cup of caf—which by itself speaks for the direness of whatever task Snoke just dropped into his lap. “I didn’t know it would take this long.”

Kylo doesn’t say it’s okay, because it’s not. They could’ve finished season 3 in the time Hux sunk into work, and it doesn’t look like he will be done anytime soon. It isn’t Hux’s fault though, so he says, “I know what Snoke’s like, too,” instead. Transferring to Resistance HQ was his second-best decision in life.

While Hux works, Kylo busies himself with his phone, scrolling through the holonet and catching up on the latest news that he doesn’t give a damn about. Daytime TV is as shitty as it’s always been, and he’s not stupid enough to Netflix-cheat in front of Hux, so he runs out of things to do within the next hour.

Hux’s eyes are fixated on his screen, his mechanical keyboard clack-clack-clacking rapidly. “Are you almost finished?” Kylo asks, dropping his phone on the caf table. Hux jerks his head up, blinking at him owlishly. “You’ve been at it for a while. Will you be done soon?”

Hux’s lips twist in remorse. “I’m really sorry.”

Kylo sighs, pushing off the couch. Circling around the kitchen island, he towers over Hux, crossing his arms. A plethora of spreadsheets decorate Hux’s screen, all split in multiple ways.

“Why don’t you take a break,” he says, less a suggestion than a veiled threat. “You’ve been sitting there for hours; you need to get your blood back in your head.”

“I don’t want to lose my momentum,” Hux mutters, adding several closed parentheses at the end of a formula. Another moment and he’s practically forgotten that Kylo is still standing there.

Kylo scoffs, giving him a hard stare. Hux doesn’t even look his way, buried in his color-coded columns and rows.

Fine.

Kylo puts a hand on Hux’s arm, stepping smoothly behind him. Sliding both hands to Hux’s shoulders, he presses his thumbs into the tight muscle below Hux’s neck, dragging a half-pain, half-pleasure grunt out of him.

Brushing a light kiss over the short hair on Hux’s nape, “Take a break,” Kylo says, lowering his tone to the timbre that Hux enjoys. Hux doesn’t shiver as Kylo hoped, but at least the clattering of the keyboard stopped. “Snoke has you six days of the week. Spend one with me.”

Hux snorts. “You mean on you. Are you that bored?”

“Out of my damn mind,” Kylo admits easily. “Seriously, Snoke won’t even remember that report until mid-week. The great FO won’t fall because you didn’t send one file early. You’ve done enough, you can finish it tomorrow.”

Hux drums his fingers on the island, silent as he thinks it over. Kylo encourages him by massaging the base of his neck, the area between his shoulder blades, skimming around his ribs to graze his sweet spots.

“Give me one hour,” Hux says, sounding for all the world like it’s taking him great pains to capitulate. Kylo hides his grin in the crook of Hux’s neck. “Either it’ll get done by then or I’ll be done with it.”

-----------------------------

vii. I was tired

The evening falls, the oppressive heat giving way to a gentle warmth in the air. With 47 minutes to go on Hux’s countdown, Kylo decides to stretch his legs for a bit.

A walk around the block turns into a casual jog, then a run until the discomfort of having gone rusty gives way to a quiet head and the feeling of being on top of the world. He almost doesn’t want to stop and get back home, but home is where Hux is and he will always go back to Hux.

He walks the way back, taking the scenic route to cool off a little. When he walks inside, he finds Hux lying on the couch with a new book, still wearing the glasses.

The couch is big enough for two; they tested it. Multiple times. Still, Kylo drapes himself all over Hux instead, throwing an arm and leg over him.

“Kylo,” Hux grumbles, rescuing his book from under Kylo. He hits Kylo on the hip with it. “I’ve just cleaned the sofa.”

“Too tired to shower,” Kylo lies into Hux’s shoulder, turning his face to kiss Hux’s collarbone. For all that Hux seems made up of sharp edges, he’s unexpectedly comfortable to rest on. Kylo doesn’t feel like letting go of him just yet.

Putting his book in the empty space by them, Hux reaches down to grope Kylo’s ass, dipping a hand between his legs and back up. Tease. Kylo raises his hips with an impatient hum. Between the bliss still running in his system and the smoky, woodsy scent of Hux’s cologne in his nose, it won’t take much to get him going.

A hard pinch to his thigh makes Kylo yelp. “Hux!” he hisses, rising on his elbows to glare at him.

Hux grins up at him smugly. “You’re clearly not too tired,” he says, batting Kylo on the hip again. “Now go and wash up. If you’re fast enough, we may even continue this.”

-----------------------------

viii. I was happy

Too lazy to set the table, they eat on trays in front of the TV.

Hux is an objectively horrible person to watch things with. He has the unique ability to find something to hate in everything he lays eyes on; his scathing, running commentary often drowns out whatever is playing. Not even the things he loves are safe from his sharp tongue.

Still, Kylo loves these calm moments with Hux more than anything: sitting nearly pressed up even though there’s space, bantering through the slower scenes, rewinding the important ones until they’ve pointed out every little detail to each other. Now that Kylo’s experienced this, he can never go back to being a passive audience.

The show ends—exactly where it shouldn’t. They speculate on the loose ends through the dishwashing routine, picking holes in each other’s theories until it becomes a debate, each defending their point with zeal and dish soap bubbles. By the time they agree to disagree, they both got their fair share of suds all over them, their sides aching from laughter.

It dawns on Kylo, how empty his life had felt before Hux. It still feels like a dream, sometimes: something that may slip through his fingers like sand if he opens his eyes. Ben had never imagined that he could be loved with the focused, intense way Hux loves Kylo—never thought he could love someone so fiercely, either. How in the world did he get so lucky?

His heart too big for his chest, he takes Hux’s ring hand in his, kissing the inside of his wrist. Hux’s soft smile lights up Kylo’s insides.

-----------------------------

ix. you were there

Leia calls to ask what they’re going to bring to the Life Day dinner.

Kylo pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mom, it’s August,” he points out, suppressing his scoff. “We barely know what we’re gonna eat next week.”

“There were too many potato dishes last year,” Leia says evenly, unmoved. “I need to make sure this year’s spread will be more balanced.”

The front door clicks open, closing just as quietly. Throwing the phone on the bed by his ear, Kylo listens to the routine sounds of Hux putting away his shoes and bags instead. Call him clingy; knowing that Hux is home with him, even if they aren’t in the same room, comforts Kylo.

A moment later, Hux steps in, two mini-cups of ice cream in hand. The best husband in the universe, hands down. Hux extends a cup and a spoon to him, nodding at the phone in question.

Kill me, Kylo mouths, sitting upright to take the ice cream. Leia is still chattering on the other end of the line, something about acorn squash and broccoli. Kylo puts her on speaker to make Hux share his suffering.

“I told Poe to bring the pecan pie,” Leia continues, clearly not minding Kylo’s lack of reply. Hux sits down next to him, digging into his own cup. “Rey wanted to make it again, but—between us, of course—she can never get the crust right, so she and Phasma will bring garlic bread instead. Armitage’s focaccia is straight out of heaven, but I don’t want to load up on bread. You’ll need to choose something else, I’m afraid.”

Licking his spoon clean, “Hello, Leia,” Hux says. “We were planning to bring, um, blue milk biscuits and green bean casserole. Is that all right?”

“Of course, Armitage,” Leia responds, the warmth of her tone increasing a few degrees. If she’s surprised to hear Hux’s voice, she doesn’t let on. “That would be great.”

“Wonderful,” Hux says, feigning cheer. “Now, you must have many people to call yet; we oughtn’t keep you any longer. I’m sure Kylo will catch up with you at a better time.”

Kylo will do nothing of the sort.

Once they say their farewells and hang up, Kylo releases a long breath. Conversations with his mother always take something out of him, no matter the subject. Hells if he knows how he got through them before Hux came along.

He reaches for Hux’s forearm, squeezing it in a silent thanks. It’s the easiest thing in the world to drag his hand up Hux’s arm, shoulder, neck and to cup his jaw, pulling him down for a kiss.

Hux tastes of strawberries and chocolate. Kylo can’t get enough of it.

-----------------------------

x. no reason at all

Like every good thing in life, Sunday ends.

Kylo putters around the apartment until he has no chance but to slink into the bedroom. An unnecessary and unneeded part of his routine, the if I sleep, it’ll be a workday morning dread that starts creeping up as soon as it gets dark. It’s not even that he hates his job; he just loathes the end of his free time.

Hux is already in bed, probably finishing up his weekly review and preview like the freak he is. He puts the phone aside when Kylo enters, waiting for Kylo with his hands folded on his stomach.

For a moment, all Kylo can do is stop and stare, his breath catching in his lungs. With his lightly tousled hair bright against the bedding and his dainty ankles casually crossed, Hux is a sight to see. No one has a right to look that good in sleepwear, much less the feared CTO of First Order.

Kylo crosses the room in three steps, climbing onto Hux’s side of the bed and crawling over him. Supporting himself on one elbow, he leans down and kisses Hux deeply; Hux opens up for him without skipping a beat, pulling Kylo even closer.

Once they part, “What was that for?” Hux asks, running the backs of two fingers down Kylo’s face with an amused slant to his lips.

Kylo shrugs. “No reason at all.”

#kylux positivity week #kylux #Armitage Hux #Kylo Ren #Cai does words #finished fics #Star Wars #thematically #I wrote this in ten days

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five-rivers · 4 years ago

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Face Your Dreams

Almost forgot to post this here as well! @anthropwashere

Phic Phight 2021

Prompt from Anthrop: Any flavor of the Reverse AUs that strike your fancy. Who gets the ghost powers? Who becomes the ghost hunter? Who gets ghost magick'd into the villain of the week?

Danny’s phone was dead. Which was just typical, really. His parents were brilliant, wealthy inventors that played with the fabric of reality on a daily basis and had managed to turn, not one, but two of Danny’s best friends into half ghosts, but they couldn’t be bothered to get Danny a phone that was actually reliable. Although they hadn’t intended to do the half ghost thing and didn’t know about it.

Probably.

Maybe.

(Honestly, Danny didn’t know. His parents were weird. And Danny suspected they were keeping secrets.)

Back on topic. Phone. Not working. Which was a problem because Danny was something like ninety-percent sure a ghost had been following him for the last block or so and he couldn’t call for help.

Correction, he could call for help all he wanted, he just wouldn’t get any that would be any good against a ghost. If he got any at all. It was the middle of the night.

He should have taken up Sam’s offer of a flight home. Or Tucker’s. But, no, he had to be sulky about how both of them were developing yet more really, incredibly cool powers and Danny was still just…

Himself.

Faceless, boring Fenton. Only notable for the number of bullies he attracted and the people he was related to. No special skillset, no dreams he had any hope of achieving, no triumphs. Nothing to contribute. Not in and of himself. Only useful to enemies that wanted a hostage.

He was about to be murdered by a ghost and he was still sulking. God, he was pathetic.

(Not all ghosts were evil – Sam and Tucker’s stories had taught him that much, on an intellectual basis. Was it too much to hope that he could reach home without the ghost attacking? Too much to hope that it was just watching?)

White noise tugged at Danny’s ears. It reminded him of the sleep CD Jazz played when Mom and Dad were being loud.

… and, also, oddly, of a video he’d once watched about what stars might sound like, based on how they vibrated.

Danny shuddered, his heartbeat redoubling as he picked up speed, reaching a run. If he could get home, he could turn on the ghost shield and call Sam and Tucker from his home phone. They’d be annoyed that he was bothering about a ghost so long after a patrol, but he was freaked out enough to not really care about their teasing.

(He’d been freaked out enough for the past two blocks.)

His breath began to catch in his lungs, his side burning. He splashed through a puddle, dark, oily liquid sticking to his right sneaker and pant leg. It glittered in the light of the waning crescent moon.

Wait –

It hadn’t rained for weeks.

He slipped and fell, skinning hands, knees, and chin on the sidewalk. Something wet, sticky, and smooth as silk spread over the pavement beneath him. It bubbled like a tar pit, and captive stars shone from within.

Danny tried to push himself up, but the liquid held on to him, pulled him back down.

He was sinking.

He flailed for the sidewalk, reaching, trying to stay afloat. It didn’t work. His elbows were below the level of the sidewalk, and inky, glittery black dripped from his front. It seemed to be eating through his clothes.

Forget useful help. He’d take any help. He screamed.

And he fell.

“You have such lovely dreams,” said the masked man, his horns curling into galaxies. “Impossible dreams.”

Danny couldn’t breathe. He was in freefall. A vacuum. No ground in sight, only the cold, heartless stars, perfect in their beauty.

(And his eyes. Oh, god, was this really a ghost?)

It was his dream, to be an astronaut. With this little twist, it became a nightmare, and yet—

Yet.

“You feel faceless,” continued the masked man. “But there’s freedom in that, is there not?”

Danny shouldn’t be able to hear him. There shouldn’t be any sound in space, and there wasn’t. Not except for his voice.

“Freedom,” said the man, “to follow your wildest dreams, unshackled from responsibility, from reality, from reasonability. No longer dependent on those that call themselves your friends, who claim to be your family, who walk over your dreams for the sake of theirs.”

Suddenly, Danny hit the sidewalk, and he could breathe again. Something thick dripped from his nose, his mouth, his eyes. He pushed himself to his hands and knees. His clothing was gone. His limbs were painted with the night sky in all its glory. He froze, staring.

From Danny’s shadow, the masked man rose, towering over Danny until he felt like little more than a shadow. “Don’t you want to have the chance to see your dreams come true, child?”

Danny blinked. It was hard to force his eyes back open. They seemed to want to stick closed.

“Who are you?” Danny asked, words garbled by the dripping stars trying to force their way past his lips.

“I am Nocturne,” the ghost said, leaning closer.

“You’re like,” Danny choked, “like Desiree. I don’t want—”

Nocturne scoffed. “Desiree. A creature of wishes, of momentary things. I do not care for what you wish for. What matters is that you dream.”

There was something in Nocturne’s hand, round and white and moonlike. It looked small, held between two of his fingers, but it had to be the size of Danny’s face.

“Don’t you dream of flying?” purred Nocturne. “Of being among the stars? Don’t you dream of a peaceful world, where your friends are safe, and the accident never happened? Where you’re a friend, not a weapon supply, a sidekick, or a damsel in distress?”

Danny had been thinking something so close just minutes ago and he couldn’t—

“There, there, my child. No need to cry.” He brought the round thing closer.

Danny could see, now, that it was a mask. Just his size.

“Close your eyes,” said Nocturne, gently, cupping Danny’s trembling shoulders with his other hand. “Close your eyes and dream. Let your face go, for a little while.”

(Danny did as he was told.)

“Hi, Sam,” said Mrs. Fenton, her voice crackling slightly through the phone speaker. “Have you seen Danny today?”

“I haven’t seen him since last n—Since yesterday,” said Sam, correcting herself halfway though. Mrs. Fenton didn’t know about their nightly escapades, and for good reason. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Maddie. “He just… I haven’t seen him either. He usually says goodbye before he leaves.”

He didn’t, but Maddie didn’t need to know that.

“Have you checked with Tucker yet? Sometimes they hang out without me. Guy things.” This… was also not entirely true. Danny and Tucker hadn’t had a ‘guy thing’ for ages. They’d been smoothly replaced with ‘ghost things’ like most everything else in their lives.

Sam… might have felt a little bad about that. All of their normal friend activities being replaced by ghost things, that is. Often ghost things that Danny couldn’t really participate in, because Danny couldn’t fly or shoot lasers from his hands.

He did do a good job of setting up obstacle courses and covering for her and Tucker’s—

Wait, no, not the point.

“He hasn’t seen him, either. Jazz doesn’t know where he is. I don’t—” She broke off, sighing. “Call me if you see him. Or tell him to call me.”

“I will,” said Sam, opening the window and preparing to take off.

“Thank you,” said Maddie. She hung up.

Sam went ghost with a burst of green fire. She floated up and out of the window, fading out of visibility as she dialed Tucker’s number.

“Starboy’s missing,” she said.

“Yeah, I’m already searching for him,” said Tucker, the microphone crackling with static but otherwise clear. Tucker’s powers both did and didn’t mesh well with technology.

“Any luck?”

“No,” said Tucker. “This is one of those times when I wish he did have friends other than us. Then we could ask them about where he is.”

“Do you think he’s been taken by a ghost?” asked Sam.

“I mean, maybe? There was that whole thing with Desiree…”

“And the second thing with Desiree,” added Sam.

“And Skulker.”

“And the second thing with Skulker.”

“And Spectra.”

“And the second thing with Spectra.”

“Not to mention Vlad.”

“What a freak,” said Sam.

“Are you picking up a pattern here?”

“Yeah, maybe. Who’s only kidnapped Danny once?”

“I’m not sure… Maybe it’s a new guy? We do get new guys now and again.”

Sam sighed. “Never mind that,” she said. “Where have you looked so far?”

“Not too many places. Do you want to meet up, or…?”

“No, we’ll have more luck going separately. I’ll check in with you in a bit.”

A whole day passed without any sign of Danny. They did, however, find a lot of ghosts with stitched-shut eyes, which they decided was probably related and also incredibly creepy.

By that time, the police got involved. Danny was officially a missing person.

But they were distracted. Didn’t have the manpower to search for just one missing person.

Why?

The sudden surge in coma patients.

“I don’t get it,” said Tucker. “Is that more of a, you know,” he lowered his voice, “doctor thing? Like, if it’s a bunch of people, don’t you think it’s a disease or something?”

“The police think that someone poisoned ‘em,” said Sam.

“How do you know that?”

“How do you think I know that?”

“Dude. You have to stop eavesdropping on the police. I’m, like, ninety percent sure that’s illegal.”

“Not for ghosts, it isn’t.”

“Okay, I’m one hundred percent sure it is. You’ve read the anti-ecto acts, haven’t you? I’m not the only one who did that, right?”

“It was, like, fifty pages thick. And stupid. The only reason I’d read it would be if I wanted to break the laws more efficiently.”

“Seriously?”

An alien world spread out below Danny, a place to explore to his heart’s content, the sky twinkling above him. He couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there, in the nameless, infinite way you knew things when you were dreaming.

He was an astronaut. An adventurer. An explorer.

He was doing everything he had ever dreamed of.

The only thing missing were the people. His friends. His family.

But… He could bring them here. He knew that, too, in the same way.

He just had to reach out and touch them. Feel them. Take them.

(A bit of black and starlight in their eyes, a touch of the gift given to him.)

(Nocturne whispered in his ears. A song only for him.)

They found the ghost responsible for the comas. And maybe they should have realized a ghost was causing them, but Danny was the one who usually put the pieces together, and he wasn’t there. Which was the problem.

(What Sam wouldn’t give for some kind of reliable ghost-detecting power. Or even technology.)

(No, the Fenton Finder didn’t count.)

It was small, human proportions, human skin tone, where it wasn’t covered with some kind of ghostly paint that mimicked the night sky. Its hair was colored the same way, and a blank mask covered its face. Seemed to be directing the green stitched-eye ghosts somehow, despite not saying a word. So. All in all, typical ghost, if somewhat more annoying due to his lack of witty banter.

Then he shrugged off the thermos beam like it was nothing. Almost like he was human.

Then Tucker froze.

The ghost was carried away from the fight by its minions, faster than Sam or Tucker could go.

“Tucker! What was that?”

“Birthmark,” gasped Tucker.

“What?” asked Sam.

“That was Danny’s birthmark.”

“Oh my god,” said Sam. “Did he really get himself transformed into a ghost again?”

“This seems different than Desiree,” said Tucker. “I don’t… Were we really fighting him?”

Sam rolled her eyes. “Let’s go get the Ghost Catcher.”

The Ghost Catcher was not in evidence in the Fenton basement.

“What now?” asked Tucker.

“Beat it out of him?” suggested Sam.

“That is a terrible plan. No, I can’t even call it a plan. It’s just bad.”

“Do you have anything better?”

(Tucker did not have anything better.)

(And Danny still couldn’t find his friends, to show them this dream come true.)

When about one in ten people in Amity Park was in a coma, things managed to get even worse. The people who were asleep began to sleepwalk. And sleep attack people.

Sam and Tucker were used to fighting ghosts. Not humans. They didn’t want to hurt anyone.

Especially Danny who was especially vicious. And also seemed to be targeting them.

Danny was so close. So close he could almost touch them. He could feel them, electricity and green things and dreams of power and justice. He could feel them, feel them, feel them, and he was so, so close to inviting them into the dream and he needed it, needed them. Wanted them.

His dream, the dream, his dream, it just wouldn’t be complete without them at his side, wouldn’t be right.

He reached for them, reached for Sam, brushed her sleeve and—

A meteor shower threw them apart.

Tucker dragged Sam away from Danny’s hand and the sleep-inducing liquid it was coated in.

“We have to go,” he gasped, looking out at the veritable horde of ghosts and sleepwalking humans.

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Yeah, we have to – Have to regroup.”

They retreated to the Ghost Zone, and, predictably, were separated.

The ghost’s name was Undergrowth, and he was interested in Sam. Interested enough to offer to teach her.

His power was the same as hers. Nature. Plants.

His rage against humans was… much greater. Overwhelming. Too much, too far, to extreme. She was glad he didn’t see her as human, didn’t seem to know that she wanted to protect humans.

(That she wanted to save Danny.)

Tucker already knew Technus. Had met him, fought him, beat him. More than once, even.

So, he had to ask why Technus was suddenly helping him.

The ghost fixed Tucker with a look that managed to be both incredulous and flat.

“Ghost child,” warbled Technus, “I, Technus, Master of All Things Electronic and Beeping, know what being electrocuted feels like! By the very power we both now wield!”

“Oh,” said Tucker. “Yeah, that makes sense. You were saying?”

Sam and Tucker stood in front of the portal, side by side.

“Ready to be a wake-up call?” asked Tucker.

“You’d better believe it,” said Sam.

Danny was caught, trapped in Sam’s vines.

“This isn’t working,” said Tucker, lightly shocking Danny once again. The ectoblast didn’t help, either. “Usually, this’d zap the ghost out of him, but…”

“Maybe we could try to overshadow him?” asked Sam, dubiously.

“Ugh,” said Tucker. “My least favorite power.”

“It could be the only way to find the ghost actually responsible.”

“Let’s do this.”

Danny was thrilled! He’d finally found his friends. True, he couldn’t move, but—

The stars shuddered. Shifted. Blinked.

Nocturne was angry.

Sam was knocked out of the sky at full speed, making a crater in the dark ground. People were gathered nearby. Amity Park people.

This couldn’t just be the inside of Danny’s mind (overshadowing had never worked this way before, but, well, it wasn’t like they experimented with it a whole lot), it had to be some kind of shared dream. A special power of the ghost, perhaps?

Sam fired up her powers, reaching for the nearby plants. They didn’t respond.

Crud.

This was a dream. They just looked like plants.

Then Tucker lit up the sky like a dying star, electrocuting everyone in range.

Danny woke up, throwing Sam and Tucker out of his body, something metallic clanging against sidewalk pavement. Out of his mind, out of his dream. Out of that dream, the one Nocturne had made for him.

Oh, god. He’d just spent the last week—Had it been a week, or longer? —out of his mind, in that dream, reality at one remove, if that. He’d been blind and—

He reached up to his face, to that mask and he pulled. It stuck. He pulled harder, and felt the goo sticking it on give, the mask coming away while dripping thick strands of ooze. He gasped. And it felt like the first breath he’d taken in—

How long had it been?

He opened his eyes just in time to see Nocturne rise out of his shadow.

Both Sam and Tucker had more of an advantage out here in the real world, without having to worry about hurting people. Well, without having to worry about hurting people more than usual. Wrecking buildings and missing with ectoblasts were still concerns.

“Draw him towards the park?” called Tucker, once they got close enough to confer with each other.

“You grab Danny?”

“I don’t—” started Tucker. He dodged a swipe from the large, starry ghost. “He might be safer, if—”

A column of blue light strobed into the sky, and Nocturne was pulled into the Fenton Thermos. The Fenton Thermos held by Danny Fenton. He coughed, black liquid dripping down his chin.

“Hey,” said Danny. “Thanks.”

“I’ve got to stop losing that thing,” groaned Tucker.

“I think the more important thing here is getting Danny some clothes,” said Sam, shielding her eyes.

“Yes, please,” said Danny.

“Glad to have you back, man,” said Danny, landing next to Danny and transforming. “Honestly, without you, we kind of suck at the whole investigation angle.”

“What?” asked Danny, taking the sweater Tucker offered him.

“We missed you,” clarified Sam. “A lot. We kind of… don’t do to well at anything about ghost fighting. Or life.”

“Yeah, our social life sucked even more than usual.”

“Oh,” said Danny, wrapping the sweater around his waist. “That’s cool.” He spit some of the black liquid out onto the sidewalk. “I need a shower.”

“Yep. Hugs are going to be deferred until then.”

“I’m okay with that,” said Danny. “I kind of… don’t want to be touched, for a while.”

“Ah,” said Tucker. “Well. I’m depressed again.”

“Just. Until the shower,” said Danny.

Sam reached out as if to pat Danny on the shoulder, then drew back. “Do you want a flight back home? Or to, uh, Tucker’s house? To shower. And get some clothes.”

“How is that different from a hug? You’ll still have to carry me.”

“It just is,” said Sam.

“It really is,” said Tucker.

There was a long pause.

“I lied, I want a hug so bad,” said Danny.

His friends practically flung themselves at him.

#Danny Phantom #phic phight #danny fenton #sam manson #tucker foley #nocturne #reverse trio #void!danny

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heli0s-writes · 4 years ago

Text

antisaint*

1.1k words. Erm, dirty talk, bottom!Steve-- also getting finger facefucked, and come-eating? Please stop reading if you are not 18+

The title is from this song by Chevelle 🧡

brooklyn after dark masterlist

Steve’s shield symbolizes the kind of idolatry you want to destroy some nights.

Hijack the ivory points of your lover’s brilliant star and stab him to death with it.

Well, sort of. Maybe just within an inch of his life—a quick reminder that there’s more to him than being humanity’s moral paradigm and savior. That the immeasurable world he’s sworn to can exist in smaller spaces because sometimes he forgets.

It’s fine.

He’s stubborn and righteous but you’re the perfect foil. Proven time and time again to be the only vice in Captain America’s virtuous armor, you’re so deep in his head he never quite sees you coming.

Home late from another impromptu mission, he stills at your presence in the hallway. There’s grime smudged across his cheek and his hair’s awry from his helmet.

“Take it off,” you say coolly, “Everything.”

And his spitfire mouth could argue until hell freezes over—but never with you.

Steve’s bare ass hits the bed not ten seconds later. The candlelit bedroom’s glow paints your skin like a sunset—a goddess of the most devastating kind and he turns mute at how you quickly you unravel him.

He’s transfixed by the way you move—your expression dark and smooth like an inbound storm.

You crawl into his lap. You don’t let him touch you.

“You’re not Captain America here,” you say, voice vibrating down his spine. “Not anyone’s defender here.”

“Is that right?” he stutters, feeling the blood rush straight down, dick flexing against your inner thigh. “What am I, then?”

Still stubborn, he tries it with a smirk.

You lick the slope of his neck and Steve whimpers. Nope.

“You’re nothing,” you shrug, “Other than mine.”

His breath catches in his chest, fire igniting in his belly. Your words, the spark. Your certainty, the gasoline. He’s utterly fucked.

Humanity’s moral paradigm—the pinnacle of strength, but you whittle him down to a trembling boy.

Relenting, Steve nods quietly and you reward him with a kiss. Deep and deliberate while one hand comes up to grab his jaw. Your plush lips contrast your firm hold, and he’s moaning louder than he realizes. That sharp tongue he loves so dearly slips over his, kitten licks balanced by hard sucking. His entire body could melt into the sweet cavern of your mouth.

You lift your hips, letting him spring free before angling just right. You rub against him slow, watching the way his lips part and his eyes glaze over. A few more times—with his cockhead barely catching inside your heat before he pops out—and Steve’s on the verge of losing his goddamn mind.

The pulse in his neck is jumping like a stray flare and his chest is heaving— he’s two hundred pounds of enhanced muscle atrophied under your touch.

The only thing working on him is his dick—and it’s working, alright.

Maybe it’s his job—commanding others. Maybe that’s why he loves it so much.

Maybe it’s just you. His wildest wet dream come to life—filthier than sin with a face like heaven. Loving him so damn hard it makes him stupid.

“Eyes up,” and he tries, but his lids are fluttering. “Say you’re mine, Steve. Mean it.”

“Baby,” he’s not quite sure if he’s even speaking English—or out loud—but he’d do fucking anything to get back inside you. “I’m yours, promise. Swear it —all yours.”

Your finger pushes inside his mouth, hooking over his pretty bottom lip, pressing against the soft inner flesh of his cheek. Steve holds your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him from floating away, drool sliding down his chin as you seize him roughly.

With a devilish smile, you finally sink down, bit by bit—so tight and perfect—rolling your hips. Once. Twice. Three times. Again. Again. Again.

“Yeah?” You croon, “Like that? You like being mine?”

He’s delirious, trying to balance sucking on your fingers and bucking up into your cunt, entire being on the edge of collapsing like a dying star and going supernova. Uncontrolled heat eating him up the harder you ride him, the nastier you talk. He’s whining and whimpering. Stuttering and begging for his life.

You make him powerless. Nothing more than a speck of dust drifting through the infinite vacuum of space. And, god, isn’t that something incredible.

“You’re gonna come, aren’t you, baby?” You wonder sweetly, hardly a hair out of place, completely immaculate and ethereal even as you drive him to the point of oblivion. “You’re all swollen up, Steve. Does it feel good?”

“Ah—ah— ”

“What’s that?” Your finger digs further, adding more until only your thumb and pinky curl around his jaw.

Steve gags, choking lightly and it shouldn’t make him so fucking—hot that you’re fucking his mouth, but he doesn’t care. He’s so close, just a hair-thin line away. His heartbeat is in his throat. His ears. You’ve never looked so fucking beautiful—so otherworldly. He’s a mess—he’s falling apart—you’re everything, everywhere. He could die being ruined by you and goddamn, it’d be fantastic.

Steve Rogers—Captain fucking America—babbling like an infant, obedient and useless in your arms. Fantastic.

You take your hand out of his mouth and lick your own fingers clean, bearing down on him, wet and sticky between your thighs and over both of his. The sound your ass makes hitting his legs scribes itself into every atom in his body.

“Good boy,” you whisper, “Good boys get to come, don’t they?”

“Yes—yes— I’m good, baby. I’m real good.” And this must be how the world was created: stars start colliding right in front of his eyes, wheeling off into pure white explosions. His hands are reverential—calloused palms reading your skin like sacred braille. Every word speaks of devotion.

“Okay, Steve,” you sing, “Let me feel you—give me all of it.”

With a few more frantic thrusts, offbeat rhythms of his hips and breath and Steve shatters entirely, hitting deep, spilling inside of you. He buries his face into your chest, mouth open and gasping against your skin.

His entire body shakes and quivers, and when the earth shackles itself together again, you’re all he sees.

“Fuck,” he pants, burning pink like a newborn, blinking the spots from his vision, “God.” And everything feels brand new—like he’s sloughed it all off—the shield, the uniform, the mantle.

Nothing but you and him, and the universe behind your eyes. Two bodies somehow infinite.

You remind him with your mouth to the shell of his ear, kissing his neck, his jaw, his chin. You remind him with your hand cupping his cheek, your smile like the promise of eternity.

Steve lays you down, your name a prayer overflowing from his lips. He spreads you out like an angel and tastes himself reborn between your thighs.

#steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #smut #reader insert #marvel #fanfiction #mcu

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aio-rya · 4 years ago

Text

My World

Azul x Fem!Reader 「Part 1」

「By: Aiorya」

A/N: you can listen to this if you want to get a little ambience on it. The romantic atmosphere~

"I wanna be where the people are... I wanna see~ wanna see 'em dancing... "

The soft, velvety voice echoed sweetly across the hallway, ocassionally interrupting the lyrics to hum instead of singing. Spreading through the wide open main door of the Lounge to the main hallway that connected it to the dorm building, accompanied by the piano gently played on the background. Music never stopped, the combination of both elements with the silence and loneliness of the place seemed ethereal, the unmistakable voice always clever had now the perfect tone for a lullaby; his owner was so immersed on his thoughts, daydreaming on every note of his melody to notice the quiet steps approaching, still on the corridor, guided by the most lovely voice she had ever heard. It was like listening to a mermaid, driving you further into the sea with an unbreakable harmony able to make your soul crave for the sweet chant of the creatures of the depth. Enchanting enough to intoxicate your senses, feeling it down to the core.

Her path blindly guided by the song as a sense of drowsiness took control over her mind, her eyelids were heavier and her lips barely opened in amusement, breathing the cold air of the empty, large hallway as she caressed the wall, tiptoeing as she moved closer to the origin of the music. Silently, she entered the Lounge looking for her merman, taking some time to appreciate the beauty of the place when the crowd disappeared, with low lights apart from the stage, crystal clear bubbles dancing with the calm of the ambience in the water behind the glass, wide space to move freely, to dance to her heart's content.

"Wandering free, wish I could be...

She started swaying, her arms fluttered around her body as she went round and round all along the center of the hall, dancing with herself at the pace of an invisible waltz written by the humming. She almost felt underwater, surrounded by the infinite blue as if she could merge on it. Becoming...

"Part of that world..."

The rhythm of the instrumental intensified, the keys were still played gently yet overflowed with passion, something fierce that ignited every piece of herself with the same fire the had on his heart. As he made music, she made a dance, even if they couldn't see each other yet, they were meant to be —two pieces of a puzzle created to fit together. Her eyes were closed as she left out any sign of shame or discretion, her blouse swirled as she moved showing a small part of the smooth skin of her stomach, her beautiful legs drew invisible forms on the floor and the air at the pace of her improvised ballet. His eyes were closed too as he felt now not alone, the heat inside his chest grew widely, somehow that song managed not only to remember him his homeland or his family, but himself.

Everything was perfect. Until he opened his eyes to come upon her slim body, heavenly twisting and turning as if the center of the Lounge was her stage; it also remembered him home, all those beautiful mermaids he saw into the distance when he was a child, free and beautiful creatures.

Creatures who hurted him.

"What would I do to live where you a--"

It was late when he tried to stop, he had already sang half a sentence —he was not bothered by her presence, he just felt vulnerable. The music broke with a chord, filling the place with silence once more, as if nothing has happened there. Even her steps turned heavier as she stopped tiptoeing to walk on her feet again. Ambience was not relaxed anymore, it was tense.

"Why are you here?", the owner of the Lounge asked in serious voice.

"I...", her voice was a bit broken by the surprise, she cleared her throat as her steps led her near to him. "I brought you what you asked for", [y/n] excused her intrusion, looking for a paper on her pocket, placing it over the lid of the piano.

Azul maintained his empty expression as he opened and read the paper, nodding once after putting it inside the pocket of his shirt. Then, he took his hat from the same lid and prepared to leave —surprisingly, the girl, the human sat by him, standing in his way. She caressed the surface of the white keys, ocassionally touching the back ones, carefully to not make a single sound.

Octavinelle's dorm leader was, somehow, breathless. How distracted he could have been to catch the attention of the only person in this academy who knew, besides Floyd and Jade, how broken he was once and how heartless he could seem on the outside, but how tender, kind hearted was he on the inside? He was nervous, that unspoken feeling both of them have had for a while was now floating around them, filling the air, consuming the oxigen of their lungs. She actually liked his music, his voice and now was touching the keys where his fingers were flying across a second before, as if she wanted to rescue every piece of the heart he left on that keys, on that old song of his homeland.

«I didn't know you could play human instruments so well...» , she longed to tell. But she couldn't, the knot on his neck will not allow that without shedding a tear. Instead...

"How...", Azul asked in a whisper.

She started playing, one key by one, the exact lyric pattern of the melody he was singing earlier. Her fingers were not as mastered as his, but they were delicate, pressing the keys strong enough to be heard but not to click with the wooden surface under them. Then, a soft humming echoed on the room again, her voice —despite not knowing the lyrics, the girl tried to repeat the rhythm. Azul couldn't do anything but stare, barely processing the scene before his eyes; that until she stopped and, with a silent sigh, intended to leave.

"And ready to know what the people know...", he started singing, pressing the keys one by one to accompany his voice. "Ask 'em my questions and...", his voice left its weakness aside as his fingers took control once more of the piano, making a soft change between lyrics to the entire melody once more, "Get some answers..."

His heart increased its beating, he almost felt it coming out of his chest when she leaned towards him, laying her head on his shoulder as her right hand moved to the cuff of his shirt. He felt her warmth very close, almost feeling her touch on his skin; rarely they could touch each other, part shame, part pretending, but now they felt safe —there was no more shame, they were now not pretending.

"What's a fire and why does it, what's the word?", he asked as if he meant it, waiting for her response. Never stopped playing, even if she took more than expected to catch it.

"... Burn?", she completed guessing the word under Azul's glance. A sweet smiled appeared on his face, the melody lessened its sound until it was only a steady, sweet barely perceptible sound for them.

"It is an old song from my home", the boy explained, gently playing a scale until his finger brushed against hers; she returned the smile to him, blushing as she could feel her heart "It... Well, the legend says it was the song that travelled all along the sea when the Princess, the one whom dream made real by the compassionate Witch of the Sea, fell in love with... With a human."

Yes, sure. She remembered that story, from her world too; different though the same in essence. Somehow... She felt part of it. As if that story were about to be told again, this time, she will be the little mermaid that lonced so hard to win the prince's heart.

"When's it my turn? Wouldn't I love, love to explore that shore up above?", the voice of his... «L-loved one?», her surprise of the sudden adjudication snapped her out of her thoughts too. She blushed, madly, as he slightly moved his hand so her fingers slipped down to his skin, tangling over his fingers to play along, guided by him.

"... Out of the sea...?", her voice was still doubtful, yet confidence appeared at the moment she came upon his sky blue, brilliant eyes.

"Wish I could be..."

She finally understood. There was a place she belongs to, and maybe they could discover it... Together.

"Part of that world..."

～ Ξ ～

"Nee, Jade...", whispered one of the brothers.

"Eeh, Floyd...", answered the other at the same volume.

"Do you think this will be funny...?", the first one asked.

"If Azul doesn't take back what he did...", the second said melodically.

Both eels mischievously laughed, not an evil laugh but they had something on mind. What could it be? Nobody knew yet; both slipped out of the Lounge without being noticed. Only a pair of grey and yellow eyes gleaming in the dark.

#ツイステ #ツイステッドフンダラーンド #twst #twisted wonderland #オクタヴィネル寮 #octavinelle #azul ashengrotto #twst azul #twisted wonderland azul #twst floyd #twst jade

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