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guiltyasdave · 9 days ago

Text

epiphany

pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

word count: ~2.8k

tags/warnings: angst, descriptions of injuries, fluff, able-bodied reader, no use of y/n

summary: after a helicopter crash, frankie wakes up in a strange place.

a/n: once again i apologize for the pain i'm about to inflict on you. this was written for @almostfoxglove's angst challenge which i'm so so soooo late for (i'm sorry freya!) and this was originally @sizzlingcloudmentality's prompt/moodboard, but we were both going through the worst writer's block of our lives and thought switching might help (it did not), so the first thousand beautiful words are hers! <3 also thank you for beta reading and for all the yap sessions about this one in particular my love!

for an extra sad experience, listen to epiphany by taylor swift while reading :)

dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

notifications blog -> @guiltyasdavenotifs & full masterlist -> here

It is all noise, deafening noise, roaring rotors, beeping instruments, flickering lights, blinking warnings, screaming metal, screaming people, his own voice, so loud it made his ears ring. Then he saw it. Again. His mom, cradling him, his dad, telling him he was a good boy, Juan, his first cat, curled up in his lap. Friends, his brothers, most of them dead now, rotting in graves, the women he loved. His baby momma. His child, smiling up at him, tiny, fat hands grabbing into the air. Fuck, his life was flashing before his eyes. Again. How often would he have to see this, all his good moments and why were there bad moments, too?

A massive jolt goes through the helicopter as he hits the ground and now the smell of copper, fuel and earth fills his nostrils. Wet, dark, quiet earth. The smell of a grave. The beeping and whimpering blurs into one soundscape, a wave of sounds on which Frankie slips away as his eyes close shut. Dark, quiet earth. Like a grave.

A sheep. Or more than one? They bleat. They coax him out of his unconsciousness, every sound a beacon for his mind to find his way back into consciousness. Out of the dark peacefulness, back into the light. Frankie groans, everything hurts, not only his body, his whole existence hurts, feels broken and ripped. The sunlight cuts through between his eyelids, blinding him, but that is what he wants, the light. He needs the light.

He shields his eyes and finds himself in a meadow. Poppies, cornflowers, grass. Wet, rich earth under his palm as he tries to push himself up. The buzzing of insects. And the bleating sheep. He finds himself in a dream of cottage life. Then he turns his head and sees the helicopter, the carcass of the metal beast he tried to fly too close to the sun. Like Icarus he came crashing down.

He doesn’t have to check, he knows “a fatal crash with zero survivors” when he sees one. Frankie got lucky, again. Somehow death spared him, he always does. Maybe the old fella took a liking in watching Frankie fuck up his life over and over again.

Military training kicks in, he checks himself for injuries and finds no major ones. Maybe a broken rib or two, a concussion for sure. He grunts and pushes himself onto his knees, crying out in pain that he doesn’t even know where it’s coming from.

A furry head appears out of the tall grass, white curls, pink nose, floppy ears, black and vigilant eyes. The snout opens and a bleat comes out. Like a complaint for this human being. To better not disturb the peace in this meadow any further with his mediocrity of surviving yet another accident that should have killed him.

“Sorry,” Frankie mutters and finds the energy to rise to his feet. Shaky, wobbly, the scent of earth and grass clinging to his damp clothes and skin. “You know somewhere for me to find help?”

Another bleat, then the sheep turns and starts wading through the tall grass with all the time in the world. Frankie watches the little bum disappear between green blades dotted with red poppies. He might as well follow the animal. Perhaps he will find a shepherd this way. Or a good shepherd may find him. God knows Frankie is in desperate need of some guidance. Or at least medical attention.

So he starts walking, more limping than anything else, his boots cutting a swath through the grass and flowers, every step causing mayhem for bees and bugs. The sheep, a few steps ahead of Frankie, sways through the meadow like a ship through green waves. It doesn’t turn around once, doesn’t turn towards its herd, the animal simply follows an invisible path that Frankie can’t see. Maybe he is losing it now, following an animal after having a fatal crash like it was his guide. But he had done weirder things in his life. Maybe he had hit his head really hard on the ground when he got thrown out of the helicopter.

His head hurts, his legs hurt, breathing hurts as well, but the scent of summer and peace fills his hurting lungs and every breath soothes the stinging and rippling in his chest.

It takes some time, but finally, after hobbling behind the sheep, the meadow opens into a clearing, a gravel pathway starting to show and leading to a cottage. A small house with walls made out of stones, big and small, various shades and colors, a crooked roof, ducking under some trees as if it was hiding from the eyes of anyone who was not welcome. The birdsong sounds different now, too.

Another bleat and the sheep starts trotting towards the house, the front door open wide. Silence. There is no sound to be heard, no voices, no music playing, no banging of pots and pans. Just birds, humming insects, the sheep drinking water from a bowl. Peace, comes to Frankie’s mind as if someone had seeded the word into his brain.

He doesn’t know how long he sat there, on a creaky bench in front of the house, basking in the last warm rays of the sun before it hides behind the trees. Ten minutes maybe, or an hour. His thoughts were flowing molasse thick behind his forehead. Thoughts about the crash, thoughts about the lives he has on his list, thoughts about who might miss him if he disappeared for good this time.

His eyes flutter shut. The sunlight is warm on his skin, painting the darkness behind his eyelids orange. It’s like he’s floating away, on his way to the sun once more.

“Francisco?”

Your voice is soft, almost as if the wind had whispered his name. He opens his eyes, turns his back on the painless bliss of unconsciousness once more.

Rays of the setting sun frame you where you’re standing in front of him, giving you a warm glow, illuminating the flowing fabric of the dress that you’re wearing. He doesn’t question how you know his name, how you feel familiar even though he’s certain that he’s never seen you before. He must have hit his head really hard.

“I— I crashed,” he croaks, his voice hoarse and the words scraping his throat on their way out.

His hand vaguely gestures in the direction he came from, but he can’t see the helicopter anymore, no sign of the crash either, only seemingly endless fields of grass and wildflowers, with trees in the distance. How far did he walk?

You nod, seemingly unsurprised. The sheep that led him there nudges your hand with its snout and you scratch through the wool around its ears, muttering what sounds like thank you. It bleats at him once more, before finally trotting back to its herd, blending into the white dots among the green.

You pick up the wooden basket you had been carrying and tip your head towards the open door. Your eyes had been trained on his face, but when he stands up on unsteady legs, they trail down his frame, lingering on his side where blood has been seeping through his shirt and the stained fabric is clinging to his skin uncomfortably. He barely registered the pain while he was sitting there, but now, it grows to full intensity. Maybe it’s more than a concussion and a cracked rib after all.

He follows you over the threshold, taking in his surroundings. The stony walls, littered with mismatched wooden shelves, filled with books and flowerpots. Small windows through which the evening light is filtering in. Worn down furniture, cushions that he would love to sink his tired body into right now. An earthy, heavy scent, cleansing his mind and his lungs.

For the first time in years, there’s no underlying need for the artificial high that has kept his head over water and simultaneously pulled him under.

“We need to clean you up,” you say, eyeing his bloody shirt again.

You lead him up a wooden staircase, creaks accompanying his every step, and into a small bathroom. The light from a round window reflects off forest green tiles, mesmerizing him. You fill up a bathtub, adding oils from little glass bottles, until a herbal scent is wafting around him.

Carefully, you help him strip off his clothes down to his underwear. Lifting his arms hurts like hell and he sucks in a harsh breath when his shirt unsticks from the open wound on his left. Some of the pain eases as soon as he sinks down into the warm water, a grateful sigh falling from his lips. You smile at that, a small, timid thing, and he wants to keep looking at you, wants to make you smile again, but you settle on the stone floor at his back, pushing down on his shoulders until most of his body is submerged.

With a cloth, you start on his face, cleaning off mud and dried blood, so gently that it barely stings when you touch scratches on his skin. You move on to his hair, letting him lean back, your fingers massaging over his scalp, easing the tension, the worry that he’s carrying around with him. Finally, you probe at his rips under the water’s surface, fingertips dancing over the open wound there. The pain doesn’t disappear, but it feels less heavy, less biting somehow.

Your hands trace over the scars littering his torso in gentle touches, soothing phantom pains that have long passed. “I’m sorry about these,” he thinks he hears you say, so quietly that he’s not sure if the words were meant for him to understand.

“‘s not your fault,” he murmurs, his eyelids drooping shut once more as he sinks deeper into the warm water.

He awakens surrounded by soft white bedding, a wooden ceiling with exposed beams over his head and the light of early sunrise falling into the room, painting it golden. He stretches without thinking, only a sting at his ribcage reminding him of the day before.

It all feels like he’s walking through a dream, one too beautiful to disturb. So, he doesn’t wonder how he came here, who you are, why you seem to know him, how you seemingly healed most of his injuries simply by giving him a bath. If this is what an actual dream feels like, not the nightmares he usually has, he doesn’t want to wake up.

Everything feels easy, here, with you. There don’t seem to be any clocks in the cottage, so he has no idea what time it is, but it must be early morning. Still, he finds you in a small garden behind the house, tending to vegetables that you’re growing there.

He feels your gaze flying over him, like you’re checking what state he’s in. Then, with a smile, you start explaining what you’re doing. Which plants to water, which vegetables are ready to be harvested. He works alongside you, naturally, like he’s always done this. It feels good, using his hands and body like this. Growing something, helping someone, doing good.

He follows you to the small kitchen, watches you prepare things, storing them in a pantry. You explain which herbs you are growing in small pots on a windowsill, handing them to him one by one to let him smell them.

The sun is rising higher, warming the air floating in through the open backdoor. You take his hand and pull him outside again, walking down an invisible path through the green fields surrounding the cottage. Bees are buzzing in the wildflowers around you and the sheep are bleating occasionally, watching the two of you with curious eyes, but not coming closer to investigate.

You’re wearing a dress again, the skirt flowing around your ankles in the light breeze and the sunlight illuminating your figure as you skip a few steps ahead of him. Frankie can’t help himself, picking a few of the flowers and handing them to you. His heart almost cracks at your wide smile when he gives them to you, your fingertips grazing his.

Back at the cottage, you put them into a vase on the kitchen counter, the flowery scent mixing with the house’s earthy notes in no time. It’s a small thing, but in a way, it's a trace of his presence here. It’s almost scary how much Frankie likes that thought.

It becomes a routine, as easy as breathing. The two of you taking care of the garden first thing in the morning, then a walk through the fields. The sheep start coming closer, even though they don’t let him pet them the way they do with you. He barely hurts anymore, the wound at his side almost completely healed.

In the evenings, you make tea from the herbs that you’re growing. Frankie has never liked tea, always proud to be a black coffee guy, but this one is different. It calms him, slows his thoughts down and fills him with a peace he didn’t know life had to offer. And it’s something that you made. For him, to care for him.

One night, you’re both sitting in front of the fireplace, watching the flames and listening to them crackling. He starts telling you about his past, about all the regrets that haunt him. About the men that he’s killed, about all the pain and sadness that he’s responsible for. About the woman and child that he abandoned, all to chase a high that he knew was unreachable.

He feels lighter, afterwards, like a shadow has lifted from his heart. You take his hand and rest it on your thigh. Your fingertip dances over his open palm, drawing delicate shapes over the calloused lines of his skin.

“All the violence it took you to become this gentle,” you sigh.

Your smile is sad, and he wants to kiss it off your lips. He’s never felt gentle one day in his life, has always been made of brute force and rough edges, but here, with you, he thinks you might be right.

With every passing day, the peace seeps deeper into his bones. Maybe it’s not a dream. Maybe everything that happened before was the dream, a nightmare, and he finally woke up.

That evening, you’re singing while preparing dinner. He puts down his knife and the potatoes he’s been chopping and takes your hand instead. You grin at him, still singing as he sways the both of you around to the melody. His heart aches at the sound of your laugh.

He pulls you closer, leaning in, eyes darting to your lips. For a second, he could swear that you’re moving towards him too. Then you sigh, one hand coming up to rest on his chest, stopping him. He freezes.

“Frankie, you— We can’t. You can’t stay here”

Suddenly, his whole body feels cold.

“Why not? I want to be here. With you.”

Under other circumstances, he’d be ashamed of the whine in his voice.

“Your time hasn’t come yet.”

“What do you mean, my time hasn’t—”

Tears well up in your eyes. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip.

“I’ve already kept you longer than I should have. I’m sorry, Frankie. You have more life to live. I’ll protect you, just like I have before.”

Before he can say another word, before he can even attempt to understand, your arms wrap around him. Your lips sink down onto his, just as soft as he imagined, just as sweet.

Then, everything dissolves. The stone walls around him, the setting sun through the window, the scent of herbs and fresh flowers. It leaves only the feel of your warm body, your lips on his. Until that disappears, too.

His eyes fly open, seeing nothing at first. Sound erupts around him like an explosion. Blurry shapes move in his periphery. The air is thick with smoke, his ears are ringing. His mouth tastes of blood. Hands are frantically pulling at him, moving him, shouting at him, around him, in words that he can’t make out.

It’s like he’s watching, barely present in his body as someone feels his wrist for a pulse, shines a light into his eyes, checks his body for injuries. He doesn’t understand. He was good, he was healing. He was at peace.

His body is limp as he gets strapped onto a stretcher. They may be talking to him, he thinks.

“He must’ve had a guardian angel,” someone next to him says.

Frankie isn’t listening. He’s scanning the treeline, the landscape around him. It was all right here, the sheep, the meadow.

It’s like you’re still right there, the phantom of your presence next to him, but he can’t see you anymore. Just like it was before, he could swear he hears you whisper.

thank you so much for reading <3 as always, comments and reblogs are love, i'm so excited to hear what you think!

and check out this gorgeous art piece by @millersblud 🫶🏻

#janas fics #frankie morales #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x female reader

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guilty-pleasures21 · 1 year ago

Text

Maybe this will just be my trash one.

I was inspired by this fic by @tarjapearce . I LOVE her writing so much!!! Please go check her out and give her some love!!!

1. Um ... yeah ...

Part 1 - the beginning

Part 2 - the car

Part 3 - the detectives

Part 4 - the contract

Part 5 - the clothes

Warnings: graphic descriptions of sex (male x female).

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She studied herself in the mirror, her critical gaze running over the new lingerie she’d bought earlier. Francesco only ever let her leave the house to go shopping. ‘It’s for your own protection, mia cara’, he’d always tell her, the term of endearment sounding like poison on his lips. And then she’d feel bad all over again - because he was right. He’d given her everything and asked for nothing in return. It was the reason she’d married him, after all: because he’d promised to keep her safe. Because he had kept her safe, when no one else would. She walked over to the cupboard to pull out one of his shirts: a neatly pressed white top that grazed her thighs and slipped off her shoulder when she buttoned it up. It had been a while since she’d dress up for him, so rarely was he ever at home. But he’d said he’d be coming home early tonight, so she’d thought to take the opportunity to bring some of that spark back to their relationship. He’d been sweet in the beginning, taking her to dinner, buying her jewellery, promising her that no one would ever hurt her again, not as long as he had anything to say about it. But the thrill of chasing after her - of being much more in love with her than she was with him - must have worn off at some point, because his work days had become longer, his trips to the city more frequent. Now, she was lucky if she got to see him more than a few hours every weekend. She returned to the mirror to adjust the shirt, but then heard a sudden commotion happening outside, cars screeching and doors banging and guns going off before the sickening sounds of fists meeting bodies flew through the house. She dashed over to the intercom by the bedroom door and turned on the camera. An unfamiliar group of men and women stood outside the entrance, surrounded by the unconscious bodies of the guards Francesco had hired to keep watch over the villa. She shuddered, fear squeezing around her insides as she tried to come up with a possible escape route. She grabbed her phone off the nightstand and took her passport from the safe, stuffing both of them into one of her crossbody bags. Then she went over to the window and took a moment to survey the area below, making sure she had an unobstructed path to the shed at the other side of the swimming pool. She inhaled deeply, then climbed over the ledge and lowered herself as carefully as she could, hanging from the edge to get her feet as close to the ground as possible before she jumped. Then she let go.

She was pretty, he thought to himself, his eyes running over the long, curling lashes, dark, almond-shaped eyes and soft, rosy lips of the woman curled up in his arms. But whatever was she doing jumping out the window of Francesco Lombardi’s bedroom? And in his clothes, no less. She scrambled out of his arms, horrified, and pressed herself against the wall, clutching tightly to the strap of her bag. She curled into herself as he continued to study her, doing her best to minimise his view of her bare legs and shoulders. But she couldn’t hide the gleaming golden band that wrapped around the ring finger of her left hand. Francesco Lombardi had a wife? And such a beautiful one too, no less.

He folded his arms across his chest as he looked at her, the expensive material of his back shirt pressing against the rippling muscles of his forearms. She glanced up at his face and her heart skipped a beat at how handsome he was: deep-set copper eyes, sharp cheekbones and jawline, powerful, defined muscles. His full lips twisted into a smirk, noticing the way her eyes roved over him, and she gulped, the sight making her stomach flip over. She lowered her gaze and bit her lip, her heart beating rapidly in her chest.

“I don’t have anything,” she told him softly, making her voice vulnerable and helpless. She tugged on the strap of her bag. “This is just my phone. And my passport.”

He walked closer to her, intrigued by how ready Francesco Lombardi’s wife was to leave him at the slightest hint of danger. But was that just common sense? Or did she know more than she was letting on?

He stopped a few centimetres in front of her, close enough for her to smell the woodsy, spicy scent of him and feel the heat radiating off his imposing form. He stayed there for a bit, letting her squirm for a few seconds, her gaze flickering between him and the ground in anticipation of his next move. Then he held his hand out to her.

“What?” she asked.

“Passport,” he requested.

His voice was deep and thick, but gentle - not like Francesco’s; harsh and demanding, an undercurrent of slyness lacing his every word. And his accent was different too - not the Italian that tinged Francesco’s voice or the hint of British that crept into hers. His was Spanish, if she had to guess, but mostly American. He hadn’t grown up here then, not like Francesco. “W-Why? What would you want my passport for?”

She was cute, the way she hunched over her bag protectively, her eyes narrowing in suspicion as she looked up at him.

“So I can find out your name.” He shrugged, his lips widening into a full smile. She frowned and straightened, trying to make herself seem bigger even though she was so very small to him. Especially in that oversized shirt that kept slipping off her tiny form.

“Why don’t you just ask me?” she pointed out to him. And, Dios, she had to know how adorable she looked when she made that face; had to know that no one would ever take her seriously if she looked at them like that. He took a step even closer to her, tilting his head down so that their lips were just a breath apart.

“Would you tell me if I asked?”

Her lips parted, stunned by their sudden proximity. She felt her mouth begin to water at how soft his lips looked, how lush and inviting. Then she swallowed hard, pulling her gaze away from his. “Only if you’ll tell me yours.”

“Miguel,” he revealed, holding his hand out to her. “O’Hara.” She eyed his hand carefully, then slid her gaze up to his again. Miguel. It suited him. But his last name … it sounded Irish. Maybe he was mixed? He didn’t really look it though, with his dark features and tanned skin. She took hold of his hand cautiously, her slender fingers curling around his.

“X,” she confessed. He raised an eyebrow.

“No last name?”

“I don’t want you to search me up.” She tried to keep her tone light as she said it, like she meant it as a joke, but he wasn't fully convinced.

“Hmm.” He considered her thoughtfully. Then he jerked on her hand, pulling her forward so she fell against his chest. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise, and he slid his hands up her back, holding her close to him. “Tell me, X: do you usually shake the hand of strange men who break into your husband’s house?”

She curled her fingers against his chest, chastising herself for forgetting to take off her wedding ring. But what did he want with her? And how could she get him to let her go? It was no use trying to push herself away from him - any effort she made would be futile, considering how big and strong he was next to her. So she hunched over instead, trying to make herself seem even smaller.

She was so small and soft in his arms, her warm body fitting so perfectly against his as he held her close. He bent over slightly, bringing his mouth closer to her ear so he could murmur in it. “What a shame, princesa.”

She pushed against his chest, hoping to catch him off-guard - and conceal the way her body shivered at the feeling of his warm breath tickling her neck. But he loosened his grip on her anyway, letting her go. She took a step away from him, avoiding his gaze. “Just … Can I at least put on some proper clothes before you … torture me or whatever?”

He brought his hand to his mouth, trying to hide the smile that took over his face at her request. Not just cute, but funny too; in a sarcastic, witty kind of way. He placed his hands on his hips and bit his lip as he looked at her, waiting until she lifted her gaze back up to his. “If I was going to torture you, cariño, you’d be taking off your clothes. Not putting more on.”

How could he say that to her? While looking at her like that? In a way that had her feeling hot enough under the collar that she might have considered removing her clothes anyway? She folded her arms across her chest and frowned at him, trying to look stern. “You … If you’re going to be using lines like that, then I’m definitely going to be putting more clothes on.”

He grinned and moved closer to her, stopping just in front of her once again. He lifted his hand to her chin and tipped her face up to his, their mouths so dangerously close once again. His gaze fell to her lips and stayed there. “Then what should I say, cariño, to get you out of those clothes?”

Her eyes widened as she looked up at him, then she wrenched her face out of his hand and side-stepped him. “Can you just … tell me why you’re here?!”

There it was, that adorable frown once again. “I’m here because your husband has some information I need.”

She furrowed her brow as she considered his words. If he took Francesco down, she’d go down too. Unless she found a way to escape - to run away to some other countryside where no one would find her. But how would she even be able to afford it? Never mind the meagre savings she’d managed to transfer to her mother’s account before the lawsuit, everything she had belonged to him. She had to interfere - had to throw him off Francesco’s scent. At least until she managed to convince her husband to share with her all the passcodes for his numerous off-shore accounts. She gripped onto her bag strap again, hesitating.

“I … can help you,” she suggested, looking up at him to gauge his reaction. “Maybe?”

She probably had some plan in mind to try to stop him. Then again, she had tried to escape from the house immediately. With her passport, no less. Maybe she did know something useful about Francesco Lombardi’s business dealings. And besides - his eyes trailed over her small figure again - there was no way she could pose any sort of threat to him. Maybe he’d try playing along. He waved a hand at the house, signalling for her to lead the way. She obliged, turning to slide open the balcony door. As soon as they’d stepped in, however, the front door slammed open and Francesco himself burst in. His gaze bounced between the two of them, his brows drawing together in an angry frown. Then he stalked over to them.

“You let her go! Now!” he commanded Miguel, grabbing X’s elbow to pull her to his side. He turned to face her, his light brown eyes widening with concern as he looked at her. “Take the car, mia cara. Go to your mother. I already told Antonio to transfer money to your account. I’ll meet you there.” He pressed the car key into her hand, pushing her towards the door. But she hesitated, glancing back at Miguel thoughtfully. He folded his arms across his chest, waiting to see what she’d do.

“What are you waiting for?!” Francesco yelled at her, his normally immaculately styled sandy hair falling into his eyes as he yelled at her. “Go!”

X stumbled as he shoved her again, making her way over to the door.

“Cariño,” Miguel called out to her lazily, stopping her in her tracks. “What happened to you helping me?” Francesco moved to block X from Miguel’s view.

“You leave her alone,” he warned Miguel. “She has no business in any of this!”

Miguel leaned to the side slightly, easily chancing a glimpse at X over Francesco’s smaller form. “That’s not what it seemed like to me.”

Francesco turned to glance at X, trying not to let his confusion show at Miguel’s revelation. “What are you still doing here?! I told you to run!”

X nodded and continued walking to the door. But then she was stopped by two of Miguel’s … bodyguards? A short woman with smooth brown skin and tightly curled hair and a taller, fair-haired man with a long face and bulging muscles.

“Ven aquí, cariño (Come here, sweetheart),” Miguel instructed her, that languid tone still drenching his voice. X gulped and returned to him, knowing that her best bet was to just try and play along until he got bored with her.

So, she understood Spanish. He’d have to make note of that for later. He tugged on her shirt when she’d gotten close enough to him, pulling her even closer. She gasped as she fell into his chest again.

“¿Qué pasa, hermosa? (What's going on, beautiful?)” he asked her, injecting a tone of hurt into his voice. “I thought you said you were going to help me?”

Francesco leaped forward, meaning to pull his wife away from the monster, but Miguel pulled out his gun and aimed it at Francesco, stopping him in his tracks. X curled into herself as she tried to avoid meeting Francesco’s gaze, ashamed now by how she’d tried to sell him out so quickly. “I-I … I don’t …”

Miguel wrapped his free arm around her waist and nuzzled her hair with his nose, inhaling the sweet and fruity scent of her shampoo.

“¿Qué pasa, bonita?” He lowered his mouth to the base of her ear and grinned when he felt the shiver run down her spine. “Tell me where he keeps his bank statements, mi angelita. The ones you’re not supposed to know about?”

He brushed his nose against her neck and she let out a choked gasp at the feeling. “M-Mi-Miguel …”

Ay, coño, the way she whimpered his name? It drove him mad. He pressed his lips to the crook of her neck and let out a soft moan, squeezing her curves appreciatively. “Mmm. You have such a lovely wife, Francesco. How could you even think of cheating on her?”

She dug her fingers into his shoulders, horrified by the revelation. “W-What?”

She turned to Francesco, looking to him for reassurance. But he looked away, avoiding her gaze guiltily.

“Did you … cheat on me?” she asked him, knowing the answer deep down anyway. It would explain the long nights, the trips to the city, the months he’d gone without touching her. He refused to answer.

“Francesco!” she pressed, the rage beginning to bubble up within her now.

“It was just … It was just one time, mia cara!” he pleaded with her. “I was tired and … she took advantage of me!”

“Oh.” Miguel schooled his features into a fake expression of confusion. “One of them actually managed to take advantage of you? What kind of lawyer are you, Señor Lombardi?”

“‘One of them’?!” X repeated, horrified - the exact reaction Miguel had been hoping to draw out of her. Francesco glared at him, but whether it was because of his declaration or because of the insult, Miguel didn’t care.

“Tu sporco canaglia! (You dirty scoundrel!)” he shouted. X tightened her grip on Miguel unconsciously, her lips twisting into a frown as she looked back at Francesco.

“You … You filthy piece of shit!”

He hadn’t expected that. Miguel grinned, amused by the curse falling from her sweet lips, and wrapped his arm more firmly around her waist, supporting her as she seethed at her pathetic excuse of a husband. Eventually, she gritted her teeth and turned to Miguel, revenge the only thought on her mind. “His safe is in the kitchen. You can check there.”

“Gracias, cariño.” Miguel pressed a delighted kiss to her forehead. He might keep her around, he decided. Pretty, smart, and driven by anger, turning it into something productive. She couldn’t have been better than if he’d conjured her up himself. He gestured for Ben and Jess to bring Francesco into the kitchen, following after them with X. She went over to the oven and pulled it open.

“No! X! Don’t you dare! You f*cking b*tch!” Francesco screamed at her, struggling against Ben and Jess. Miguel scowled at the insult and stepped forward, ready to smack the insolent b*stard across the face. But X yelled back at him.

“Shut the hell up, Francesco!” She pulled out the back of the oven and handed it to Miguel, then disappeared back inside to key in the passcode to the safe. It wasn’t long before she’d gathered up the binders inside and given them to Miguel. He opened one up and sifted through the papers within, then grinned when he saw that they contained what he needed.

“Bien hecho, mi angelita (Good job, my little angel),” he praised her before setting the binders atop the kitchen island. He took hold of her shirt again and tugged her back to him. He brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, then cupped her cheek in his hand, his heart speeding up as he gave her a smirk. “Should I give you your reward now?”

“I didn’t do it for a reward,” she told him, her voice coming out much softer than she’d meant it to. She could tell by his tone exactly how he planned to reward her. But in front of other people?! In front of her husband?! Sure, he was a cheater, but she wouldn’t be the same. Although … it wasn’t like they’d ever repair their relationship; cheating was a dealbreaker for her, so he was as good as dead in her book.

Miguel grinned as he watched the emotional conflict play itself out across her face. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him, leaning down to press his lips to the crook of her neck.

“¿Qué estás pensando, mi angelita? (What are you thinking, my little angel?)" He slid his hands higher up her back, pulling her tighter against him, and brushed his lips along her neck. Then he began pressing soft kisses along her skin, taking his time to relish the feeling of her against him.

“I-I … I …” she trailed off, her words disrupted by the shiver than ran down her spine at the feeling of his lips on her. He was so gentle, so soft, and he smelled so, so nice. Like nutmeg and wood, warm and spicy, clouding all her senses entirely.

“You … You f*cking leave her alone, you b*stard!” Francesco yelled, his voice cracking with his fury. Miguel groaned loudly against X’s neck, maintaining eye contact with her husband as he did so.

“¿Qué dices, querida? (What do you say, darling?)” he asked her, voice low and husky. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“M-Miguel …” ¡Ay, coño, that p*nche whimper again! He slid his hands down to squeeze her ass, causing her to squeak and tense against him. Maldita sea, she was cute. He wondered what other sounds he could get her to make, if the layers of clothing between them weren’t stopping him. He slipped his hands beneath the hem of her shirt, sliding them up her bare skin. Then he trailed his fingers down to her underwear, tracing the thin fabric and giving a soft chuckle at the feeling of the delicate lace draped across her curves.

“Was this a surprise for him, mi angelita?” Miguel asked her teasingly, face still buried in the crook of her shoulder. “Do you think he deserves it, cariño?” He curled his fingers around one of the thin ribbons, his mind running wild as he tried to put together a mental image of what she might have been wearing underneath the shirt.

“N-No!” She glared at Francesco, still yelling and struggling against his captors, then her head fell back with pleasure as Miguel dipped his hand just into her underwear, his fingers tracing lazy circles along her skin. “I-I … D-Divorce …” She gasped and wrapped herself around Miguel, sliding her fingers up the back of his neck and into his hair, clutching at the strands tightly. He groaned into her neck, his fingers moving dangerously low along her skin.

“Mmm, angelita.” He looked up at Ben and Jess and nodded his head at Francesco. “Leave him. I want him to watch.” He turned his gaze to Francesco as he lowered his mouth back to X’s shoulder, bare now where he’d slid the collar down. Franscesco continued his futile protests, kicking and fighting against Ben and Jess as they handcuffed him to the very oven that had been his downfall before they left.

“M-Miguel.” X clutched at the collar of his shirt, pulling back to look up at him desperately. “I don’t even … k-know you.” He grinned and plunged his fingers all the way into her underwear, dragging them through her rapidly dampening folds. She bit her lip, trying to muffle the moan that fought to slip out.

“Angelita,” he whined, feeling himself start to harden at how soft and wet she was, how her little body shuddered against him helplessly, getting more and more aroused by his movements. “Should I take you on a date first, princesa? Hmm? Where would you like to go? Dime dónde quieres que te lleve (Tell me where you want me to take you)." He brought his mouth closer to hers, chuckling when she tilted her head to follow his lips with her own. Then he leaned forward and kissed her as he continued playing with her p*ssy, his fingers stroking and teasing her while his tongue swept across her mouth. She stumbled at the overwhelming feeling of him all around her and he pulled her hips against his, holding her upright as he kissed her.

“Angelita,” he moaned again, pulling his lips away from hers to move them back to her neck. He groaned at how wet she was, at how sweet she tasted on his tongue, and circled her entrance with his fingers. Her legs twitched at the sensation and another whimper fell from her lips. “Me estas matando, cariño (You're killing me, sweetheart)."

God, he was good, torturing her and teasing her with his large, calloused fingers. She gasped, her entire body tightening as he slid his finger into her, and he laughed.

“Relájate, mi angelita (Relax, my little angel),” he soothed her, tickling her walls gently. “I’m not going to be able to go any deeper if you don’t relax.”

“F*ck you, you f*cking b*stard!” Francesco yelled at him, the oven banging and rattling as he pulled at his handcuff. X relaxed her body, so lost in her own pleasure that she didn’t even hear the horrified shrieks of her husband - soon-to-be ex-husband, if either she or Miguel had anything to say about it. Of course he’d never let her go back to that monster - not now that he knew what it felt like, having her in his arms. He pushed his finger deeper inside of her, then added another, forcing a gasp from her lips.

“¡Ay, p*ta madre, mi angelita!” Miguel groaned, bringing his mouth to her ear. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had sex before.”

She was just so tight, so sensitive and so desperate for him: it was like she’d never been touched before. X gripped his shoulders tightly as her body began to contract at the feeling of his fingers prodding and poking at her. Miguel chuckled at her gasps and moans, then looked back up at Francesco, his features pulled tight in horror as he watched the sight unfolding before him.

“Or is your husband just too small for you?” Miguel grinned wickedly at Francesco and curled his fingers inside of X, prompting a loud moan to fall from her lips. “Discúlpeme, mi angelita (Excuse me, my little angel). Ex-husband."

“I’ll kill you! I’ll f*cking kill you, you f*cking b*stard!” Francesco threatened him, dishevelled like he’d never been before. Miguel snorted at the threat and returned his attention to X.

“Then I’d better take advantage of this moment, sí, mi preciosa?” Miguel teased, removing his fingers to trail them across X’s clit. “What do you say, mi angelita? Do you want me to show you what a real man feels like? Between those legs?” He ignored Francesco’s curses as he looked at X, waiting for her response.

She couldn’t - she shouldn’t. She didn’t even know him, this stranger who had broken into her home and tied up her husband after stealing his bank statements! She looked up at Miguel, eyes wide, lips quivering as she tried to tell all of this to him. “M-Miguel …”

P*ta madre, she was cute. He lifted his fingers to his mouth, licking off the glistening liquid she’d left there. He moaned at the taste, then flashed a smirk at Francesco before reaching up to cup her cheek in his hand. “Sabes muy deliciosa, cariño (You taste so delicious, sweetheart)."

She whimpered at the declaration, tangling her fingers in the collar of his shirt as she felt another stream of arousal leak out of her. Miguel grinned and lifted her up easily, setting her down on the kitchen island and spreading her legs apart to accommodate himself between them. He held her thighs down and looked her in the eyes, his expression serious. “I’m not going to force you, mi angelita. Tell me if you want me to stop.”

A gang leader? With morals? She would have laughed at the thought if she hadn’t been so painfully aroused then. She glanced over at Francesco, knowing she should say no, knowing she should tell him to stop, then leave and never look back. But she said nothing, just turned back to Miguel with an embarrassed look on her face. He grinned.

“Let’s see this underwear you got, hmm, cariño?” he suggested, starting to unbutton her shirt. “We wouldn’t want it to go to waste, would we now?” He slid her shirt off and tossed it aside, sucking in a breath when he saw her exposed curves beneath the scanty pink lace. F*ck, she looked delicious. So f*cking delicious, all his for the taking. He ran his hands up and down her sides, completely exposed save for the streams of ribbons holding the piece of fabric that clung to her front against her body. She was so, so beautiful, he was getting hard just thinking about all the ways he’d make her squirm and writhe beneath him, her soft curves pressing up against his hard muscles.

“Cariño,” he growled, his lips curling into a snarl as his eyes roved over her hungrily. She glanced over his shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of Francesco’s reaction - he’d used to look at her in the same way, back at the start. But then he’d found his other toys and hadn’t needed her anymore. He clenched his jaw, his normally handsome features scrunched up in anger and frustration, his eyes boring holes into Miguel’s back. And then Miguel slid his hands up her front, landing on her breasts where he pinched and stroked her already stiff nipples, pulling her attention back to him.

“So … So f*cking beautiful, cariño,” he told her, licking a stripe up her neck to her ear. Her head fell to the side in response and he let out another growl before cupping her face in his hands, straightening her so he could begin kissing her. He groaned into her mouth as he brushed his tongue against hers, the sound sending vibrations running down her chest, then he glided his hands back down to her thighs.

“Can I … Can I …” he mumbled, his lips moving against hers as he tried to get the question out. He pulled back, his thumbs toying with the ribbons around her waist, and fixed his gaze on her chest. “So f*cking beautiful, cariño.”

He raised his hands to undo the ribbons around her back, taking his time to expose her full, luscious breasts to him. He licked his lips as she whimpered nervously, then leaned forward to press his lips to her nipples, holding her firmly in place as he sucked and licked on her gently.

Holy shit! He was so gentle, so … appreciative, like he was in such awe of her body, had such a desire to just worship her. He dragged his tongue around her nipple, then closed his lips around it, pulling her breast into his mouth and groaning as he sucked on it thirstily. She gripped onto the table as she let out a choked gasp, her p*ssy throbbing desperately against his stomach. Francesco stilled behind them, his lips curling with horror as he found himself unable to pull his gaze away from the sight. Miguel released her with a wet pop, then licked his way up her collarbone, his teeth grazing her throat as he made his way back up to her mouth. He kissed her again, harder this time, more aggressive, then began moving his hips against hers, driving the bulk of him into her.

“M-Miguel,” she gasped, her body begging for more - for him. “P-Please?”

“Lo sé, mi cariño, lo sé (I know, my sweetheart, I know),” he reassured her, his lips and tongue brushing along her neck and throat. “I just … Just let me taste you, querida. Just … Déjame probarte, mi querida, solo una vez. Solo … (Let me taste you, my darling, just once. Just ...)"

He stood back and undid the rest of her ties, his wavy hair cascading into his eyes at the frenzy of his movements. And then she was fully exposed, completely bare before him, her delicious curves entirely on display for him.

“Mmm, f*ck,” he murmured, his pupils dilating as he squeezed her breasts together, bouncing them in between his hands. She let out a desperate whine and he lowered his hands to her thighs, pulling her legs apart and kneeling down on the ground.

“Don’t,” Francesco begged softly, his tone defeated. “Please.” But Miguel ignored him, instead pulling X closer, so that he could drag his tongue up her centre. A loud yelp escaped her throat and her body shuddered at the feeling, her hips bucking against his mouth as she silently begged him for more. He closed his mouth around her so that his pleased moans sank into her skin and vibrated along her nerves, adding onto her pleasure. Then he dribbled his tongue up and down her folds, drinking up the c*m that continued to leak out of her as he kept playing with her. F*ck, she tasted delicious.

“Miguel!” she pleaded with him, her legs twitching as he circled her entrance teasingly. “Miguel, please! Please?”

He dipped his tongue into her, swirling it around her insides, brushing up against her walls and stroking her vigorously. She whined and moaned loudly, drowning out any protests Francesco might have had, and Miguel increased the intensity of his movements, spurred on by the sounds of her pleasure. Finally, with one last curl of his tongue, she came, her body shaking and shuddering as she rode out her orgasm on his mouth. He kept his tongue shoved up inside of her when she’d finished, making sure to drink up every last drop of her sweet, sweet c*m, and she felt her brain turn numb at the feeling. How could she sit there, completely exposed, another man’s tongue buried so deeply inside of her while her husband watched? She shifted uncomfortably, ashamed by how thrilled she was by the thought, and Miguel finally slid his tongue out of her, pushing himself up to look at her. She glanced up at him nervously, a squeak escaping her throat at the mix of saliva and c*m dripping from his jaw, and lowered her gaze again.

“P*ta madre,” he breathed, shaking his head in awe. “Sabes muy p*nche deliciosa, mi angelita (F*ck. You taste so f*cking good, my little angel)."

He raised one hand to her face, cupping her chin and tilting her head up to his so he could start kissing her again. He needed … He needed more. He needed to feel her clenching around his d*ck the same way he’d felt her clenching around his tongue, her tight little p*ssy begging him for release. He began undoing the buttons of his shirt, his lips never leaving hers as he pulled off his clothes and tossed them to the ground, climbing on top of her when he was fully naked.

“Querida,” he whined, holding her down against the cold marble of the kitchen island as he tugged on the skin of her neck with his teeth. “Querida, tu … Te necesito, mi angelita. Te necesito … ahora (Darling, you ... I need you, my little angel. I need you ... now)."

“Mi-Miguel,” she breathed, losing control of her thoughts once again. Holy shit, he felt good, his broad shoulders and chest, his smooth skin and hard muscles, pressing into her and shielding her from the rest of the world. She tangled her fingers in his hair, gripping onto the silky strands as she wriggled beneath him, rubbing herself up against him for relief. God, his c*ck! It felt huge! So hard and so warm and so painfully outside of her, not filling her up like she wanted him to. “Migue-el!”

“Mmm, querida,” he chuckled, delighting in how badly she wanted him as well. He moaned against her neck, then sat up, sliding her around so she could lie more comfortably lengthwise on the counter. He took hold of himself then, tracing his tip along her soaking folds, lubricating himself in preparation of entering her. She raised her hips, urgently seeking him, but he pressed her down gently, holding her flat against the island. “Calmate, angelita (Calm down, little angel). I’ll give you what you want. I’ll give you everything you want, mi angelita preciosa.”

He grunted as he began easing himself inside of her, stretching her out and filling her up so very nicely. She sighed at the feeling, arching her back and wriggling her hips to better accommodate him, barely hearing the groan he let out at the satisfied look on her face. Then she was sitting up, her head falling onto his shoulder as he held her against him, keeping her upright on his lap. He raised her off of him slightly, then slammed her back down on top of him, thrusting his hips into her at the same. F*ck, she felt … so f*cking good. He continued the movement, pumping himself in and out of her, relishing the feeling of her tight and warm walls squeezing and squelching around him.

“Querida,” he mumbled in her ear, sliding his hands up her back to press her soft curves tightly against his hard body. She wrapped her arms around him, her eyes fluttering shut as her brain went numb, completely consumed by the sheer pleasure of having him so deeply inside of her. She gasped as she came again, writhing helplessly in his arms as he continued to drive himself into her. He bit down on her shoulder and squeezed her ass as she contracted around him, her soft little p*ssy tightening around his d*ck even lovelier than it had around his tongue. And then he came as well, his muscles finally relaxing as he relieved himself inside of her. She leaned over and bit his ear, then lowered her lips to his neck and sucked on his skin, licking up the salty sweat there as his warm seed seeped into her.

“Mmm, Miguel,” she murmured against him, scrunching his hair in her fingers as he continued to hold onto her. His chest heaved up and down as he tried to catch his breath, his fingers stroking her spine as she panted against him as well. Dios, she was cute. He definitely wouldn’t be able to let her go now that he’d had a taste of her.

“Boss?” Jess called out to him from somewhere outside. “Cops are on their way. We’d better get going.” Miguel pressed a final kiss to X’s cheek, then lifted her off his lap, setting her down on the table.

“That’s right,” Francesco told him, suddenly regaining some of his confidence. “You’d better get going you filthy b*stard.” Miguel rolled his eyes and got off the table, holding a hand out to X to help her down. She hopped off of it, stumbling slightly as her legs shook, still weak from having him inside of her. But he held her steady until she regained her footing, then bent over to pick his clothes up. X reached for her underwear, then grabbed Francesco’s shirt as well, starting to put it back on. But Miguel held a hand in front of her, stopping her.

“I don’t want you wearing that, cariño,” he told her, taking the shirt from her and replacing it with his own. “Here. Put this on instead.” She bit her lip, worrying at it as she contemplated his underlying meaning. Her gaze flickered over to Francesco, his brows set into a harsh frown as he glared at her. Then Miguel moved to stand in front of her, blocking her husband from her view. He nodded at his shirt, gesturing for her to put it on, and she did so, setting the underwear aside. He picked it up and shoved it into his pants pocket, flashing her a wicked grin that hinted at whatever he had planned in mind for later. So he wanted there to be a later. Was he really intending on taking her with him then? But how long would he keep her for? What would he have her do? Besides … the obvious, of course. She gulped as her stomach flipped at the thought, lowering her head to avoid meeting his gaze. He slipped his jacket on and placed a hand on her lower back, guiding her out the door and far away from the life she knew she’d never come back to.

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copperproduct · 8 months ago

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Why Copper Rings Are Trending: Unveiling Their Allure

In the world of fashion accessories, trends come and go, but some timeless pieces always manage to make a stylish statement. One such trend that has been gaining popularity recently is copper rings. Not only are these rings visually appealing, but they also come with a range of health benefits. Let’s delve into why copper rings are trending and unveil their allure.

Copper Rings for Men and Women

Copper rings are not limited to a specific gender; they are equally popular among men and women. For men, copper rings often feature bold designs, showcasing the rugged and masculine appeal of the metal. On the other hand, women’s copper rings are often more intricate, featuring delicate patterns and embellishments that add a touch of elegance to any outfit.

Pure Copper Rings: A Symbol of Purity

One of the key reasons why copper rings are trending is their purity. Unlike other metals that are often mixed with alloys, copper rings are typically made from pure copper rings. This purity not only enhances the visual appeal of the rings but also adds to their durability and longevity.

Health Benefits of Copper Rings

Beyond their aesthetic appeal, copper rings are also believed to offer a range of health benefits. Copper is known for its antimicrobial properties, which means that wearing copper rings can help prevent the growth of harmful bacteria on the skin. This can be particularly beneficial for individuals with sensitive skin or skin conditions.

Additionally, copper is also believed to have anti-inflammatory properties. Some people wear copper rings to help alleviate symptoms of arthritis and other inflammatory conditions. While more research is needed to fully understand the extent of these benefits, many people swear by the positive effects of wearing copper rings.

The Allure of Copper Rings

In addition to their health benefits, copper rings also have a unique allure that sets them apart from other metals. Copper is a highly malleable metal, which means that it can be easily shaped and molded into intricate designs. This makes copper rings incredibly versatile, allowing designers to create a wide range of styles to suit every taste and preference.

Furthermore, copper has a warm, rich color that adds a touch of luxury to any outfit. Whether worn as a statement piece or as part of a layered look, copper rings have a timeless appeal that transcends trends.

Conclusion

Copper rings are more than just a fashion accessory; they are a symbol of purity, health, and timeless style. Whether you’re looking for a bold statement piece or a delicate everyday ring, copper rings offer a versatile and stylish option that is sure to turn heads. So, why not add a touch of copper to your jewelry collection and experience the allure of these trending accessories for yourself

FAQs

Q: Are copper rings safe to wear?

A: Yes, copper rings are generally safe to wear. However, some people may experience skin discoloration or irritation due to the natural reaction between copper and the skin’s oils. To avoid this, you can coat the inside of the ring with a clear nail polish or opt for copper rings that are coated with a protective layer.

Q: How do I clean and maintain copper rings?

A: To clean copper rings, mix a solution of equal parts vinegar and water, or lemon juice and water, and soak the rings for a few minutes. Gently scrub with a soft brush or cloth to remove dirt and tarnish. Rinse thoroughly and dry with a soft cloth. To maintain the shine, you can polish copper rings with a jewelry polishing cloth or a copper cleaner.

Q: Can copper rings turn my skin green?

A: Yes, copper rings can turn your skin green due to a reaction between the copper and the acids in your skin. This is a natural reaction and is not harmful. To prevent this, you can coat the inside of the ring with a clear nail polish or choose copper rings that are coated with a protective layer.

Q: Are there any health benefits to wearing copper rings?

A: Some people believe that wearing copper rings can provide health benefits, such as reducing inflammation and promoting healing. However, these claims are not supported by scientific evidence, and more research is needed to determine the extent of these benefits.

Q: Can I shower or swim with copper rings on?

A: It is not recommended to shower or swim with copper rings on, as exposure to water and chemicals can cause the metal to tarnish and lose its shine. It is best to remove copper rings before bathing or swimming and to store them in a dry place when not in use.

#copper rings #copper rings for women #copper rings for men #pure copper rings #womens copper rings #copper rings for arthritis #women's copper rings #magnetic copper rings #pure copper rings for arthritis #copper rings benefits

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inkykeiji · 2 years ago

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got me praying, man this hunger, and feeling something rotten

characters: akutagawa ryuunosuke x fem!reader x nakahara chuuya

genre: smut

notes: just a lil something about aku jerking off as chuuya fucks the life out of you hehe! please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title credit: sit next to me by foster the people

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, aku being a dirty nasty little voyeur, pretend siblings as a habit and inside joke between reader and chuuya (only mentioned once briefly and not by them), akutagawa’s pov, two mentions of mori, reader is an assassin, size difference (chuuya is taller than reader), minimal prep, rough sex, noncon secret audio recording, aku’s kinda toxic in his thoughts and ideals

words: 3.3k

synopsis:

One final glance, he promises himself as he straightens up, already starved for another glimpse of you, belated grey eyes floating to your form again. Your head lolls to the side as dainty fingers trace the ridges of Chuuya’s spine, your hazy gaze connecting with gunmetal, keeping his stare captive for a moment—pinioning him down, bolting his body in place, slashing him wide open to peel back his skin and pry apart his bones and examine his insides, the very deepest and darkest parts of himself, reveling in the way he squirms and fawns and bears it all to you, holding himself open for you, always—before, at last, you wink.

You knew. You’ve known all along.

Despite the fact that Akutagawa always dutifully attends these extravagant work Galas—parties thinly veiled beneath the word ‘functions’ that Mori enjoys throwing for ‘networking purposes’, held at one of his many mansions scattered across Japan—you’d be hard pressed to actually locate him at any of them.

Usually, he finds a quiet corner, hidden and out of the way, to spend the night in—far from the commotion and the conversations and the crowds.

Tonight, however, he leans against the railing of the mansion’s balcony, overlooking the ballroom, a glass of half-finished champagne dangling between slim fingers, and he watches.

Because tonight, something has enraptured his attention.

This is the first Gala you’ve been permitted to attend, limited spaces reserved for upper-level Port Mafia members only.

A blur of crimson and onyx, you whirl across the marble floor in Chuuya’s arms, narrowly but expertly avoiding the other couples, your fingers loosely interwoven behind his neck, playing with the little curling tufts of copper at the nape, his hands on your lower back, fingers splayed wide, tips resting on the swell of your ass.

Like Akutagawa’s little sister, you too were born with no ability. You had been brought in to fill the gaping hole Kyouka’s absence has left—the role of an unassuming assassin; cute, sweet, deadly—and had been doing a fair job so far despite the fact that you’re an adult, with Chuuya assigned to train you in hand-to-hand combat, and Gin to train you in stealth.

It’s a position Akutagawa has refused for his own younger sister many times.

But your talents seem to be befit for it, effortlessly able to morph into whatever countenance the job calls for—the sweet, naive little girl; the playful, saucy little minx; the sad, desperate little baby—resulting in both men and women instantly lowering their guard around you (there’s no way such a sweet thing could ever be dangerous, right?) just before you strike and slit their throat from ear to ear.

Your laughter rings out over the crowd, gently tugging him from his thoughts, eyes drawn back to your form. You’ve ceased your dancing, Chuuya using his full body weight to back you against the wall as you giggle and gaze up at him, caged between his chest and plaster.

Large hands are pressed flat, fingers splayed, on either side of your shoulders as his hips keep your thighs spread, your obscenely tiny cocktail dress stretched as far as it can be, ridden-up material cutting into your skin.

Chuuya’s talking to you, his body closing in on yours—tighter and tighter and tighter—as his lips work, their movements soft and smooth as silk. Akutagawa can barely imagine the words that must be flowing from his skilled mouth.

Your eyes are dark, glittering beneath Chuuya’s shadow, daring him to do all of the things he’s murmuring to you. His forehead pushes against your own, mouths so close his lips must be brushing yours as he speaks, and Akutagawa cranes his neck, attempting to achieve a better view.

It’s absolutely disgusting, deplorable, that the two of you are acting in such a manner, let alone in public, and Akutagawa can hardly believe no one is objecting to something so obscene. Disgust unfurls in his belly, sticky and thick and tainted with a coat of acidic jealousy, snuffing out the few flares of inexplicable, unmistakable desire.

“They seem a little close for siblings, don’t you think?”

“That’s because they aren’t real siblings,” Higuchi responds dutifully, head bowed slightly. “It’s a lie they used to use when they were kids, to con people into giving them money or food. I guess they just...Haven’t fully grown out of it yet,” she shrugs.

Ah. That makes more sense; the two of you look nothing alike. Briefly, Akutagawa wonders if Mori knows this, and concludes that he probably does—probably did, the moment Chuuya brought you into his office, introducing you as his ‘little sister’ and asking for a job.

“How do you know this?”

“I know things,” she says, body bristling, a little defensive. “I hear things, you know,” she makes a vague motion with her hand as way of explanation.

He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t care enough press the issue. He supposes it doesn’t matter either way.

“Wait,” Higuchi begins slowly, turning to look at her superior with widened eyes. “Why are you interested?”

“No reason,” he responds, downing his drink before shoving the gleaming champagne flute at her. “Get me another one of these.”

And then she’s off, nodding and murmuring his honorific to herself as she bustles away, nothing more than a bothersome bug, swatted away with a single sweep of his hand.

Grey eyes scan the crowd again, picking you out with practiced ease, something hard and heavy sinking in his chest when he finds both of your hands in one of Chuuya’s, a devious smile painted across your face as you back away, leading him into the shaded depths of the hallway, Chuuya’s steps languid and lazy as he allows you to pull him along willingly, readily.

Akutagawa’s body is moving before his mind can even comprehend it, forcibly switched into autopilot as it desperately follows you, allowing your aura to string him along like a dog on a leash, lovesick, hopeless.

It’s easy to tail the two of you, easy to hide behind pieces of mahogany furniture and large houseplants entirely undetected as you stumble down the dim hallways, legs entwined and lips locked, tripping over each other’s ankles only to catch yourselves a second before you tumble to the floor.

The sound of spit-slicked lips slipping and smacking echoes around the two of you—a borderline grotesque sound, sopping and squeaky—but neither seem to care, entirely absorbed in one another to notice much of anything at all.

It’s almost as if you’re attempting to devour each other, mouths smashing together as you attempt to swallow the other’s tongue, the drool leaking from the corners smeared across your chins and your jaws, shimmering in the low light; ravenous hands pawing at the hem of your dress and the buckle of his belt, gripping and tugging with a sort of unparalleled urgency—something Akutagawa has certainly never seen before, much less experienced himself—fingers vying and nails starved for the naked flesh of one another.

The two of you fall into the first open door you come across—a bedroom, you got lucky, one of many vacant rooms in this creaky old manor.

It isn’t exactly uncommon for Port Mafia members to stay the night, especially if they’ve had too much to drink or sniff or swallow. Akutagawa assumes you’ll be staying the night this time, too.

You must be really fucking drunk—or maybe you just don’t care, unbothered by the thought of someone walking in, of someone seeing—because Chuuya doesn’t even shut the door properly, giving the corner a halfhearted kick in a poor attempt to close it as the two of you stagger past it, the latch bouncing against its strike plate, failing to catch and click into place.

Well, if it truly doesn’t matter to you that much, then it doesn’t matter if Akutagawa stays to watch, right? Surely Chuuya would’ve taken the time and care to fully close the door, to make sure it was shut good and tight, if this was an issue or concern for either of you, wouldn’t he?

Of course he would have.

So it shouldn’t be a problem when Akutagawa presses a cheek against the ornate doorframe, the gap left by the door just wide enough for him to use a singular eye to peep in.

“Chuu—ah!” you’re crying out as Chuuya shoves you onto the bed, a dark chuckle oozing from his lips.

The mattress dimples beneath his hands and knees as he crawls over your heaving body, sitting back on your thighs.

“I want this off,” he’s saying, words slurred slightly, fingers creeping beneath the hem of your satiny dress and pushing upward; up past your hips, past your waist, past your breasts, until your arms are raising obediently, allowing him to tug the garment from your body completely.

Scarlet lace, delicate and imbued with tiny gems, coats the most intimate curves and contours of your body, bra glittering in the golden light with each rise of your chest.

“Fuck,” Chuuya breathes as he looks down at you, palms sliding up your stomach to grab at your breasts.

Akutagawa agrees—you look fucking breathtaking, all smooth dew-kissed skin that almost shimmers in the low light, undoubtedly softer than anything he’s ever touched, sweeter than anything he’s ever tasted, mouth watering at the thought; and a pair of jewels for eyes, shaded by thick lashes, that beg Chuuya to do all the things Akutagawa wishes he could do to you, all the things that Akutagawa’s wanted to do to you since the moment he saw you, all of the things he’s sure Chuuya had been murmuring to you only minutes ago, the heel of his palm grinding into his already hard cock through his trousers.

“I can’t wait to fucking ruin you,” Chuuya continues, the words still airy on his tongue, eyes still glued to your tits as his fingers grasp and knead and massage, and you laugh—a pretty little melody that has your neck arching off the pillow—a teasing little smile spread across your lips; bold, enticing.

“Well, get on with it already,” you say, and Chuuya’s hands cease their movement.

For a moment everything is still, your connected gazes thick and unblinking—challenging, almost—and Akutagawa expects him to hit you, a backhand hard enough to whip your head to the side, to leave an imprint of knuckles across your cheek, but Chuuya only laughs, the sound tangled with a deep growl rumbling in his throat.

“You little brat,” he’s snarling out, but it doesn’t sound mean, or harsh, or any of the things Akutagawa would think it to, words spit from between a sharp, toothy smile.

And then his fingers are tearing through the lace, fingertips clawing holes through the dainty fabric like flames licking through a spiderweb as it practically melts in his hands, nothing more than stringy tatters of ruined garments as he rips them from your body.

There’s no prep, Chuuya seemingly too impatient to waste any time with that, and the sweet little hiss that slithers out from between your teeth, features twisted in agony, as he shoves his cock into you has Akutagawa’s cock twitching eagerly against his palm.

He rubs it harder in response, crude and messy and desperate, palm cupping it through his pants and giving it a few halfhearted squeezes; nothing more than pathetic half-pumps, unable to jerk it properly with two layers of clothing in the way.

It’s so immature, so fucking juvenile, dirty and disgusting and downright shameful, but he doesn’t fucking care.

Chuuya’s hips start pounding hard and fast the instant he bottoms out, the grip of his fingers so tight on your hips that they’re sinking into the flesh, creating deep dips that’ll surely bear his name in the morning, signed in blotchy little ovals of navy and violet and splatters of broken blood vessels beneath your skin.

The pace is merciless, pleasure and sheer force rippling your flesh oh-so-prettily with the flexing of his hips.

Chuuya’s talking to you, utter filth spilling from his lips, obscenities huffed out on the tails of laughter that mingle with the sounds he’s quite literally fucking out of you, every drive of his cock pushing another melody up your throat and onto your tongue, so dirty it has torrents of heat flooding Akutagawa’s cheeks in rushes, pooling beneath the skin as it seeps through the tissues and staining them a dusty pink.

But Akutagawa’s barely listening; Akutagawa can barely concentrate on anything at all, his own pleasure muffling his ears, heavy breaths he keeps trying to suppress building in his chest, dense and suffocating. And it’s pathetic, really—he’s barely touched himself at all, cock straining against his trousers in desperate yearning, yet he can already feel those telltale sparks tingling in his gut, cinders that smolder in waiting, ready to catch fire at any moment.

Akutagawa’s cock is aching, his hips giving sloppy, premature little thrusts into his palm—insatiable, uncontrollable—and a whine reverberates in his throat, swallowed down with the pools of spit collecting in the crevices of his mouth.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, the word garbled and drowning in saliva.

This isn’t enough, he needs more, ramming his hand down his trousers without even bothering to undo the button, the waistband digging into his forearm tight enough to turn the skin a sickening bone white, just shy of cutting off his circulation.

A smooth hand wraps around the base of his cock and squeezes twice, hard, a futile attempt to ward off his embarrassingly impending orgasm.

From this angle he has a perfect view of your bouncing tits and contorting face—the way your brow scrunches together, relaxes, then tightens up again; the way your lashes flutter, flickering the whites of your eyes as they roll in your skull; the way your mouth, bitten raw and glimmering with saliva, stays pried open in a perfect little ‘o’ by the steady stream of vocalized pleasure pouring past it.

And, Christ, the noises you’re making are so fucking gorgeous—broken mewls and soft whines and airy moans—his free hand fumbling around in his pocket, struggling to pull his phone free from its confines, desperate to record what he can for later use.

It’s a difficult feat to perform with one hand, phone flipping open with the sharp click of plastic against plastic, thumb straining to hit that little red RECORD button, missing it twice before finally succeeding.

The feeling of triumph is short-lived, though, because he’s going to mess the whole recording up beyond repair if he doesn’t quiet down, if he doesn’t shut the fuck up.

Stubborn little whimpers keep climbing up his throat, rough and painful as they hitch and tangle with his hardly suppressed gasps, choked remnants tumbling past his mouth. Teeth slice into his bottom lip, bursts of copper staining his tongue as blood oozes from the fresh wound, the lines of his gums tinged bright crimson.

The strokes of his hand match the snap of Chuuya’s hips, jerking his cock hard and fast, just like how Chuuya’s fucking you, and if he focuses hard on your face, he can almost imagine it’s him fucking you, his palm slick with sweat, his grip pulsing in time with the noises spilling from your lips, simulating the throbbing of your cunt.

Heat begins to coil deep in the pit of his belly, cinders converging into something tight and fluttery and scorching, and he barely has the decency to stifle his groan of disappointment, forehead knocking against the doorframe, brow cinching and molars grinding as he tries to ward the eruption off for just a little longer, front teeth digging further into the gaping wound weeping on his bottom lip.

Tiny spikes of pain sear through his face; up his cheeks and down his neck, the sensation doing nothing to douse, dim, dull the roiling ball of fire in his gut.

“God, you’re so—so fucking good for me—take my cock so well—” Chuuya’s groaning, voice all ragged rasp, rough and gasping.

It’s true, you do take his cock well, and Chuuya gives it to you well, too, the smooth muscles in his thighs almost mesmerizing, graceful as they glide beneath his skin despite his borderline vicious movements.

Akutagawa’s thighs, in contrast, are beginning to tremble, little jolts of pleasure skittering up his legs and wriggling under his flesh in droves. His whole body is wound tight and tense, jaw clenched with such ferocity that it’s beginning to ache, muscles gone hard and stiff as if he’s physically trying to hold off his imminent orgasm, pushing back against an invisible surge.

Short, sharp huffs of breath are escaping his nose now, materializing in little droplets of condensation on the wood, wet and humid against his upper lip. The pumping of his hand accelerates, perfectly in sync with the brutal plunge of Chuuya’s hips, and his lids begin to droop, heavy and weighted with pleasure. It’s a struggle to haul them open again, vision blurring in and out of focus as he tries to concentrate, desperate to see how beautiful you look when you cum, ecstasy bleeding around the edges of his sight, bright and overexposed.

Because you’re getting close, too, Akutagawa can tell. It’s easy to see, obvious, evident in the pitchy wails that fade into the sweetest little rasps—poor imitations of the words they were supposed to be; evident in the way your spine arches so artfully off the mattress, each vertebra working in unison to form a perfect curve as your hips push towards Chuuya’s; evident in your flexing, trembling thighs and curling, vying fingers, grappling at the sheets and Chuuya’s shoulders, nails scraping against linen and skin.

Another three pumps of Chuuya’s hips, another three pumps of Akutagawa’s fist, and you’re both cumming in tandem, so hard it whites his vision and wipes his mind, so hard it kicks his breath from his chest in a pained wisp of an expletive, his orgasm amplified by your gorgeous little noises. Thick streams of cum explode all over his fist and briefs, burning and sticky and so, so much that it’s soaking through his underwear and into his suit pants, a large, uneven, dark patch staining his right thigh.

He can feel it, dribbling down his inner leg in large globs, viscous and gummy and leaving broad strokes, rapidly cooling trails in its wake.

There’s no way he doesn’t look a mess, strands of ink clinging to his temples and the back of his neck, soaked with salt and sweat, cheeks tinted with exertion, chest stuttering as he tries to swallow down tattered breaths in a feeble attempt to keep from drawing attention to himself.

There’s no way anyone wouldn’t be able to guess what he had just been doing in a mere instant, if they saw him.

Chuuya isn’t faring much better, to be honest, body collapsed atop of yours, heaving back shimmering with a sheen coat of perspiration, gleaming with each rise and fall as it catches in the light. Akutagawa doesn’t even remember Chuuya cumming—not that it matters, you’re the only reason he’s even here at all—too busy drowning in the intense bliss of his own orgasm to have noticed at all, all senses suffocated as the pleasure absorbed him, ate him up, swallowed him down, then spit him back out.

Finally, Akutagawa pushes off the doorframe with a weak arm, muscles spent and shrivelled with pleasure, wincing a little at the deep indent he’s sure the wood of the frame left on his forehead.

You knew. You’ve known all along.

His cock gives one last spurt in response—pitiful, pathetic, and entirely instinctive—and you smile.

And no matter how hard he tries, no matter how much he doesn’t want to be, he’s nothing more than warm, gooey putty in your soft palms.

He’ll never be anything more than that.

#akutagawa smut #chuuya smut #nakahara chuuya smut #akutagawa x reader #chuuya x reader #nakahara chuuya x reader #whewwwww #love aku so much waah

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ladiafashionjewelry · 3 months ago

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#copper rings #man rings #women rings #fashion jewelry

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gay-for-the-snz · 1 month ago

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Loversbane (F, allergies) [NSFW!]

Brief diversion from Sicktember that I was so on fire for I started it last night and finished it tonight before I could sleep. Not beta'd literally at all, genuinely just porn without plot because I was thinking violently about sex pollen and allergies, with a smidge of worldbuilding thrown in there because that's simply who I am

NSFW, four people suckin n fuckin (two pairs), some snzfucking voyeurism, vaguely dubcon because of the nature of sex pollen in general? 2.1k

⁂

The tent, once they've pitched it, is minuscule in its dimensions. How he ever allowed them to strong-arm him into this decision to share one is beyond him, but after the misadventure that saw the last camp destroyed by bandits, their options were slim. This was the best the last town had for sale, and if it came down to this or sleeping on the ground in a bedroll as his only protection from the elements, this is the marginally better option.

The close quarters are claustrophobic to say the least, especially to one so accustomed to his own space. He's wedged between Damian and Corva, with Laïla on the opposite side of her wife, at the bard's insistence. It's cramped. It's uncomfortable. But it is his only option, short of crawling out and sleeping in the lush grass of the clearing, no doubt infested with all manner of insect and snake and gods-know-what-else.

He's got his eyes closed, hands clasped on his chest as he tries to ignore the sounds of shifting and breathing, the feeling of body heat right up against him. He's surprised to realize that this isn't quite as uncomfortable as he'd have expected it to be. The evening is warm enough as to not be unpleasant, but not so hot as to be intolerable, and the scent of the forest is pleasantly soft but present in a way that soothes the rawness of these sleeping arrangements.

A hand touches his hip, and he looks over with irritation. He's surprised to meet the rogue's half-lidded gaze, his dark eyes looking intently at him from beneath his lashes. This is an invitation, not an accident.

He's more surprised than anything to realize that he isn't revolted like he ought to be. He's never noticed before how his hair is a deeply rich shade of copper, how his black eyes are so keen and lustful, how his skin is a warm bronze that calls to mind the sun even under the light of the moon. He nudges slightly into his touch, letting the hand on his hip find purchase over the fabric of his nightgown.

It's obscene to even consider doing anything with the rogue of all people, especially when they couldn't have any less privacy short of being in a town square, but he can't find it in himself to care. He brings a hand up to touch Damian's chest, the warm metal of his rings pressed against his skin.

Beside him, he's aware of the sound of blankets shifting, of the women moving to one another, but he doesn't pay them any heed. He's got something more important to focus on. Damian is hiking up the hem of his nightgown, grabbing at his ass and pulling him closer to straddle him. With no need to keep from waking the others, they're more careless in keeping quiet about it. He lets Damian's tongue into his mouth, letting it run along the pointed canines.

This is rancid. This is something he should be far from enjoying. But he can't deny the absolute electric feeling from every touch, the red-hot lust sparking beneath his skin. He's pulling down Damian's pants, now, letting the situation escalate as rapidly as they want it to--it's impossible to slow it all down, to let himself take any time. Every second they aren't getting closer to one another is unbearable.

Behind him, he's dimly aware of the sound of Corva and Laïla getting closer as well, of their kissing and soft moans. Someone sniffles, but he's too focused on the feeling of Damian's mouth on one nipple to pay attention to anything else. It's almost overwhelming. There's no doubt in his mind that the rogue is good at what he does--he's a man with a wealth of experience, experience he's had a century to hone, and he makes it well known in every touch he visits upon him.

He's lost in the feeling of his tongue on his skin, of Damian's hands sliding his legs apart and teasing at his folds--good gods, how long has it been since someone's touched him like this? He's hopeful that his patron is paying no heed right now, because this is a conversation he isn't going to want to have when whatever this is has worn off and he comes back to his senses.

He jumps when a hand is placed on his shoulder, and his startling is enough to startle Damian into pausing. Beside him, Corva's head is thrown back with a whimper, her wife's tongue buried inside of her as she takes the opportunity to please her. She's braced against him, now, grabbing his nightgown in a tight fist, just for purchase and to be grabbing something. He doesn't really want to try and displace her--he's busy, and so is she, and he doubts she would take well to being interrupted just to remove her hand when it's not doing anything but holding onto his clothes.

Besides...

He's never noticed how beautiful she is, either. Her skin is a deep, rich shade of brown, the long, thick braids of her hair the color of the night sky, the metallic freckles on her cheeks like stars beneath them. A halo crowns her, dim but readily noticeable in the low light of the tent, and he thinks he truly sees for the first time that the angelic qualities she has aren't just from her bloodline. Her lashes are thick and soft, fluttering against her cheeks with each little whimper and squirm, her full lips alternating between parted with each noise and pressed into a tight line at the pleasure. And her nose...

It's wide and flat, expressive and squishy; a delicate sheen of moisture clings to her nostrils, which quiver slightly with each breath. She's given up on sniffling, letting it start to run free, and he's entranced by it. He watches it scrunch, wriggling it side to side against the feeling.

Damian, clearly irritated with being ignored, decides to get his attention. He gasps sharply when he feels him slide into him, and he's more than ready to receive the rogue. The waiting has felt like an eternity, even if he knows they've only stopped touching eachother for what might be a matter of a minute or so.

The rogue's fingers brush lightly over his clit, and he grits his teeth against the feeling to keep from cursing. "Damian--"

"Call me by my name."

"Aldamianor--"

"Huh'urRSCHieww!"

Corva sneezes, startles all three of them. She reaches up a trembling hand to rub at her nose, leaking nostrils twitching in irritation at the act. She sniffles, congestion already starting to seep into the sound of it, and Laïla reaches up to tug her hand away, to kiss her deeply and passionately.

She breaks away with a shaking gasp, nostrils blown out into perfect O's of itchy desperation, but the act goes nowhere when her wife's fingers are pressed firmly beneath them, covering them completely. "No, no, my love, my muse, my heart--none of that, now. No sneezing, heart, none of that."

"Laïla..."

Damian eases a finger into him, and Despair's attention is torn away by the feeling. He doesn't know whether to tell him to stop playing and get to business, or to stop entirely so he can focus on what Corva's doing. He's never held a fascination for this before, but neither has he for the rogue, so perhaps this is a night of discovery all around. He tenses when he looks back towards her, sees those beautiful nostrils flare wider than the fingers blocking them in a manner so deeply and unequivocally needy.

The instant her nostrils are flared past the fingers trying to stop them, she's given no choice but to give in. "HuUH-! huURSHieww! 'RSCHieww! huH-!"

Laïla has reached up, pinched her nose shut since the previous method was ineffective. "What did I tell you, hm? You look so beautiful like this, so perfect for me." She watches that nose scrunching hard against the hand keeping it at bay, still clearly deeply irritated and desperate for relief it's being denied.

"L-love, why w--hh-! won't you--huH-!?"

"I want to see you like this. I want to watch you."

And so does he. He rolls his hips to try and achieve a bit of friction, to convince Damian to actually reach in to start stroking him instead of just toying with him to build anticipation that isn't paying off. He sucks in a sharp breath when he returns his attention to his clit, letting the heel of his palm grind against it while he drags a finger along his insides. Oh, gods.

He whimpers something that even he isn't entirely sure what it is--perhaps Damian's name, his true one instead of the drivel the humans gave him because it was easier--perhaps it was a command not to stop, or perhaps it was nothing but a sound of desperation that clawed its way up from his throat as he writhes in agonizing pleasure against the rogue. He understands, intimately, how the man made a living as a pickpocket for many years--he is excellent with his hands.

He clenches involuntarily when he watches Corva's gasp be met with the release of her wife's hand, her nail dragging up her septum and teasing one desperately quivering nostril, and--

"hrRESSHh'uh! 'RSCHieww! huURRSCHhieww!"

A trio of them, uncovered and spraying all three of them with the contents of that nose, just as needy and dripping as he's sure they both are by now. She looks torn between another sneeze and something else--her wife's returned her attention to her lap, eating her like a starved animal.

He never thought he could be so enamored by someone's allergies...allergies?

Something in his mind crackles like wildfire, a burst of divine inspiration--oh, wonderful. His patron IS watching in on this, then--that cuts through the haze of desperation like a knife.

Allergies. Fey plants. In his mind's eye, he can see petals unfurling, a pleasant scent filling the air, thousands and thousands of little grains of pollen being released.

Oh. Gods. He knows what this is.

"It's--mmh!--it's Loversbane--" He struggles to force himself to speak, overwhelmed by the intensity of the entire situation. Of his own approaching orgasm, of Corva's desperate allergies, of the lust that is overpowering his faculties.

It's a potent aphrodisiac, that much he knew, but the stuff you can get from a sleazy alchemist doesn't hold a candle to the power of the fresh stuff, and he can't imagine that they're far from a patch of it, if it's driven them all to such a frenzy. They're notoriously difficult to keep alive, and even more notoriously difficult to find a fresh clump like this. Alchemists and students would kill to know where this is, to be able to experience the effects firsthand and know what they're studying.

If any of the others have grasped the meaning of his warning, they don't show it. He's trembling, now, knows he's on the brink of it, and Corva must be too, because she's stopped trying to even talk to her wife, now just desperately hitching and whimpering thinly. He can't tear his eyes off of her nose, watching, enraptured, by the way it seems to quiver and twitch just like they both are.

Her chest heaves with a harsh, ragged gasp as she throws her head back in pleasure. "huH-! huURRSSHHIeww!" The spray coats all of them, the cool mist electrifying over his burning hot skin.

He clenches when she releases, grinds his throbbing clit hard against Damian and lets the finger inside him find that sweet spot, and feels it wash over him as well. He's gasping and panting, sweaty as he pushes Damian away from him. He's halfway curled in on himself, dropping the hem of his nightgown and brushing the hair back from his face with a shaky hand.

Beside him, Corva is still feeling the effects of the Loversbane--Laïla's tongue is still stroking along her folds, easing her through the orgasm while her nose still protests the allergen it's being assaulted by.

"huH'sshiew! 'schieww! Huh-uH-! usschuue! huh'schieww!" They're weak, tired things now, too spent to put any real power behind them. She paws at her nose, the sound of wet clicking audible as she tries to massage the tickle away. She takes the handkerchief her wife offers, blows her nose thoroughly. The sound of it is devastatingly wet--a fact that he can attest to, feeling the ghost of where the spray settled across his skin during this little adventure--and she muffles a final, exhausted, "husshiew!" into it before collapsing against the bedroll.

This will be a regrettable conversation to have in the morning, but for now, all he can think about is the split desire between moving their tent as far from here as possible, and hoping to any god who may be listening that the wind shifts their way again, brings a fresh wave of that pollen into everyone's respiratory system.

In the end, he pins his hopes on the latter.

#sickfic #snzfic #snz #sex pollen #sorry if this is not what you came here for but uhhhh I simply love it when women are sneezing and also when there's sex happening sometime #and both these things 🤝together #anyway I was going a lil insane and had to drop everything I was doing so I could write this #sex pollen likers and allergy likers and woman likers. this one's for you (and me)

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marsprincess889 · 1 year ago

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NAKSHATRAS AS GODDESSES

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🐎ASHWINI🐎

DISCLAIMER: This is based solely on my research and the patterns that I saw. I can't promise that I'm gonna be sure in all the coorelations, but I'm going to attribute each nakshatra a goddess that I think fits it the closest. If you're dissapointed, to make up for it, I'm going to list some other deities in the end that I think also fit the nakshatra. Don't come for me if you think I'm wrong, be respectful in the comments if you think so and have fun 🤍

While researching, at first it was obvious that no deity was as perfect for Ashwini as Ashwini Kumaras themselves. I still tried to search for a Goddess that would be most similar to this nakshatra's energies and I kid you not, I've found the exact goddess I was looking for. Definitely was not expecting this.

Saule

Pronounced "sow-lay"

Pantheon: Lithuanian

Name meaning: The sun

Main associations: The Sun, fertility, healing, helping women and children, red apple, gold.

Symbols: The Sun, apples, colors gold and red.

The Baltic people believed the Sun to be a disc, dancing and rolling around. Saule is the literal representation of the sun, who, not unlike the Greek god Helios, rides a chariot pulled by two horses. The horses are mostly described as white and sometimes golden, and they're called, believe it or not, the Asviniai. It seems that the word has an Indo-European root.

The deities assigned to Ashwini are Ashwini Kumaras_twin horsemen, depicted as young, healthy and handsome men who can heal people.

Like their power, Saule is associated with healing, regeneration and also fertility. She rides in her copper-wheeled carriage with her trusted horses, flying through the sky every day, bringing light and warmth to Earth. In regards to her appearance, she's frequently depicted with long golden hair, as well as being associated with gold and amber in general. She's described as being dressed in golden silk. Being the goddess of health and vitality, she had horses that would never tire nor sweat.

At night Saule would bathe her horses and go to the underworld. She was married to the moon god Menesis. Their first child was Earth, then followed other children: the Stars. It's said that her husband was very carefree, sometimes sneaking out of their castle in his moon carriage, thus leaving the world to darkness. Despite having a husband, ultimately, Saule is a sovereign and independent goddess.

As the setting sun, Saule is known as the falling red apple, a ring or a crown. She's strongly associated with the color red, and also apples and apple trees. Other plants associated with her are daisies, sunflowers, roses and linden.

Saule is honored every year at summer solstice.

I want to talk a little about why I coorelated her to Ashwini but first, I'll talk about the goddess extremely similar to her- Norse goddess Sol/ Sunna. She's also associated with the sun, healing, regeneration and has a chariot pulled by two horses, one of which is called Allsvinn (very fast), the other is called Arvak (early rising). Also, one of her many names literally means "Gold".

I think the association of these goddesses with Ashwini kumaras is clear, but I chose the Baltic goddess saule as to me the Baltic culture is more similar to Ashwini's energies than the Norse (You'll definitely see Norse goddesses in this series tho). Baltic people also have gods which are basically their equivalent of Ashwini Kumaras, twin horsemen gods called Ašvieniai. It's crazy to me that two cultures that you wouldn't think have anything in common basically share a deity.

Other deities that can be associated with Ashwini other than Saule:

Sunna- Norse goddess of the Sun, healing and fertility.

Ašvieniai- Baltic twin horsemen gods who have a gift of healing

Rhiannon- Celtic goddess known as "The Horse Queen", goddess of movement, leadership, the night, the moon and death.

Epona- Celtic goddess most strongly linked to horses (and you can tell by her name)

That's it for Ashwini🤍❤ I love my horse- people😅🤍 I genuinely do, there's no one like you guys, you are very healing and refreshing to be around. Keep going 🐎🐎

Don't forget to comment if u liked this or you can interact in any way .

#ashwini #ashwini nakshatra #baltic mythology #saule #goddess saule #nakshatras #vedic astrology #ashwini kumaras #sun goddess #sun in ashwini #moon in ashwini #ascendant in ashwini #moon in ashwini nakshatra #sun in ashwini nakshatra #ascendant in ashwini nakshatra #ketu in ashwini #ketu in ashwini nakshatra

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phoebe-ofthe-cosmos · 2 years ago

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Truth to Light

summary: morrigan returns to velaris after ending her mission in vallahan. when she learns of the valkyrie training that cassian and azriel oversee each morning, she decides to join them for their exercises. what she sees when she arrives to the training ring inspires her to confess her longest held secret — and accidentally reveal another in the process.

aka azriel is the literal last person to know who his mate is

read it on ao3

word count: 3,161

notes: this is the first piece of writing that I'm ever posting somewhere! very nervous about this lol :)

From her room in the River House, Morrigan could see the horizon begin to gray with the first light of the day. She’d already been awake for some minutes; had bathed and gone through her stretching routine and was just securing her braided hair with a leather tie. She turned to the drawers beside her and pulled out the training leathers that she would wear to the morning session at the House of Wind.

Mor had returned from her mission in Vallahan a few days ago, having called it quits after nearly a year spent in the kingdom with little progress made in securing their agreement to the peace treaty. Since her return to Velaris, she’d spent her days in meetings with Rhysand, Feyre, and the rest of their inner circle, trying to plan their next moves before Koschei could escalate the conflict that loomed ahead of them. Without Vallahan’s cooperation, the approaching war was sure to be bloody.

It was in yesterday’s meetings that Cassian mentioned the training that he and Azriel had been conducting at the House of Wind. Nesta had started it all, he’d said. She’d invited Illyrian women and the priestesses from the Library to join; a small but dedicated group had formed, led by Nesta herself and some friends she’d made.

“She’s studied the old Valkyrie fighting techniques, and combined them with the Illyrian style,” Cassian said, beaming. “She and her friends won the last Blood Rite. Two of them are Carynthian.” Beside him, Azriel had a proud smile on his face.

Every morning at dawn, they’d told her. And the mother knew that Mor had some frustration to let out of her system. Sparring with Nesta Archeron seemed as good a way as any to relieve it. Mor would see for herself what the female could do.

She tightened the last straps of her boots and faced the mirror in her room to do a final assessment. Her eyes were tired, the skin beneath them still puffy thanks to the hours she’d spent at Rita’s the night before. But she couldn’t spend another day sitting in meeting after meeting with Rhys and Amren bickering incessantly beside her. So she’d forced herself to leave the comfort of her bed after only a few hours of sleep, determined to make this day productive in some capacity. A final glance to the window revealed that the sky had lightened further, the horizon nearing blue.

With an exhale and a blink, Mor was gone.

Rhysand’s grip around Mor’s waist loosed as he touched down outside the training ring at the top of the House of Wind.

“I have to go to Windhaven to bring Emerie in,” he said as he released her, her feet finding stability on the ground. “Be nice to Nesta, please,” he said with a teasing smile.

“I’ll be exactly as nice as she is to me,” Mor responded, winking. Rhysand rolled his eyes and laughed before taking flight again. A few flaps of his wings, and he was gone, disappearing into the sky as he winnowed to fetch the Illyrian who would join them.

Mor tightened the guard on her forearm as she turned toward the ring. After a year in Vallahan, she wasn’t exactly in top form. She’d wanted to come a few minutes early to start warming up before the others arrived, but as she looked up from the straps that she adjusted, she saw that she wasn’t the first person here. Nor the second.

In one of the fighting rings, Azriel sparred with a copper-haired female. Mor paused at the edge of the ring to observe. The female had a white ribbon tied around her head; and to be here so early, she must be one of the priestesses. Gwyn, Mor remembered. Cassian had said the Valkyrie priestess was named Gwyn. One of the two Carynthian females.

Mor watched as Gwyn dodged Azriel’s blade, dancing away from him with expert speed and precision. Where Azriel swiped right, Gwyn pivoted to the left and blocked his blade with her own. When he swung his sword toward her chest, Gwyn dove and rolled to dodge his blow. From her years of training with Azriel, Mor knew that he wasn’t going easy on the priestess. No, Mor thought, she’s really that good.

Mor watched as Gwyn swung her own blade toward Azriel, nearly grazing the Shadow Singer’s thigh, but he flapped his wings to lift himself above the slice she made. It would have been a brutal blow if she’d landed it.

“Not fair!” Gwyn shouted between panting breaths. Azriel laughed as his feet found the ground again.

“It is fair. What good are these wings if I can’t use them to my advantage in battle?” he said to her with a smile. “Your enemies on the field will use any advantage they can to beat you – you need to assess every possible angle they could use to best you.”

“Well, this isn’t a battlefield, it’s a training ring,” Gwyn huffed, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “And if I can’t fly then I don’t think you should be able to, either.”

Azriel laughed again, and Gwyn scowled.

“Let’s get some water and then move into stretching,” he said. “The others should get here soon.”

Gwyn turned on her heel and stomped over to find her skin of water along the fence. Azriel, still smiling, turned his own back to search for his supply. Mor watched as the shadows that trailed the Illyrian seemed to dance toward the priestess. As if unable to stay away from her for the few moments it would take Azriel to hydrate.

The corners of her mouth tugged upward, her lips parting slightly, as Mor saw the truth that hung between the male and the female in front her.

Holy gods.

Mor was blinking, processing her realization when Cassian and Nesta emerged from the stairway behind her.

“Mor!” Cassian called. “Welcome to the pain cave. Hope you’re ready for an ass-whooping, courtesy of my wife.”

Mor wiped the shock from her face as she turned to face her friend and his mate. Beside Cassian, Nesta had a sinister smile on her face.

“Nice to see you again, Morrigan,” she said.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Mor responded, matching Nesta’s expression. Oh, they would have fun today.

Nesta broke away from Cassian and moved to find Gwyn. Behind her, Mor sensed Azriel approaching.

“How long have you been here?” the Shadow Singer asked.

“Long enough to see you barely miss that blow from the Valkyrie,” Mor teased. Azriel and Cassian both looked to where Gwyn and Nesta now stood, stretching and talking. From the way Gwyn glared at Azriel, it was clear she was describing their match. Nesta smirked as Gwyn recalled the story.

Azriel smiled to himself, gazing toward the priestess, amusement in his eyes. “She’s good, isn’t she?” he asked.

Mor knew the question wasn’t directed to anyone in particular, but she responded, “I have to admit I’m impressed. Although, I’ve seen you two train enough warriors over the centuries, so I shouldn’t be so surprised.”

“What Nesta has been able to do, getting these females to learn to fight, reviving Valkyrie techniques… it’ll be a game-changer in the war with Koschei,” Cassian said. Azriel nodded his agreement.

“If they can all fight like that priestess, then I’d say that Koschei has no idea the kind of hell that’s coming for him,” Mor said.

Rhysand appeared in the sky above them, flying down slowly with an Illyrian woman.

“Thank you, High Lord,” she said as he released her. Rhys inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Emerie, I’ve told you that you can call me by my name,” he said. “We see each other damn near every morning.”

She laughed brightly. “Well then, thank you, Rhysand,” she said. With a wave to him and to his brothers beside him, she moved to meet Nesta and Gwyn where they stood at the opposite edge of the training ring. From the stairs leading to the House of Wind, more priestesses began to emerge, some already stretching their arms across their bodies in preparation for the day’s exercises.

Rhys turned to the family beside him. “Is there anything else you lot need from me this morning, or can I return to my bed with my mate and son?” he said tiredly.

“We’ve got it from here,” Cassian said, clapping a hand on Rhys’s shoulder. “Go get some sleep, brother.”

As Rhys flew up and winnowed back to the River House, Cassian and Azriel stepped forward into the training ring. Mor extended a hand, grabbing Azriel’s bicep before he could get too far. At her touch, he hung back. When Cassian was a few paces ahead, Mor turned to her friend.

“Do you have any time this afternoon for a conversation?” she asked.

“About Vallahan?”

“No, something else. It’s important. I should’ve mentioned it a while ago.”

Azriel’s brows laced together, his mouth turned downward with concern. “Alright, I have some time after our meetings before I need to check in with my spies. Will that work?” Mor nodded.

“Yeah, that’s perfect,” she said. She let go of his arm and glanced toward the Valkyries. Emerie’s face looked almost pained. Nesta was staring at her with narrowed eyes. Gwyn was biting her lip, and Mor saw that the priestess was looking at her, at the hand she had touched Azriel with, with caution in her eyes. Mor offered a gentle smile to the female before she turned toward the weapons rack to choose which sword she would use to whoop Nesta’s ass with, as Cassian had so eloquently put it.

That afternoon, Mor sat curled in a large chair in the River House’s library, gazing at the sparkling Sidra outside. She cupped a mug of warm tea in her hands, inhaling the curling steam.

Nesta had indeed whooped her ass that morning. When she got past her embarrassment, Mor had to admit that Nesta was a damn fine fighter. She’d made a point to tell her as much; Nesta, of course, hadn’t taken the compliment graciously, responding with a simple I know. Mor had had to bite back a retort. Swallowing her pride, she asked Nesta if they could spar again the next morning.

“I’m out of practice,” Mor had said. “A few sessions should have me back in fighting form, and then I’ll be eager to see how we match.”

“It will be my pleasure to best you again tomorrow,” Nesta responded as she polished her sword. “And the next day. And the next day. And the day after that. And the –”

Cassian had called out to Nesta for help restringing a bow, almost certainly having kept a listening ear on their conversation, readying to diffuse their tension. Mor smiled at the memory. Having Nesta around might not be so bad after all. Amren would never practice with her, and Feyre was a good fighter, but Mor liked her High Lady too much to really try to win in a match against her. Mor massaged the sore muscles in her thigh. Yes, with Nesta, she’d have a worthy rival.

Behind her, the library doors opened, and she turned to see Azriel enter the room. Shadows swirled around him. Mor could sense his nervousness, could see how his shoulders lifted up toward his ears, tight with stress. It had been a long time – decades, maybe even centuries – since they’d sat in a room together just the two of them, without Cassian or Rhysand between them. She gestured to the chair opposite her in invitation to sit.

“Tea?” she offered, leaning toward the steaming pot on the low table between them. “It’s a special blend, I brought the leaves home with me from Vallahan.” Azriel nodded, and Mor poured him a mug.

Azriel took a sip of the tea and leaned back in the chair, but Mor could see that he wasn’t relaxed. “So, what did you need to discuss with me?” he asked.

Mor sighed, gazing into the mug of tea that she held in her hands. “Something I should have told you a long time ago,” she said. She could have sworn that Azriel winced.

And so Mor told him her story. Told him why, all those years ago, she’d chosen Cassian over him. Told him why she’d avoided his advances ever since, about her preferences regarding males and females. Told him about Andromache, the lover she lost after the War, the man that her lover had gone on to marry and have children with before dying a mortal death in the human lands. Told him of her fleeting relationships since that last time she’d seen the human woman, of her nights out at Rita’s. Told him of the secret affairs she’d had with females since then, why she paraded some of her male lovers around in an effort to dissuade Azriel.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “for the hurt I’ve caused you over these years. Everything I did was an effort to protect you, even if it didn’t end up that way in practice. I just… couldn’t bring myself to tell you the truth. Even now, no one else knows. Except for Feyre. For some reason, it felt easier to tell her. But I hope that you can understand why it’s difficult for me to confess this.”

Azriel was quiet. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the tea that he held between his hands.

“Please say something,” Mor said softly, pleading.

After what felt like an eternity, but must have only been a few breaths, Azriel said, “Why tell me this now?”

Mor blinked in surprise.

“I appreciate you telling me this, Mor,” he said, “but why tell me now? What changed? Did you meet someone in Vallahan?”

Mor’s brows pulled together, her mouth turning into a slight frown. “I–” she started, but paused. She exhaled, shaking her head. “No, I didn’t meet anyone in Vallahan.”

“So… why? Something must have changed.”

Mor blinked again. “Because I saw you this morning. With your mate,” she said. “That’s what changed.”

Azriel stilled, not a fiber of muscle moving beneath his flying leathers.

“With my… what?”

“Your mate…” she said, her voice softening.

Oh, gods. He didn’t know.

Azriel looked up at her with hardened eyes, his mouth a tight line across his face. “Don’t fuck with me like this, Mor.”

Her hand drifted over her mouth. Azriel’s eyes bored into hers, tendrils of shadows curling on the ground like black fog. The room around them seemed to darken despite the sun shining through the windows.

“I’m not–”

“Who?” Azriel said. “Who is she?”

“I–” Mor hesitated. She closed her mouth, made herself meet the Shadow Singer’s stare. She took a breath, trying to calm her shaking lower lip.

“The priestess. Gwyn.”

Azriel’s face contorted into an unreadable expression at the sound of her name. Was that… pain? Or confusion? Anger? He stood suddenly, sending his chair crashing back to the floor, the mug of tea spilling on the floor in front of him, the clay cup shattering. The room darkened further. He began to pace the library, hands pulling at his hair.

“Azriel, I didn’t realize… I wouldn’t have… I thought you knew. When I saw you two this morning, I thought you knew.” Mor’s voice shook as she spoke.

Azriel’s breath was quickening, every exhale loud and angry.

“I’m so sorry, Az,” Mor said, tears beginning to line her eyes. “I didn’t mean to… I don’t know, ruin this for you.”

Azriel stopped suddenly in the center of the room. In an instant, the space around them lightened again, just slightly. His hands fell from his face and he looked at Mor with an intensity that she had never seen in their 500 years of friendship.

“I am not angry with you,” he said. “I am angry with myself. I am grateful to you for telling me.”

A small sob escaped Mor’s throat. She couldn’t stop the tears that fell from her eyes.

“I might’ve gone another 500 years without realizing, if you hadn’t said anything to me,” he continued. “I see it now. I’m beginning to see it.” Indeed, his eyes looked distant, lost in thought as he recounted all of his interactions with Gwyn over the last months, seeing them in a new light. Mor swore she saw the corner of his mouth tick upward, just a bit, into something like a smile.

“If you’ll excuse me, Mor, I need some privacy to think about things,” he said. Mor nodded her head, beginning to rise from the chair where she’d curled into a ball. Her legs wobbled beneath her as she stood, but she took a few shaky steps toward the exit. Azriel held the heavy wooden door open as she exited.

“Thank you, Mor,” he said quietly. She looked at his face and found kindness, even joy, dancing in his eyes. “For sharing the truth with me.”

She understood the dual meaning behind his words and nodded in acknowledgment. “You’re welcome,” she said, her voice a mere whisper.

Azriel let the library door close behind her as she exited the room, its weight sealing the room with a satisfying thud. She made her way down the hall, to the top of the stairs, grabbing the bannister for support as she walked. Below, in the River House’s foyer, she saw Rhysand, Feyre, and Cassian all looking up at her with smiles on their faces.

“We’ve been waiting for him to figure that out for months,” Rhys said to her as she descended the stairs. “Thank you for ripping that bandage off for us.”

Mor looked to Feyre. “How much else did you hear?”

“We didn’t hear a thing,” the High Lady said, her voice silkened with reassuring warmth.

“We only saw the shadows fill the House,” Cassian said. “We figured it out from there.”

Mor made her way to stand between Feyre and Cassian, the former wrapping an arm around her shoulder to pull her into a hug. As Mor hugged her friend back, she realized that she felt different. Lighter; as if a weight had been lifted that she didn’t know she’d carried all these centuries. She buried her face into Feyre’s hair as a smile broke across her face.

With a last squeeze, Mor pulled from her friend’s embrace and turned to face the two males who stood with them.

“In that case,” she said, “there’s more to the story that I owe to you two, as well.”

Rhys and Cassian raised their brows in interest, and Mor turned to lead them into the office behind where they stood. Feyre, beside her, reached an arm over to grasp Mor’s hand. With a comforting squeeze from her High Lady, Mor pushed open the wooden doors, ready to take the next step into her truth.

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