#like in Every Exquisite Thing she has a whip

[miasmaghoul]

*hands you a comically small microphone 🎤*

miasma, which one of the ghoulettes do you think has a piss kink?

*stands here patiently waiting*

I think they will all play in that space from time to time, but that could just be my overactive pissboy brain.

All flavors of piss girl thots below the cut!

(Please note I am wicked high and this is probably A Lot lmao)

Cirrus does it only on rare occasions, if someone needs to be treated with special cruelty. To be debased and degraded. It doesn't happen often, but every now and again Aether will come to her with a certain look in his eye. Will kneel at her feet with his head bowed and ask for it with soft, distant words. She indulges him every time; the sound Aether makes when she soaks him from the neck down is simply exquisite.

Cumulus is into holding. Likes to chug a huge bottle of water and then work on a craft project, or open a long book. She sets goals for herself once pressure starts to build low in her belly - 20 more stitches, one more row, ten more pages, and then she'll reassess. See if she can keep holding it. She can, of course, but she squirms. More and more as the minutes tick by. She's full after three hours, wriggling by four and absolutely aching by the time the fifth hour passes. So much pressure she can hardly stand it - she really, really has to go...but, well, she hasn't met her goal yet! And Cumulus is anything but a quitter. She clenches her thighs, breathes deep, and tries not to think about how far away her bathroom is.

Sunshine is the biggest pissboy amongst the girls, i think. She likes when Mountain will let her whip it out in the greenhouse so she can water the plants. Sometimes she even waters him, while Mountain tugs at himself and thanks her profusely. But she also adores having someone soak her - loves when someone lets go while they bounce on her cock, loves to be made a mess every now and again. She's also super into wetting, happy to drench her uniform while she sits in Copia's lap and sucks his gloved fingers until he cums in his pants about it.

Mist, when she indulges, likes desperation. She wants her victim partner in beautiful agony, wants them so full they can't help but shiver and leak. She absolutely used her magick to her advantage, drawing fluid into already straining bladders until they're fit to burst. Likes them to beg and plead and tremble like frightened kittens until they simply can't hold back any longer. If her partner has a cock, she takes special joy in forcing them hard and telling them to hold it. Keep it in so she can make them feel good even in their misery. So far, no one has been able to cum before they make a mess.

Aurora thinks of it less like a kink and more like a game. She like to see how full she can get, likes to see the way her bladder bulges out between her hips. Sometimes Cumulus will join her, but Aurora doesn't take things as far as Lus like to. She prefers to hold it as long as she can, and then sneak outside to find a place to let go. Somewhere she can hear people milling around, with extra points gained if she can see them too. Her favorite spot is a portion of the roof overlooking the rose gardens - she'll sit on the wide stone rail edging it and spread herself open, groaning as it arcs out of her and rains down onto the grass below. One time the stream managed to catch the sun just right, and Aurora joyfully told everyone at dinner that night that she could piss rainbows.

#miasma's work #the band ghost ficlets #the band ghost headcanons #cirrus ghoulette #cumulus ghoulette #sunshine ghoulette #mist ghoulette #aurora ghoulette #cw piss #piss kink #god im such a pissboy :(

[the-dork-urge]

|| Sweet Restraint || Tav x Abdirak

SUMMARY: Adbirak has been on Tav's mind ever since the Goblin Camp. Now, when they reunite, Tav is fully prepared to ''torture'' him in turn. WORDCOUNT : 2218 NSFW

Abdirak reclined in the tub, his arms leisurely resting on the sides, his finger tracing circles along the edge. The water gently caressed his body, creating delicate ripples as Tav lifted the sponge once more. With tenderness, she placed one hand on his shoulder, while the other moved the sponge over his back, delicately wiping away the blood from his skin, turning the water a soft pink hue. A soft groan escaped his lips as Tav rinsed his open wounds, his fingers instinctively tightening around the tub.

"We're almost done," She whispered, dropping the sponge back into the bath. Rising to your feet, you moved gracefully to retrieve a towel.

"I'm surprised you still have time for this, for me," he spoke, his eyes gleaming, his face slightly flushed from the hot water. Sitting up straight again, he ran his hands through his hair. A picture of beauty. "The hero of Baldur's Gate, they say throughout the city. Savior of the realm." He mused, his voice low.

"It's hardly hard work.'' Tav blushed, ''We're trying to rebuild the city, but I leave the politics to those who care for it. I mostly stay at the temple, aiding those in need."

"Is that what this is now? Are you aiding me, my sweet heroine?"

"No. This is purely self-indulgent," Tav responded, a playful twinkle in her eye. "Or perhaps, this is how I pay you back for your service; our little moment has been on my mind," she confessed.

"It was hardly a service, for a client as exquisite as you," he pondered aloud, his thoughts drifting back to the last time you were together.

Tav's mind wandered alongside his, reliving the sensations of that unforgettable encounter at the Goblin Camp. The sting of the whip against her skin, the tears in her eyes, and then the exquisite pleasure he bestowed upon her body. Tav could still feel the anticipation building between her legs as his hands explored every inch of her trembling body in his aftercare, igniting a fire that had consumed you both. Memories of that passionate moment sustained Tav through her journey to Baldur's Gate, yet it paled compared to the real thing. It was torture. Loviatar must have been pleased with her priest.

Tav sauntered back to the tub, a towel draped over your arm. Her voice, barely above a whisper, carried a subtle allure as she spoke, "Abdirak, would you mind stepping out of the tub?" His gaze met hers, and with a grace that seemed almost intentional, he rose from the bath. Unabashedly, Tav let her eyes roam over his form. Water droplets cascaded down his strong physique. She couldn't help but look at the scars that adorned his water-kissed body, like intricate markings on a beautiful, tormented sculpture. She extended the towel towards him, and as he reached out to grab it, he allowed his hand to linger on hers, water droplets tickling her skin. As he took the towel from Tav, he stepped closer, the heat radiating from his naked body. The tantalizing scent of soap and musk filled her senses. Tav's heart raced as he leaned in, his lips grazing her earlobe as he whispered a husky "Thank you."

She felt her stuck in her throat and heat rise to her cheeks, she mustered back only two words. "You’re welcome,"

Regaining her composure, she moved past him toward the middle of the room as he began to dry himself off. Tav positioned yourself, turning her back toward him. The fabric of the dress clung to her skin, remnants of the spilled bathwater. With a delicate touch, she began to peel off the dress, the fabric sliding off like a second skin. She could sense his eyes tracing her movements. Each motion was slow and deliberate, revealing tantalizing glimpses of the curves beneath. As the fabric pooled at her feet, she turned around to face him.

His pupils dilated, and a quiet yet appreciative exhale escaped his lips. The intensity in his eyes spoke volumes, revealing a hunger stirred by the provocative display before him. His hands, momentarily forgotten, hovered in the air as if yearning to reach out and trace the same path his eyes had traveled.

She beckoned him to step closer with a subtle curl of her finger. As he closed the distance between them, she spoke, "Remember when I said that if we ever meet again, I'd show you something you'd enjoy? Something your Lady would approve of?"

"Go on," he whispered, letting the towel drop to the floor next to her dress.

"Can we do that now?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, laced with anticipation.

"Will I suffer?" he inquired, a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes.

"Oh, yes," she said with a smile, her gaze smoldering with desire, "greatly."

She took a step back, creating an arm's length of space between the two of them.

"I have some rules,’" she said with a mischievous grin, her hands brushing away her hair, exposing the curve of her neck. She let her hands glide from her neck to her chest as she spoke.

"I'm all ears," he replied, his gaze fixed on her with intense curiosity as he stepped closer, drawn in by her mischievous grin and the subtle movements of her hands. "As long as you're willing to play by them," she murmured, her voice a seductive whisper, her hands now trailing down his chest, fingers teasingly tracing patterns over his skin.

His breath caught in his throat, anticipation mingling with excitement as he waited for her rules.

"You can look, but you can't touch. Not me…" you teased, "and not yourself." He nods. Challenge in his eyes. "Let me show you. The agony of desire, the anticipation of something you can't have." A smile played on her lips, as she saw him prepare. Resting his hands, loosely hanging beside his body.

"Very well than." He swallowed.

Her own smile widened as she allowed her left hand to trail down toward her abdomen, then lower to her thigh, while her other hand remained poised at her breast. With a deliberate slowness, she cupped her right breast, gently massaging it as she rolled her nipple between her fingers. She met Abdirak's gaze, finding an amused smile playing on his lips as he watched her other hand settle between her legs. Her gaze trailed from his face, down the sculpted contours of his chest, lingering on the rise and fall of his abdomen, until it settled upon his hardened length. There, between his thighs, stood his arousal, a testament to the desire that pulsed between them. The sight of him, proud and large, sent a shiver of anticipation coursing through her as she started to rub the sweet spot between her legs.

As she imagined the sensation of him inside her, her arousal intensified, fueled by the vivid images playing in her mind. The thought of his size filling her completely, stretching her in all the right ways, spurred her on. With a breathless gasp, she allowed her imagination to take control, slipping a finger inside herself.

She noticed how his cock had grown hard at the sight of her, the fingers in his right hand trembling ever so slightly.

"Your cock looks fantastic," she whimpered, bringing in another finger, "I can only imagine what it could do to me. Can you?"

"Yes," Abdirak breathed, his cock now dully upright, twitching against the silver scars on his belly. "I can imagine it, every filthy detail."

"Tell me. What would you do to me?" she started to pump her fingers inside and out.

Abdirak's breath hitched at the sight of her fingers working themselves inside, a hungry fire burning in his eyes. "I'd take you, hard and fast," he growled, his voice thick with lust. "I'd make you scream my name as I pound into you, claiming every inch of you as mine." His cock throbbed with anticipation, begging to be buried deep inside her, to satisfy the primal hunger that consumed them both. "I'd make you beg for more, over and over again until we're both lost in a frenzy of pleasure."

"Oh, Abdirak," she moaned his name, "that sounds fantastic."  Abdirak's response to his name on your lips was a harsh guttural moan, his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

But she wasn't finished with him yet. With a wicked smile, she quickened the pace of her movements, her body trembling with anticipation as she brought herself closer and closer to the edge of ecstasy.

"You enjoy watching, don't you?" she taunted her voice a sultry whisper that hung in the steamy air. "You want to touch me, to taste me, to make me scream with pleasure."

Abdirak's only response was a guttural moan, his desire evident in the way his body tensed, in the way his cock strained against his belly. He was on the brink of losing control, his restraint slipping away with each passing moment.

"Step closer," she breathed. As she felt her own orgasm coming. She quickly stopped, slipping her finger out. She brought her slick fingers up.

"This is restraint. To stop yourself, even when you can have it all."

"It’s torture." Abdirak winced as that same slick hand found a way to his hard cock. Soft fingetips sliding around his sensitive skin, his thick veins, his wet tip. She slid her thumb over the little bead of cum, spreading his wetness.

"That means you still can't have me yet," she teased, her voice laced with mischief. "You have to earn it, Abdirak. You have to prove to me that you deserve it."

She intended to make him beg for release, to make him crave her touch like never before like she had craved his all these weeks. "You're mine to command, to tease, to torment as I see fit."

Abdirak groaned in frustration, his desire burning brightly despite her denial. He was putty in her hands, completely at her mercy, and she reveled in the power she held over him.

She leaned in close, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered her next command. "Beg for it," she murmured her voice a seductive whisper that sent shivers down his spine. "Beg for release, and maybe, just maybe, I'll grant it to you."

With each stroke and caress, she watched as his arousal grew, his desire evident in the way his breath came in ragged gasps. He longed to reach out and touch her, to taste the sweetness of her skin, but he remained rooted to the spot.

"Stay still like this," she implored, her hands wrapped firmly around his cock, one teasingly pressed against his stomach. With deliberate intent, she teased the tip of his throbbing member against her folds, feeling the yearning for entry pulsating between them. As she held him in place, she could feel the tension in his abs, his muscles straining with the effort to restrain himself from plunging into her. As she held it there a little longer, she sought his eyes. They were piercing back at her, pleading and hazy.

With a desperate edge in his voice, he finally relented, his words coming out in a low, husky plea. "Please," he begged, his voice thick with need. "Please, I need you. I need to feel you, to be inside you. Let me have you." His body strained against her hand, trembling with desire as he yearned for the release she held tantalizingly just out of reach.

She took her hand of his tense abs and settled it near his jaw. She cupped his face with a tight grip. Lips close to his as she said those two words that would release him.

"Fuck me."

His hips bucked upward, responding to her command with primal urgency, as he plunged into her with forceful intensity, his lips crashing against her. Every inch of him was a delicious intrusion, filling her completely as he buried himself deep within her core. She gasped at the sensation, feeling him throbbing with desire inside her, his hardness pulsing against her inner walls. She arched her back into his thrust. His frantic movements and the wet sounds of their damp skin were enough to send her over the edge. But there was no slowing him down now. He buried his hands in the flesh of her ass, claiming every inch of her cunt as he kept rutting inside her. She met his fervent movements with equal intensity, her nails digging into his skin as she held him close.

And then, with a desperate thrust, he drove her over the edge, sending her spiraling into the depths of ecstasy. She cried out his name, her voice echoing through the room as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her. Yet still he persisted, his movements relentless as he chased his own release, her knees almost buckling.

Despite her weariness, she summoned the strength to place her hand on his chest, pushing him away. "The edge of ecstasy," she whispered, distancing herself from Abdirak, "that's where I'll leave you."

As he stood there, surrounded by sudden emptiness, his body trembled into nothingness. His breathing was heavy. "You'll want more. And you'll come find me again," she whispered.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #Tav x abdirak #abdirak #abdirak x reader #loviatar

[jube-art]

*throws the door open* PLEASE EXPLAIN THE INFINITY STONES AU TO ME I HAVE TO KNOW—

"You really do live up to your rapscallion reputation," Janet Drake chirps, her hands not so subtly feeling up his arm and chest.

Bruce forces a laugh as he takes one of her hands. She's smiling, slightly drunk. She doesn't notice, too dulled by cocktails, when Bruce slips one of her Valerian gold rings from her fingers and tucks it into his pocket.

"I'm glad that you find my reputation so…" he leans in and she smiles wider. "Tantalizing."

Her eyes gleam with lust and her tugging becomes more insistent. He has no intention of taking this woman to bed tonight, but a passed-out lady of the house makes stealing the priceless artifacts taken from their rightful owners much easier.

"You're as charming as they say," Janet hummed, leaning into him.

"You're more beautiful than all the glimmering things in your house."

He expects her to melt, but instead she goes stiff. Her faces cracks, suddenly becoming annoyed.

"You're lying," she snaps at him, trying to whip around but slightly wobbling.

Bruce suddenly sees his chance beginning to slip. "No, lady, out of everything I've seen, you're the most--"

"You haven't seen everything."

Bruce blinked.

Oh.

Oh.

His doubt faded. He interest grew.

"What have I not seen, my lady?"

She yanks him in a different direction and begins to lead him deeper into her sprawling. They pass magnificent item after, magnificent item and each pass makes Bruce more excited to see what could be hidden behind the thick, impenetrable looking door that Janet clumsily unlocks. Bruce remembers every pass of her fingers, every single thing she did to get past the locks.

The door groaned open into a gold-leafed room. Everything sparkled and gleamed in gold. Fine drapes, silken pillows, exquisitely carved decorations hanging from the ceiling. And, in the middle of the room, a gigantic bed.

Suddenly, Bruce felt his heart drop into his stomach and dread crawl its way up his throat.

A tiny figure on the bed moved, leverage up on his thin arms to stare at the newcomers.

He was tiny, pale, impossibly thin with his bones creating knobby along his body. He didn't have a shirt on, Bruce couldn't even tell if he had pants on, and he could see the boy's breath pick up the moment he laid eyes on Bruce.

He nervously swallowed making the golden collar and leash around his throat bob.

He was nervously looking between Janet and Bruce, taking them in and growing increasing more anxious.

"Miss Drake," he said his tiny voice was thin. "What can I do for you tonight?"

He looked like he wanted to ask anything but that.

"It's it beautiful," she said while staring at the boy.

Bruce couldn't help but note the "it" and scrunched his nose in disgust.

His mouth as dry as he spoke. "What…What's going on here?"

"It's the Mind Stone," she answered. Bruce saw the boy's flinch, the way he seemed to try to melt into the golden covers. "It's been in my family for centuries. All the possibilities of the universe kept right here in our guest bedroom. It can answer any question."

She brightened and pushed Bruce forward.

"Go on! Go! Ask it a question."

Bruce slowly approached the bed.

The boy shuffled, eyes flickering down, trying to appear as small as possible. He flinched away from every movement. He was terrified of Bruce's hands.

Bruce tried to be as much as he could to be gentle as he sat on the edge of the bed.

"What is your name?"

The boy shuddered and shook his head. "I…I don't remember. Someone took it. A long time ago."

"Someone took it?"

He nodded. "T-they said that it was distracting me… because I w-wanted…" His face tightened. "I don't remember."

Bruce chewed his lip, looking over the chains that kept the boy on the bed, the locks on the door to a windowless room. His lack of memories to a life outside of these four walls. A prison. Both physically and in the mind.

"Would you like to leave here?"

The boy's head snapped up. Suddenly, he looked so, so desperate. "Please," he begged. "Please."

(a collective au by the discord, the writing is by @salparadiselost ) (Does this explain anything? no. But it is fun!)

#writing #not my writing #not art #kayparadiselost #infinity stones au #batfamily #tim drake #bruce wayne #janet drake

[mackerelphones]

The Road to Oz, Book Five of the Oz Series

“PLEASE, miss,” said the shaggy man, “can you tell me the road to Butterfield?” (13)

Together with John R. Neill’s almost ghostly illustration, this makes for a striking start to The Road to Oz, the fifth installment of the Oz series. This is the fourth of my posts about the original sequels to The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, and I recommend reading each of the ones that preceded it. Sorry for giving you homework, but this will make some of my commentary below will make more sense. And they’re interesting posts in their own right.

Each Oz book is, physically, an art object. Uniquely, The Road to Oz has no color illustrations. Instead, in the first edition of 1909, the text and pen drawings are printed directly onto colored paper, so that the book has a rainbow pattern, from yellow, to violet to light green to lime green to orange to brownish green to neon green to brown.

There is no clear meaning to the points at which the page color shifts. It makes for a highly unique volume, physically, and alludes to the character of the rainbow girl Polychrome, a sky-fairy like those Dorothy glimpses in Dorothy and the Wizard in Oz.

These photos demonstrate the effect of the text and drawings on colored paper. This edition is apparently the first reprinting to reintroduce the original colors. While this accounts for the lack of full-color drawings, Neill lavishes his pen artwork with exquisite detail.

The Cowardly Lion pets his old friend, Toto. Neill now draws the Lion wearing spectacles and, on the copyright page, a rather haughty monocle.

Neill crams in the Wizard, Toto, Dorothy, Button-Bright, Polychrome, the Tin Woodman, the Scarecrow, and our beloved Jack Pumpkinhead. They are not all in the palace yet on the point at which this picture appears, but it is lovely all the same.

On page 163, the Tin Woodman has a tin statue of Dorothy “just as she had first appeared in the Land of Oz” (162), as well as of Toto. Amusingly, Neill draws the statues to look exactly like Denslow’s illustrations, so his Dorothy contemplates the previous illustrator’s.

In previous Oz novels, every chapter heading has received a unique illustration. That is true in The Road to Oz as well, except that the tiny unique drawing, always a portrait of a character, fits within one of two designs that alternate each chapter. The first of these is a sort of Ozite cartouche containing a portrait of a character.

The above is a chapter heading illustration. And, for comparison,

Isn’t it shaped like the front of a thong???! That is my first thought! 😅

This ornament alternates with a disturbing design in which a ghostly ring of merry children’s disembodied heads surrounds the unique illustration. The way they are chained together makes me think of some horrible monster by NFT salesman Ito Junji (probably the thing in “My Dear Ancestors”). Did people actually find this cute in 1909, or did Neill just not realize it was creepy?

Continuing the pattern began in Ozma of Oz, Dorothy does not have an adventure in Oz but has an adventure in reaching it. The plot this time around is that while out in Kansas one day, Dorothy meets a vagrant, the shaggy man. He asks for directions to Butterfield (I suppose the town in Missouri?), where there is a man who owes him fifteen cents, and abducts Toto while Dorothy is putting on her sunbonnet. This means that when Dorothy and the shaggy man find themselves walking down the road and ending up in fairyland, Toto is once again with them. Bizarrely, Toto yet again never talks, unlike every other animal in fairyland. Rather, Toto busies himself being aggressive and attacking most other creatures, though Toto’s bad disposition might not be a surprise considering that he leads a rough life: Uncle Henry whips him for chasing the chickens (155). A bit of a chicken-and-egg situation (pun intended).

Between Toto and Eureka, Dorothy’s pets are menaces. That bumble bee is clearly a person!

Following what turns out to be the road to Oz (an accurate title for once), Dorothy and the shaggy man also pick up a pigheaded young boy named Button-Bright, who does little but indicate he doesn’t know anything, and the aforementioned Polychrome, the Rainbow’s Daughter, who slid off the rainbow when she got dancing too near its curved side. They learn, from the towns along the road, that Ozma is a renowned person throughout fairyland and that her birthday is coming up. All the monarchs want to attend. (Ozma’s birthday is 21 August. Mark your calendars.) Along the way, Button-Bright’s head is magicked into a fox head, and the shaggy man’s into a donkey head. But once the four cross the Deadly Desert on a “sand-boat,” they reach the Truth Pond in the Country of the Winkies, which transforms Button-Bright and the shaggy man back to normal. From there, Ozma reveals she is responsible for warping Dorothy into fairyland to attend her birthday. “I thought I should have to use the Magic Belt to save you and transport you to the Emerald City,” says Ozma. She continues, “But the shaggy man was able to help you out both times, so I did not interfere” (204). Then many, many fantastical guests attend Ozma’s birthday, there is a feast and music, the Wizard performs tricks, Button-Bright heads home, Polychrome returns to the rainbow, and Ozma warps Dorothy and Toto, in their sleep, back to the former’s bedroom in Kansas.

You can read the rest of the post, including a bit of literary analysis (oooohhh), right here. I would appreciate it if you could share this post around, if you happen to see it and enjoy it.

#oz #road to oz #wizard of oz #dorothy #baum

[caldwellcarson0]

Replica Bottega Veneta Bags

Lovely overall look along with ample volume, a pair no-flap purses, some sort of zipper drawer possesses an essential wrapping up pattern Knockoff Bottega Veneta Handbags to defend it is remarkable efficiency. Collapsible look is normally variable to fulfill up with a range of wishes, in addition to multi-layer intrinsic case is often, making use of every of the stuff if you'd like. Offer measurement superbly, is normally simply positioned content a variety of docs, passport, lotto tickets and in some circumstances holiday break have on brazilian bikini. Shock as to meniscus supply pattern is a snap in addition to even borders having weaved whipping seeing that beautification. That provide, whereas there may be absolutely no massive Wholesale Replica Wallets, tender household leather-based in addition to atmospheric sample is additionally incredibly eye-catching with any event. Person right into a numerous era, there’ll be far more to assist practice this surface in addition to sample on the case, BV is amongst the perfect possibilities on this explicit era. Instead of buying for a reproduction of a high finish bag, why not purchase a less expensive, good quality brand? The fake bag you purchased is unlawful, that's copyright infringement. It isn't even a BV “inspired” bag, it is straight up using the model name. As the preferred, there may be the standard clutch fashion bag with no strap is the closest to the real designer piece and is available in either a metal clasp or tightening facet straps to safe the bag shut. Also, the Pouch comes with a wearable, over the shoulder, golden colored chain or a has a small strap to indicate off your new bag as a mini carry item. And bear in mind our designer copy baggage are an authentic recreation of a design. Mackay says OshKosh dungarees and Levi’s denim jackets are amongst her customers’ favorite items to buy as presents. Customers love that as a result of then they’re getting one thing that is customised and a one-off,” she says. If a “vintage” reward was once thought of low cost or twee, it’s now an impressed alternative – a signal that the particular person giving it has a finger pressed firmly on the heartbeat. Hence, the purse market has worked to create some Bottega Veneta Dupe Bags which are an excellent replica of the unique designer merchandise. If you're in search of an on-trend, designer yet inexpensive look, then Dupes truly brings all these elements together making them extremely interesting to many shoppers without having to pay the luxurious price ticket. There are loads of choices for many who are in search of a way to satiate their craving for top fashion. Our designer knockoffs doesn’t imply one thing that can be purchased at flea market rates, it is a top quality bag priced appropriately, so go ahead and take a dive into the world of designer fakes and luxuriate in your fashion journey. First and foremost, I’ve always been someone who, when everyone else goes proper, I just want to go left. I quite relate to the concept a belt is a belt, till it’s somewhat too effeminate that I can’t pull it off. This one is a women’s jacket, but if I can make it work and I feel prefer it appears right on me, I wear it. A lot like a few of different fellow human beings who don’t essentially determine with a gender or being binary — they wear what feels right for his or her body. We cater to skin, to not gender, to human beings with hearts and minds and blood in their veins. https://re-pin.me/bottega-veneta.html The wonderful high quality of this handbag could be seen from this black calfskin UMBRIA mini handbag. Replica Bottega Veneta Bag has a great take a glance at the bag, just look at the already heart! Bottega Veneta 2015 autumn and winter sequence of all types of handbags dazzling, corresponding to blue interior woven sample of the bag; traditional black embossed purse; exquisite box-shaped hand bag. Knot hand bag name in the leather-based rope shape of the fine “switch”. Simple environment of the arc-shaped luggage design, the standard Intrecciato weaving process, and each solely produce “not greater than 100” of the precious makes this small purse as soon as launched by celebrities are competing to purchase. Knot purse by fashion sub-long, brief two, the colour from brilliant purple to cloud white, from violet to ink black every thing. Material along with leather, sheepskin weaving, there are straw, silk weaving, metallic texture, jewelry mosaic, printing embroidery and different choices. This Knot handbag is an beautiful craftsmanship to create art treasures. wikipedia handbags

#bottega veneta replica #bottega veneta bag replica #bottega veneta clutchs replica

[dreaming-in-alicante]

Chapter four is up! Sorry about the longer wait, life was busy.

Also @fair-but-wilde-child here you go!

Chapter 4: Reflux

Grace paused repeatedly to drink in the sights and sounds of the Shadow Market around her as she followed Christopher around to different stalls. He got the nightshade he had wanted, as well as a variety of other ingredients.

“Mr. Lightwood!” a werewolf man called as they approached his stall. “We’ve just gotten fresh thorn-apple in.” He rummaged around in a cart and pulled out some samples, and placed them out for Christopher to inspect. The vendors all seemed to know him, and it was impressive watching him haggle for each item. Grace didn’t know if she would have the patience to argue with someone for that long, but Christopher knew exactly what he was doing.

While he negotiated a price on the thorn-apple Grace began, already, to mentally prepare herself for the ride back. With Christopher. Alone. She had felt like a fool earlier, even if Christopher remained oblivious. The realization had slowly crept up on her in the past few days that she might want to be more than friends with him.

She had become closer with both Lucie and Kamala in recent weeks. Kamala had shared her birth name with her; Grace was very honored that she wanted Grace to be one of the few people who used that name. Something had been bothering Grace, however, whenever she thought about and compared her new friendships. She realized that her relationship with both girls felt much different than that with Christopher. At first she attributed this to the fact that since they spent so much time together in the lab, she was simply closer with him than either girl. But she had spent plenty of time with both Lucie and Kamala now. Whenever she was with them, it seemed that more were always merrier, but she never felt that way with Christopher. While Grace didn’t necessarily mindHenry being in the lab (he was truly a brilliant scientist), or Thomas on his occasional visits, she greatly preferred when it was just the two of them.

The most obvious sign that something was different, however, was that she had started to notice Christopher in a way that she didn’t with either girl, or anyone else really. Earlier that week, while she watched him talk with Henry, the unexpected thought went through her head that he was really incredibly handsome. One might not notice at first, with his thick glasses and messy appearance, but now that Grace had noticed, she was constantly aware. It was starting to get ridiculous. When he had grabbed her arm excitedly earlier that morning, she told herself firmly that her heart was only racing because he had pulled her into a jog to get downstairs. Then in the carriage, by the Angel…she was grateful he thought her flushed face was from being too warm. She had never thought about how close people were when sitting in a carriage. Not that she hadn’t been close to him before, when they looked over notes together, but that was in the huge space of the lab. Enclosed in the small space of the carriage, it felt so intimate. Grace was determined to keep her composure on the return trip. She treasured her friendship with Christopher and she was terrified to ruin it by being ridiculous.

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

When Christopher was completed with his shopping and they started back to the carriage, Grace cleverly engaged him in what promised to be a long discussion about the chemical properties of nightshade. Beyond being an interesting subject in itself, Grace expected that it would keep her mind occupied. Everything was going exactly as planned until Christopher paused to double-check his list and purchases, and Grace forced her eyes away, watching the city pass in dimly-lit nighttime. As the carriage approached the end of the block, she frowned as she noticed an odd, pulsing red glow that seemed to come from around the corner.

“Christopher, do you see that strange light?” she asked, still studying the view outside.

“Most peculiar,” he said as he also looked out. “Perhaps a colored light cover?” They finally reached the intersection, and Grace noticed that it was oddly empty. Not that many people were out at that time of night, but it was unusual to see absolutely no one. And then, as they passed through the intersection, they finally saw that the light came from a figure in the middle of the street dodging and fighting something…demons! The darting figure must be a shadowhunter.

“Anna,” Christopher said suddenly, going a bit pale. He motioned the carriage to stop and was jumping out before Grace understood what was happening. His sister, of course – her unusual red necklace that glowed when demons were around, Grace realized, hence Christopher’s urgency to go help. She hopped out of the carriage to find Christopher with a seraph blade already blazing. “I have to go help – Come help if you feel ready, but otherwise probably best to stay in the carriage!” he told her hastily, then began running down the street towards the fighting.

Grace took in the scene at the end of the street. Anna and someone else – Kamala she realized – were holding off three demons that resembled giant scorpions with wrinkled faces. Anna fought to keep two at bay, her electrum whip arcing furiously through the air, while Kamala attacked the third and largest demon. A fourth demon laid dying on the street near them. The creatures were ridiculously fast – especially their long, barbed tails which moved almost too swiftly to see. As Grace watched, Christopher reached them, seraph blades blazing, and engaged one of the demons that Anna held back.

Grace felt frozen. She had so little experience fighting, she had only been training for a few months, but she had spent too much of her life on the sidelines already. Grace resolved to get closer to offer help, but keep out of everyone’s way. She had two daggers, which seemed pitiful compared to the monsters before her, but she was an excellent shot, especially with her skills enhanced by an Accuracy rune – she would make her throws count.

She raced down the street, pulling out a dagger. As she approached the battle, she saw Kamala falter, barely knocking away the demon’s tail as it simultaneously grabbed at her with its oddly monkey-like hands. Anna and Christopher were fighting side-by-side, too far away to help. Grace reacted faster than she realized she was capable of, sending her dagger flying with perfect precision into a bulbous yellow eye. The demon hissed, writhing, as Kamala called “Good throw!” and continued to attack it.

Grace was upon the battle now and planned to hang back and wait for an opening, when from the corner of her eye she saw a fifth demon appear, looming behind Christopher. She began running in his direction and swiftly drew her second dagger as she shouted, “Kit, behind you!”.

She struck true again, halting the demon as Christopher turned. Anna lashed out her whip, catching the attention of the demon Christopher had been battling as he engaged the new foe. Grace hastily pulled her seraph blade and named it. She came up behind the demon and, with it distracted by Christopher, took a swipe. The tail moved so quickly that although she aimed for the center, her strike only cut off the very needle-like tip. The demon whirled around hissing and, to her dismay, knocked Christopher clean off his feet with its lashing tail. It bore down on Grace, snapping sharp teeth. She defended with her seraph blade but was unable to land a hit on it. She was vaguely aware that Kamala had now joined Anna, having dispatched the largest demon.

The demon Grace fought suddenly shrieked and stumbled, and she saw that Christopher had gotten back to his feet, and successfully cut off a large part of its tail. This was distraction enough for Grace to drive her seraph blade into the demon’s chest. It collapsed with a final hiss, spraying ichor from its wound, and crumbled to dust. Christopher quickly went to help fight the remaining two demons, Grace following behind. With the odds now turned four-to-two, they made quick work of the remaining demons. Soon all that remained were piles of dust and the four shadowhunters breathing hard as they recovered.

“Well,” Anna said as she coiled her whip, “a much more exciting patrol than I anticipated. It appears Kamala and I disturbed a nest of them. We are lucky that you two showed up when you did.” She leveled an assessing gaze at her brother and Grace. “Not that I’m ungrateful, but what exactly are you two doing running around together at this hour?” she asked.

“Shadow market,” Christopher answered, “I was out of nightshade, and Grace had never gone there.” He stood a bit awkwardly, and Grace wondered if he was alright.

“Well we’re very grateful for your assistance,” Kamala said, shaking dust out of her long braid. “Excellent job for your first real demon fight Grace!” she said smiling, and Grace smiled back. Anna and Christopher also offered congratulations. Grace couldn’t wait to tell Jesse – he’d be proud of her. She thought also, he’ll be jealous I killed my first demon before he did, and smirked.

“Well, let’s head to my flat, it’s not far. We should get all this ichor off,” Anna declared “and perhaps some iratzes.” Grace’s front was quite covered in ichor, and Anna and Kamala were also a mess. Somehow, ever-untidy Christopher had ended the battle with the least-soiled clothing. Anna looked appraisingly at her brother. “Are you feeling alright, Kit?” she asked, clearly noting his stiff posture like Grace had earlier.

“I believe I will need a few iratzes,” he replied, wincing, holding a hand to his side. “I likely didn’t notice earlier with all the adrenaline, but it seems the demon’s tail did catch me quite hard in the ribs.”

Grace couldn’t help feeling a bit guilty. If only she had been faster, managed to cut off the tail…but no, she assured herself, she had done well. The others had all said so. She had done well with her daggers and held her own in the fight. Christopher would be fine after a few iratzes. Still, she couldn’t help aiming worried glances his way the entire carriage ride.

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

Anna’s flat was small but cozy, the main room full of mismatched furniture. Anna got water and rags for them to clean off with, then started fussing over Christopher. Kamala, obviously familiar with the place, pulled Grace into a messy bedroom. “I think I have a spare blouse here that you can wear,” she said, “since you got most of the ichor on the front of you.” She rummaged around in the wardrobe and pulled out a pale blue blouse with a triumphant “aha!”

They cleaned themselves off and began changing. Kamala was several inches taller than Grace so the blouse was oversized on her, but it would do until she got home. She slipped out of the bedroom while Kamala finished putting on a simple dress, and reentered the main room.

Anna brushed past her, going to change, and Grace walked around to the couch…where she found Christopher wearing only his trousers and undershirt. It covered him, of course, but it was a thinner material that she could see marks through, and because the sleeves were short, she could see most of his arms. By the Angel, stop staring! she scolded herself. She had seen him in just shirtsleeves many times in the lab. She had seen more of his arms the time his sleeve caught fire in lab than right now.

“You’re alright then, Grace?” he asked. She forced her eyes to his face, and immediately discovered this was not better. He had removed his glasses, presumably while getting cleaned up, and now there was no barrier to hide his spectacular eyes. Compose yourself Grace! she chided herself.

“Yes, I’m completely fine,” she replied, settling herself on an armchair. “Nothing more than some scratches. Are you okay?” His movements were less stiff as he leaned forward a bit, but she was still concerned.

“Perfectly fine!” he answered blithely. “Anna’s iratzes are fixing me right up. Honestly, I’ve had much worse lab accidents.” Given what she’d seen just this month in the lab, Grace didn’t doubt this. She could see evidence of old burns and other scars along the whole length of his exposed arms.

“What was your worst lab accident?” she asked curiously.

“Perhaps the time I spilled an entire bottle of sulfuric acid on myself,” Christopher said thoughtfully, “although there have also been some nasty explosions.”

Kamala reentered the main room then. “Anna and I will need to head to the institute to check in and submit a report,” she told Grace, “so we can drop you at your apartment.”

“Thank you,” Grace replied. “Hopefully I’ll be back soon enough that Jesse won’t be worrying.”

“He’ll always be worrying – he’s an older sibling,” Anna said, now changed into a plain shirt and trousers. “Speaking of which,” she continued, “let me see if you need another iratze before we leave, Kit.”

Grace got up quickly – perhaps too quickly – and started over to the door to wait. She kept her gaze determinedly away from Christopher as Anna checked him over. Kamala joined Grace, a querying eyebrow raised. Grace could not help blushing, which caused Kamala to giver her a knowing smirk, making Grace blush even harder.

“I think we’ll have something to talk about at training tomorrow,” Kamala said with a grin. Grace was relieved when Anna joined them to leave. She insisted that Christopher just stay at the apartment to sleep, and he was tired enough that he agreed.

It was a surprisingly pleasant ride home. Grace had little prior interaction with Anna, but either because of Christopher, Kamala, Jesse, or a combination of the three, she did not seem to resent or distrust Grace for any of her prior actions, which was a relief. They dropped her at home and as they exchanged goodbyes, Anna commented “I expect I’ll see more of you in the future Grace,” Anna said, “as my brother’s lab partner.” She winked at Grace before hopping back into the carriage.

By the Angel, Grace thought, how does she know?Well, at least Christopher remained oblivious.

#gracetopher #tlh #you may have noticed that I don't describe Kamala's weapon because seriously what does she usually fight with? #like in Every Exquisite Thing she has a whip #but I see lots of art where she has axes #and I didn't see anything in the books #grace blackthorn #christopher lightwood #my fic

[pansyslut]

your three girls

reader x pansy x hermione x ginny

a/n - part 2 of truth or dare but can be read as a stand alone. i hope this isn’t too confusing because it’s really hard writing for four people. i’m sorry if this is like really bad but four people is really hard

warnings: hella smut, foursome, alcohol, face riding, mutual masterbation, humping, slight mommy kink, degration, praise, thigh riding

requested part two - @cherrysandwiine

the party was in full swing as students from various houses drink away their sorrows or jug in victory. “do you really think she would be down to join us,” pansy asks looking over at you. looking back to hermione, you, ginny, and pansy study the girl sitting far away from you.

with liquid courage running through your vains, you stand up and make your way over to her. plopping down on the couch next to her, you throw your legs into her lap. “hi ‘mione,” you say dragging out her name. she studies you for a moment and grins, “y/n i know you’re a horny drunk,” she says pausing to laugh, “but i’ve told you i’m not fucking you when you’re intoxicated. as tempting as you look,” she says mumbling the last part under her breath.

you nod in understanding. that was part of the reason you had trusted hermione in the first place. she was the first girl you had ever experimented with and you never doubted her being your first. you liked how uptight she was until you were behind closed doors. as much as she’d like to believe otherwise, she was practically putty in your hands. she always craved your touch whether it be in pent up arousal or just needing to be comforted by a friend.

taking a piece of her hair and twirling it with your fingers, you lean up close to her ear and place a kiss on her neck. “i’ve missed you, ‘mione. you’re making this extremely hard with the way you look tonight. let me make you feel better” you say with an innocent tone. you can see the wheels turning in her head, wanting so badly to say yes.

she lets out a huff and lays her head in the crook of your neck. “i’ve missed you too, y/n. i’ve been meaning to talk to you actually. rumor has it that you’re dating parkinson,” she says with a slight bitter tone. letting out a laugh, “funny you should mention it, i’ve been meaning to talk to you about it too. and it’s not just pansy- i’m seeing ginny too. we’re all together. we were all actually sorta thinking that... you know... you would like to join us one night?”

a small smirk makes it’s way across her face. “i would love to y/n,” she says placing a kiss below your ear. letting out a huff, you feel the anxious feeling leave your body. hermione always was good at making you feel at ease with her. you only hoped that your girls would feel the same way about her.

you spend the rest of the night chatting with her and catching up. ever since the night you, pansy, and ginny slept together pansy’s possessiveness kicked in and was worried about you and hermiones relationship. of course, she knew you would never cheat but you respected and understood her boundaries nonetheless.

being with ginny and pansy was a different feeling than when you were with hermione. hermione felt like comfort and easy, but with ginny and pansy you were constantly on your toes. you loved how unpredictable you felt when you three were together. although it wasn’t as serious yet, you would never do anything to intentionally hurt either of your girls. that’s why you were shocked when they brought up inviting hermione for a night when your were all laying in bed.

you all had laid down your rules and boundaries making sure that all three of you were comfortable. now a few days later, you lay in bed with ginny and pansy on each of your sides while surfing the tv. hearing a soft knock, the three of your heads shoot up and ginny being closest to the door, opens it to reveal hermione.

“um hey,” she says shuffling her feet with her eyes glued to the floor. a part of you wanted to let out a laugh at the gryfindor girls newfound shyness but you didn’t want to make her more anxious than she already seemed to be.

“you can come lay with us,” pansy says speaking up. “we were just about to watch our baking show. miss y/n over here,” she says poking your side, “is convinced she’s going to suddenly become some hardcore soccer mom when we have kids and whip out all her hidden skills she seems so keen on having,” pansy jokes lightheartedly, trying to ease the tension.

you shake your head at her jabs at you, “well ‘mione has said my baking tastes exquisite- thank you very much.” you feel the bed dip beside you as hermione and ginny join you as you spend a moment intertwining the four of you, making a mess of limbs tied together. “actually y/n,” hermione joins in, “i was only saying that to be nice. i fed the rest to ronald- merlin knows that boy will eat anything.”

scoffing, “i cannot believe the three of you,” you say shaking your head at them. “just you wait ‘til i end up on master chef, just you wait.”

your laughter seems to die down after that as you all lay in each other’s embrace, cuddled together closely. leaning to your other side, you nudge yourself into ‘miones shoulder and start plastering kisses down her neck and upper breasts. you already feel her breathing increasing, coming out short in anticipation. you take notice that ginny has also start sucking on her other nipple with ‘miones fingers clutched in her hair.

sitting up to straddle her, pansy scotches closer to the side you had left as you grab her hands and place them on your waist. lifting your shirt off, you keep her hands on your waist as you swivel your hips seductively. running your own hands down your body making a show out of it, you grip your breasts while fasting your pace on her center. you swore you could almost feel both of your pussys pulsing against one another between both of your shorts.

the three of you lay around hermione almost bending to her will, trying to shower her with pleasure. kissing your way down her stomach and pause with your lips on her center while looking up at her with a smirk. the look in her eyes were silently begging and even though you knew you wouldn’t get a verbal plead from her, you took what you got.

kissing more up her thighs, you slide off her panties and throw it across the room. running your tongue along her lower lips, you feel her fingers slide through your hair while slightly tugging your head further down.

parting her lips with your tongue, you hear pansy whisper in her ear “beg for y/n. beg for her tongue and show her how eager you are for her. go on, bun.” you knew what pansy’s praising was doing to her. her thighs clench around your head as she lets out a long whine. “please, y/n i need to cum so bad. i- i missed your tongue so much baby.”

“sit on my face,” you say looking up at her. your three girls all have a shocked look but ginny starts manhandling hermione into the new position nonetheless. now, you lay on with your head pressed against pansy’s upper thighs, laying down on her with hermione hovering over you while facing the opposite direction in a heated make out with ginny.

ginnys hands guide hermione to sit on you as you clutch her thighs and dig your tongue into her instantly. the room is immediately filled with all of your moans as mione sits on your face, ginny sits atop of your center grinding against you, and pansy starts toying with her own clit.

part of you felt so overwhelmed but the other felt like nothing than ever before. you felt a sense of euphoria coursing your body with every sense heightened. your tongue slows down accidentally as ginny starts quite literally jumping on you, begging for friction.

hermione has none of this as she just shoves her ass further in your face. letting go of one of her thighs, you reach around to pansy and kneed one of her breasts, wanting to give her more attention. patting hermiones thigh, she looks down at you in questioning but you grab her hips and force her to sit now facing pansy.

shoving your face back into her heat, pansy and hermione are now fully making out as mione fingers her slowly. hearing pansy let out a loud moan, “fuck baby ride mommies face just like that. our little cum slut, aren’t you?”

slurping up all of her juices, you fasten your pace as you feel all four of you reaching your climaxes together. ginny bounces on you while mione rides your face and fucks pansy with her fingers.

“fuck gin, hump mommas pussy. you look so good, bunny,” you hear pansy praise from behind you. letting out a loud moan, hermione feels you vibrate under her, sending her over the edge along with you.

after feeling hermione slump against you and sluggishly pull off, pansy and ginnys moans join in and you knew your two girls were cumming. looking up to ginny, you see her face scrunched up as she’s now riding your thigh and pansy thrashes her hips off hermiones hand.

“hump my hand, pans. fuck- you look so hot,” hermione speaks up, praising pansy’s before she slows down her movements to a stop. you all lay there for a long moment as your bodies buzz highly. finally, the four of you crash into the pillows and nuzzle into each other’s touch while trying to catch your breath. even though your climax has now come and gone, you lay there with a small grin thinking about how right it felt. you and your girls laying together, cuddling while murmuring sweet things as each of you drift in and out of consciousness.

“we definitely need to do that again,” ginny says practically speaking each of your thoughts. you all break out in sleepy giggles and nod as hermione places a kiss on your shoulder. “definitely.”

#pansy parkinson x reader #pansy smut #pansy parkinson smut #ginny x pansy #hermione x pansy #pansy x reader #pansy parkinson x y/n #pansy parkinson x you #pansy x y/n #pansy x you #ginny weasley x pansy parkinson #ginny weasley x reader #ginny weasley x you #ginny weasley #ginny weasley smut #ginny x hermione #ginny weasley x hermione granger #ginny x reader #ginny x y/n #ginny x you #hermione granger #hermione x y/n #hermione x reader #hermione x you #hermione granger x ginny weasley #hermione granger x you #hermione granger x y/n

[a-crepusculo]

Diamonds (Ethan x MC)

Part Three

Book: Open Heart Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x Dr. Marchia Bisognin (F!MC) Series: Marry Me Series Premise: One simple question can change their whole lives forever. Rating / Category: General / Fluff Warning(s): Slight Language Word Count: 1092 words

Previous Parts Here

A/N: I am here today with some bromance! 😆

“What on earth are we doing here?”

A simple, yet brilliant inquiry.

What on earth are these two men doing inside a Tiffany & Co. store, utterly dumbfounded by the sheer amount of harsh white light, standing still like they were waiting to be given a key that would magically fix all of their problems?

Ethan does not have the answer to it.

Jewels, golds, stainless steels, diamonds—every single one of them were sparkling in and out of his sight, making him wince against the pure, blinding light of glint and glimmer. He sighed and took a moment to shook his arms, hoping that the gesture would help him get rid of the jittery feeling.

“Whoa,” Tobias puffed, a light-bulb appearing above his head. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?”

“If you are as great as you claim to be,” he responded dryly, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Then yes, you’re correct. I’m browsing for rings.”

A sly smile that betrayed all kinds of innocence spread across Tobias’ striking features.

“Ha! I knew it!” he replied, pale blue orbs alight with mischief and triumph.

Out of all the people that were close to both him and Marchia, he had yet to understand why his (normally) intellectual brain failed him today. Somehow, he managed to pick Tobias—instead of anyone else, really—to help him conduct this little research on suitable engagement rings for the love of his life. He was just as clueless as him, hell, if not more.

“Don’t you worry, my dear friend, we’re gonna get through this.”

He truly doubts it.

The young physicians made their way through the crowd, aiming to take a closer look at the case of bejeweled bands. There were dozens of precious stones, captivating those who dared to look at them. In an instant, it seemed that these diamonds have the ability to cast a hazy spell on the eyes of the beholder.

“Looking for anything specific, gentlemen?” the store clerk greeted them, palms clutched together in a loose clap.

“I— I’m trying to—”

“We’re here to look at some engagement rings!” Tobias answered, whipping out that signature smirk of his.

“Why, splendid!” the jeweler looked warmly at Ethan and Tobias. “If I may ask, which one of you will be receiving the ring?”

Ethan blinked, unmistakably stunned.

Did this person really assumed that they were... a couple?

As expected, his old friend let out an explosive laugh, thoroughly amused by the unfolding scenario. Back in medical school, people would often think they were an item, too. For Tobias, it was not surprising that others would assume such things—after all, they used to be thick as thieves.

“No,” Ethan corrected hastily, shoulders deflating as he began to wish that he had not gotten out of bed this morning. “It’s for my partner.”

Tobias twisted his mouth, suppressing another laugh that threatened to ripple out across Boston.

“Right. He wants to propose to her, not me.”

“Ah! My apologies then,” the shop attendant responded, his gaze flickering to the display box he caught Ethan eyeing earlier. Before either of them could select which ring to inspect closer, he unlocked the case with a jangle of keys. “We have plenty of options here, please take a look! I’m happy to guide you through it.”

Within seconds, there were numerous exquisite rings laid on top of the surface—each of them calling out Ethan’s name.

Where does one even begin?

He remembered something about the fundamental of a diamond’s cut quality—or maybe that applies to any other gems? Wait, should he be looking at others gems, and not only diamonds? Does Marchia even want diamonds? Or does she prefer something else?

The older doctor pursed his lips, forehead crumpling like an old hundred dollar bill.

For her, it has to be perfect.

It has to be more than perfect, goddammit.

The sound of trivial tittle-tattle cluttered his head, disturbing his thought process. As the seconds ticked by, the persistent weight in his chest grew bigger, heavier—depriving him from his much needed oxygen.

His nerves continued to buzz with concern; worried that he would ruin this once-in-a-lifetime moment. Jaw clenched, he put every effort into clearing his cogitation, trying to wash away his absurd fear of fucking this up.

Because this has to be perfect, he would not accept anything less.

This has to be more than just—

“I need some fresh air,” he snapped. Unceremoniously, the tall figure turned around to leave the sophisticated shop—leaving a befuddled Tobias on his own.

Under the auburn glow of the setting sun, his feet was planted on the sidewalk; hands resting on his hips as he steadied the erratic beating in his heart. Tobias paused at the spectacle before him—outlandish, odd, peculiar. Never once had Tobias seen the world renowned Ethan Ramsey like... this.

Transformed into this anxious, yet at the same time, hopeful individual.

Emerging from behind him, Tobias asked, “Hey. You okay?”

He did not immediately answer; his eyes feasting on the mosaic of colors that waltzed on the vast atmosphere.

“Yes. Sorry for leaving you there. I was...”

Ethan trailed off, unable to finish his sentence, overwhelmed with this sensation of nervousness. His shoulders were tense, face slightly worn out. Together, they stood side by side in silence, letting the sound of the harmonious breeze ease their spirit.

“She deserves the best,” he blurted out, then paused to collect the jumble of thoughts within his consciousness. “I don’t want to ruin this.”

“I know.”

There was a flicker of surprise on his otherwise imperceptible expression. In some way, those two words provided comfort more than Ethan would ever publicly admit out loud.

“You’ll find the perfect ring for her, E. If not, then I’m going to propose her myself.”

Ethan allowed a small smile. “Hilarious.”

Tobias snorted. “Glad to see that sense of humor of yours intact.”

Newfound hope and confidence bloomed in Ethan’s chest, his eyes shining with a hint of tranquility. Years of being friends (and also being apart), he was grateful to know that he had a good person like Tobias around the corner, supporting both him and Marchia. 

“Come on, let’s go back to the hospital before your soon-to-be fiancée get suspicious. I told her I was taking a break at the cafeteria,” he grimaced, shuddering at the thought of eating there.

“You’re a terrible liar, Carrick.”

I’ll be tagging in a separate post!

#open heart #ethan ramsey #open heart choices #choices open heart #ethan jonah ramsey #dr. ethan ramsey #open heart fanfiction #open heart fanfic #oph fanfiction #oph fanfic #ethan x mc #ethan ramsey x mc #choices fic writers creations #cfwc fics of the week #fics of the week #playchoices #Ethan x Marchia #Marry Me series

[janumun]

The Pirate's Symbol(s): NSFW Alphabet [IkeSen Motonari]

Game: Ikemen Sengoku Pairing: Motonari/Female Reader

Rated: NSFW/18+ Words: 2.5k

Warnings: stockings fetish, spoilers for Motonari’s ‘condition’, sexual intercourse, mentions of exhibitionism/semi-public sex, (non-sexual) bondage, innuendoes and dirty-talk, masturbation

Author’s Notes: Motonari’s entire self is a joy, his route gave me some much needed, invigorating enemies-to-lovers, and I officially love him! [Totally swiped my heart right up without warning!]

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Motonari is quick — you’d almost say adept — at sweeping off a cloth, or container, placed by your bedside. Although, your touch and whatever fire you generate in between the two of you does not bother him, he does prefer you both cleaner of the mess and fluids when holding you close in his arms, afterwards.

Wiping up the remnants of your passionate and, often vigorous, activities off of quivering thighs he presses apart, in gentle strokes of damp fibers. Movements of the cloth soft enough it doesn’t shock you into over-sensitivity but not soft enough you relax entirely beneath him, because that scarlet gaze is always fixated on you — your body language. And if you give away even an inch, he’s ready and up for round two (or four). [Bless yer stamina, matey!]

If not, he’s still up and happy to listen to his favorite flower-brained woman’s amusing, outrageous tales she narrates in animated conversation. While he whisks up a quick, invigorating meal for her at the kitchen counter, just as she rests her happy self at the table. Garnet gaze seemingly fixated upon the task at hand — spices being tossed, ladle being stirred, eggs whipped to perfection — but his answers are prompt and alert, although still carrying that insouciant edge. Indicating his attention; equal division in between feeding you and hearing you speak.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Motonari is fond of his mouth, and before you, he didn’t think of it as much of an achievement as he believes it now, when your jittery gaze seeks immediate relief (and lust) as soon as it lands upon that obvious smirk.

A single kiss and your thoughts are all but handed over to him on an elaborate platter. Your cheeks color dark and wide; restless eyes tracing across his mouth. Your own parting; pink tongue darting quick in a swipe across plush lips: all of you demanding more of him.

Yes, he is surprisingly (or not), in touch with a far more emotional side: Motonari adores your eyes, although you’re never hearing it from him. Your entire body speaks of honesty but the way he reads your thoughts so easy, in your gaze, there’s quite nothing as exhilarating or confounding as the love he captures in them. That quick, tight knot of your brow, your anger flaring in your eyes or the equally prompt melting, when he appeases you in gentle teases. He’s been so long used to not trusting that a person he sees this clearly through, and sees how she trusts; it’s not an entirely terrible thing to feel.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

As mentioned above, the man doesn’t particularly care to leave you a mess post-coitus unless you ask it of him; there is little he’s able to refuse you. So when it does come (…heh) to cumming outside of your pussy, your mouth is a pretty (very pretty too) good substitute for him to ejaculate, without having to think of leaving external stains on you. Your throat clamping, then swallowing, around his orgasm, so he feels that slick slide of saliva and semen around him, as you moan.

Yer pretty darn hot, m’lady.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

There are times he descends — quick and furious — into an almost juvenile state of petty jealousy [he realizes the immaturity of it, he just cannot! help! it!] and ends up turning that lust on you, instead.

He’d never actually do it but visualizing — in almost exact, murderous details — how he’d like to drag you into an empty room whenever Kicho gets all up in your face, and fuck you so hard your throat tears through screams lough enough Kicho hears each and every single sound and moan.

Or, clasp your chin in his fingers, whenever Hideyoshi’s a little too close for comfort at an Oda banquet, and kiss you senseless and noisy [pirates crave a flashy exhibition!].

He despises making a show of you to anybody, so that idea only stays in thoughts but also it’s mind-boggling, since it does get him hard on the spot.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Before you, it was only ever through terrible necessity (extremely dire straits) that he — if ever and very sparing — sought casual sex. The occasions hadn’t been plenty and he’d be frighteningly specific about how he wanted to take a woman to bed.

Bathed, no make-up, no perfume, no scented products or jewelry — anything extra that he could accidentally touch and trigger a reaction. A clean, unscented futon he’d provide in a bare room. Any bonds or cloths he could get his hands on (buying his own and discarding immediately after), to tie their limbs, keep their movements limited; Motonari used.

Of course, there’d be the rare prostitute who’d drop immediately after visiting a client, or one who’d perceive his conditions extreme and over-the-top and think they could ‘change his mind’. The moment they’d try and cross the line, he’d fling them off, almost violently, heart racing, sweat marking each inch of exposed skin. Nauseous and barely tapped, before he’d stride out of the room.

He’s also witnessed open and perverse brothels — and corrupt seething dens — where men and women fuck, for all to see, in his line of work, so he’s no stranger to how sex works for others either.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He’s learning to let go and touch (just you) without the added barrier of gloves and since you so seem fond of his hands on you, Motonari likes any positions that allow his hands to move your body upon his; he isn’t picky.

Palms curved upon your hips so that your ass slaps against his pelvis each time he pulls back, the movements of his cock into and out of your pussy — a place you are both connected and he likes that. Or even when he can spread your thighs wide, press them apart before hooking his hands over your abdomen and just focusing on moving.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He’s a pirate he’s a vortex of a man and slips all over the spectrum. Motonari’s goading is far softened with minimum barbs, when he’s in(side you) in bed with you. More velvet — than leathery — questions, soft smirk-y and probing,: “Ya like that, flower girl?” —as his mouth hovers just close to your ear, nose barely touching and tucking sweat soaked strands away from your temple. Definitely lands firm and midway between too serious and entirely silly. But he’s all focus on you, make no mistake.

He’s still got a filthy mouth on him, but dirty romantic liners are more his style, in bed (he wants you warmed as well as turned on!), in contrast to the complete indecent filth he threatens you with (a good time!) when the two of you are out and about.

“Pipe down, m’lady. The way yer moaning, they’re gonna think I’m fucking ya, right on deck.” Those eyes are burnished rubies; smile wide, crooked and unashamed, as he ducks close. “But maybe ya feel like putting on a show.”

H = Hair (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He’s clean down below (and silver-haired, yes) — he doesn’t go the ‘complete waxed up, no-hair in sight’ route, but rather prefers keeping his hair short-trimmed and well-groomed.

He’s also kept his pubic hair short and neat, for the rare occasions he does have sex, and an unkempt mass down there would leave him more likely and exposed to his partner’s fluids staying on him. He despises that.

Motonari doesn’t mind blood, dirt and grime on the field, nor the brine of the harsh sea sticking to his skin, but as soon as he’s done with — or in between — jobs, he takes the time to wash and clean himself up thoroughly.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

[Also see G=Goofy] Motonari isn’t short with words of love. He isn’t reciting romantic poems but he is quick to let you know, in exact words, how much he loves you — and is loving being inside you — in the moment. Barriers definitely lower themselves — not all down, not completely back up — with this man, in bed.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

(As also mentioned in E=Experience) the man, previously, has sought intimacy only and only out of desperate necessity and when his hand is just not enough for him to relieve himself of his lust. Motonari, before you, jacked off, multiple times within a week, sometimes thrice (or more) in a single day. His desires, usually amped, following a particularly unsatisfying battle or raid.

After you, he still does take time off for some self-lovin’ (remember: stamina for daaays, and you’re mostly unable to match him so he makes do), just not as much as he used to, in the past.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

You and Motonari share a love for (clothing) imports from the seas beyond. He’s always up for sharing and discussing trade secrets, doling out clothing advice and helping you work out modern clothing from whatever fabrics are available to you.

Stockings might be one of his favorite products.

The fabric feeling absolutely exquisite against his palms when he rounds you close into his grasp, stood in between his spread thighs as he observes and hums beneath you, seated. A harmless joke you make, about a stocking fetish and the ensuing explanation soon after, has him grinning and dragging you down to test the material against his teeth.

“Yer sayin’ I got a thing for yer fancy underclothes? Heh, don’t think so. Seeing you in it just makes me wanna tear it all off, meu docinho de côco.”

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere you’re afforded privacy; although a little flirting with danger is good and being pinned in between the door and his body. Watching you try and smother your moans into your sleeves, skews that grin wider, that cock harder.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You. He’s got a dirty mind, it’ll do the rest of the work when its got its catalyst: you.

Nothing gets you results faster than being honest with Motonari, or expressing your affections (even chaste) for him.

Tell him he looked especially handsome, earlier on a job out: with his hair slicked back and how hard it was for you to have held back from kissing him, on the spot. That you love him—

He’s on you so fast.

“That brain’s just gotta keep sprouting its flowers, huh.” He murmurs, tugging at your chin to swipe his tongue into you.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Despite his treatment of you very early on in his route (the collar, the slavery deal), Motonari’s not into putting a collar on a person, romantic or otherwise. Collaring and hearing you call him your Master wouldn’t do much for him, playful or not.

He’s had to live a great chunk of his life as the Beggar Prince; experienced the devastating dregs of human society, including and not limited to being treated as one inferior, and having to watch people around at the very mercy of corrupt lords.

In retrospect, it isn’t something he might take pleasure in, in the bedroom.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Giving or receiving, both take some getting used to within the bedroom. He finds the taste of you pleasant, when he withdraws wet digits from inside you and takes a careful swipe of the clear fluid across his skin. And has expressed interest in, and gone down on you several times.

Receiving gets a bit more gentle coax-y and requires reassurances, with Motonari. He doesn’t particularly like seeing his release all over you. Having to work through those barriers of his mind, but once he allows you, he does enjoy the slow kisses, and the soft slide of your mouth against him.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

His default setting is rough and furious. The two of you are usually frustrated passion by the time you actually get to his bedroom (he likes to prod and poke much too often in public, get you riled) so there’s only one way to go and it’s up. He’s spreading your thighs apart with none too gentle hands as he pushes through and into you, your own hold on him, white knuckled and almost delirious with the way his hips rock into you and his cockhead scraps across your front wall with his onslaught.

At times, however, especially after a high-risk mission; when he’s been close enough to stare Death in the face and survive, he likes to take his time being inside you, just being able to feel you. Once, twice, several times, he’s keeping you beneath, or mounted on top of him, coaxing your hips and your moans.

“Don’t look at me like that, flower girl. I’m alive, ain’t I? Com’ere. I’ll take those tears of yers.”

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Definitely! Any time he can have you, or get you close enough in private, you’re going to be fucking each other. He loves those little breathy, moan-laughters you make in half-panic/all arousal, each time he drives up to grind your hips close together, stuffed into a hallway closet.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Semi-public quickies are a thing and the closest to risky as he gets. As mentioned previously, he’s demanding enough over you, he doesn’t like men Kicho touching you, let alone hearing you when you sound like that.

Other kinks, most kinks, he’s down to try with his favorite dirty, flower-brained woman. He does however, draw the line at any kinks that might involve him using harsh, ugly words to degrade you or your body and/or being soiled.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

All I gotta say is: Pirate’s got stamina enough to power his ships through horn alone, over an entire week!

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Toys translate to external objects. Which are always subject to germs, and need to be (excessively) cleaned by his standards, to keep them useful and usable. That’s far much more work than he’s usually willing to commit himself to.

And he has no need of them. Not when you respond plenty to his touch alone.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

A lot! Motonari’s brand of filthy talk is polished to leave you damp in between the legs. He’s pulling the nastiest most wonderful innuendoes out of the most mundane of tasks.

“Ya like that old weapon?” He might ask of you, as you admire the carvings upon the handle of one of his clan’s katana. “Didn’t know ya liked the feel of handlin’ a sword between yer hands that much, m’lady.”

Leaving your mind reeling and cheeks flushing before withdrawing with a, “What’re ya cooking in that flower brain of yers? Heh... you’ve got a dirty mind.”

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Heavy, sensual pants against your ears. His groans and grunts enough to fan the fires of your own arousal, to have you ready to come, from just the sounds that can leave his throat. Motonari doesn’t care to be heard outside your boundaries, but he also doesn’t care to withhold his own sounds of pleasure from you.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He almost swears (but will never tell you, in very direct words): the space in between your bare breasts smells almost sweet like flowers. He likes finding his way up and nosing in between your breasts — just skin-to-skin contact at a place he finds you’re at your most fragrant. Suckling and tugging at a nipple draws those moans and your scent more intense, so he nips and teeths around the place often.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

That beautiful cock — with the evidence of just enough silver at the base — is long enough it fits and curves snug into you, without entering into any discomforting places, deep. But he is thick enough, it takes you time (and many times) to not just hold your breath and tighten up around him on reflex, upon entry.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

(Read: S)

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

You’re almost always the one falling asleep first. Pirates are used to night raids and this one’s no different. He does prefer watching you sleep, late into the night, once you fall exhausted into slumber.

End Notes: Thank you for reading!

♧° Link to Master List °♡

#ikesen motonari #ikemen sengoku motonari #ikesen mouri motonari #ikesen motonari smut #ikesen smut #ikemen sengoku smut #ikesen fanfic #ikemen sengoku fanfiction #ikesen motonari x reader #ns//fw text #a pickle writes

[agustdakasuga]

Reflection Of You | Chapter 16

Genre: Historical!AU, Timetraveller!AU/ Different Dimension, Romance

Pairing: SUGA x Reader, Yoongi x Reader

Characters: Normal!Reader, Idol!Suga, King!Yoongi, Guard!Seokjin, Guard!Jungkook, RoyalAdvisor!Namjoon, Servant!Jimin, Servant!Hoseok, Prince!Taehyung

Summary: Confirming you were dating the famous Min Suga of BTS, you knew you were bound to make some enemies. But what you didn’t expect was to be cursed, leading you to meet a cold-hearted, arrogant king that shares the same face as your rapper lover.  

Jimin tries his best to keep you away from Yoongi, not wanting you to see the ugly side of the king. 

Chapter warning(s): Mentions of blood, threats, slight violence. There are executions.

“One day, I wanna cook for you.” You told Jimin as you dug into your lunch.

“I’ll pass on that meal.” Yoongi said from beside you. You whipped your head to him, sending him a glare.

“I don’t believe I was talking to you! Your name isn’t Jimin, now is it? And I wouldn’t want you eating my food anyway! Now stop eavesdropping.” You hissed, sticking your tongue out at Yoongi. He just made a mocking face at you to which you just gave him a dirty look.

“What do you cook, (y/n) nim?” Jimin asked.

“I definitely don’t know how to cook food like this. You can call it food from the future I guess. With migration and introduction of different cultures, we usually fuse flavours together.” You explained.

“That sounds-”

“Horrible. Destroying the exquisite tastes of Joseon by mixing it with other things.” Yoongi interrupted Jimin.

“Hey, Yoongi? I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this to you but you’re really annoying! Shut it!” You shouted. Jimin covered his mouth as he snickered, watching the both of you argue.

“I was going to say that sounds very nice, (y/n) nim. I look forward to it when the time comes.” Jimin smiled sweetly. You immediately melted, surprising Jimin with a big hug. Of course, you could count on him to be so kind and genuinely sweet with you. Jimin caught Yoongi looking at the both of you and gently pulled away.

“Finish your lunch, (y/n) nim. Then we can go find the gardener.” Jimin cleared his throat, redirecting your attention.

“Right, I better hurry then! Although, I wanna change out of this new hanbok. I wouldn’t want it to get dirtied.” You said, looking down at your dress. Jimin nodded his head with a bow.

“Yah, don’t choke on your food.” Yoongi said.

“What kind of flowers do you want in your garden, Yoongi? Like any particular kind or colour?” You asked, completely ignoring what he said.

“You can decide. A variety of colours would be good. It’s your garden as much as it is mine, (y/n).” Yoongi said nonchalantly. However, you were not expecting your heart to skip a beat at his words. You cleared your throat awkwardly, nodding your head with a hum.

“Done!” You shot up.

“Aish, you gave me a shock!” Yoongi frowned, putting a hand over his chest. Jimin giggled and held the tray of empty bowls.

“I’ll be back to escort you to your room to get changed, (y/n) nim.” Jimin said and you nodded excitedly. He bowed his head and left the throne room briefly. You walked up to Yoongi, plopping down beside him.

“Can I help you?” He asked, not looking away from his food.

“Nope.” You popped the ‘p’. You watched him eat, resting your chin on your hand, until you saw his exposed wrist pop out from his sleeve as he was getting food.

“You’re still wearing it.” You grabbed his hand suddenly.

“What are you talking about now?” He asked, snatching his hand back from your grip so he could continue eating.

“The bracelet that we got at the market last night.” You held up your matching bracelet with a sun charm. Yoongi stopped chewing, lifting his hand to see the similar bracelet on his wrist, just that he had a moon charm instead of a sun. It stood out amongst the other gold and jade jewellery he wore and yet, it was the one he favoured the most.

“Of course. Do you think I would just get rid of it?” Yoongi frowned, slightly offended by you.

“No. I just thought you would remove it during your court duty. You know, it’s not as extravagant or expensive as your other bracelets and bangles. Almost dull in comparison.” You shrugged.

“The price doesn’t matter, (y/n). If I like it, I’ll wear it. It doesn’t have to be gold or rare stone for me to favour it.” Yoongi said.

“I’m glad then.” You smiled softly.

“Jimin should be back soon. Better wait for him so you can go get changed. Be good and don’t cause the gardener any trouble.” He patted your head. You scoffed at his words.

“You make it sound like I’m always causing trouble.”

“Was I not obvious enough that I was implying exactly that?” Yoongi chuckled. You slapped his arm.

“You’re so mean, Min Yoongi.” You crossed your arms. Jimin came back and you grabbed his arm, storming off with him to your room. Yoongi watched you disappear down the pavement, dragging poor Jimin along with you, a small smile making its way to his face.

“Here, (y/n) nim.” Jimin changed you into a simpler outfit, which was a short sleeved wrap around top and some pants. It looked similar to what a farmer would wear. He secured the ribbon holding your top together.

“Thank you!”

“No worries. Ready to go?” Jimin asked. You nodded and he slipped your shoes onto your feet.

“Bye, Hayan.” You stroked the sleeping kitten’s head before leaving with Jimin. Before heading to the actual garden, Jimin took you to the kitchen’s garden, where the vegetables and fruits grew.

“Woah. There are so many different kinds of fruits and vegetables here.” You gasped at all the different plants.

“Here, try this.” Jimin picked a strawberry for you to eat. It was so sweet and refreshing that you let out sounds of happiness. After looking around a little more, you and Jimin headed to the main garden. The gardener was already there, watering some of the plants. When he saw you approaching, he immediately bowed to you.

“Good afternoon, agashi.” He bowed. You bowed your head back. You saw that he had a variety of potted plants and flowers that had already bloomed, ready to be planted into the ground.

“Are these all the options I can choose from?” You bent down in front of  the small pots to take a closer look.

“There are seeds too. But of course, that will take a while to grow and bloom. So I have some already bloomed flowers too.” He explained.

“Yoongi wanted a bigger variety of colours.” You conveyed. Standing back up, you looked around the garden to see the plants that were already there. There were a lot of warm toned colours.

“I like the blue hydrangeas.” You pointed.

“If you would like to match, these are seeds for purplish-blue Chinese bellflowers (aka balloon flowers).” The gardener showed.

“Perfect. What about this flower? It’s so pretty.” You gently touched one of the flowers that was in the pots. It was white flower with yellow in the middle.

“Ah, it’s a magnolia flower, agashi. Would you like it too?” He asked. You nodded your head. You looked through the other flowers, pointing out which ones you would like and even deciding where they would be planted. It was all coming together rather well.

“What do you think, Jimin?” You turned to him.

“Maybe we can add more hibiscuses? They have always been the royal family’s favourite flower.” He suggested.

Yes, you remember Yoongi telling you before that the Hibiscus syriacus (or Korean rose) was the national flower of Korea. And that it has been growing in the gardens of Korea for centuries unknown.

“There are different colours from white to dark pink.” The gardener explained.

“Let’s get a mixture then.” You decided. When all the plants were chosen, you insisted on helping to plant them in the soil.

“A-Are you sure, agashi?”

“Yes. That’s why I’m dressed as such. Don’t worry, just tell me what to do and I’ll try my best not to make a mistake. The same as what we did last time right?” You smiled. He nodded and you began digging into the soil to place those plants, that were already in pots, into the ground. You hummed as you covered the roots and patted the soil down.

“Let me, (y/n) nim.” Jimin helped you with the fertiliser while you moved on to the next. It was rather fun and you did learn a lot from the gardener.

“These need less water.” The gardener instructed.

“Does Namjoon like plants? Back at home, the only one who would talk to me about plants is him.” You giggled.

“Actually, yes. Advisor Namjoon is the one who assists me in watering the plants every morning before his court duties. And he comes to admire the garden every now and then.” The garden said.

“He’s the same then.” You smiled, remembering all the conversations you would have with Namjoon, as well as his little plum tree that he cares for.

“Namjoon back home has a little plum tree that he brings around. He takes really good care of it and loves it. It’s about this big only and blooms a pretty red once a year.” You showed the estimated size with your hands to Jimin and the gardener.

“Ah, a plum tree? Actually, that plum tree there is advisor Namjoon’s.” The gardener pointed to the big tree that was covered in flowers.

“Wow.” You stood in awe.

“It’s pretty. And advisor Namjoon harvests the plums once they’re ripe. They’re really sweet and we use the remaining to make plum wine.” Jimin said from beside you. You nodded your head.

You continued working hard, removing all the plants from the pots to plant into the soil. Then you planted all the seeds.

“Grow well!” You cheered as you watered the soil.

“Agashi, you remind me of jeonha’s mother. She loved this garden and was the only queen I’ve ever seen willing to get her hands into the dirt to plant everything.” The gardener said.

“Yes, that’s why this garden means a lot to jeonha. He doesn’t really like plants or has an interest in gardening but admiring the plants and making sure it’s maintained makes him happy. When I was a kid, I always saw him taking walks with his mother here. They were sit on that bench by the middle and just read for ages.” Jimin explained.

“That explains a lot then.” You smiled.

“I’ve worked here for many years, even when my father was the palace gardener. Only the former queen and you have voluntarily done this.” He chuckled.

“When the flowers bloom, it makes all the hard work worth it.” You laughed. When you removed your gloves, you took a seat to take a break.

“Here you go. Thank you for your hard work.” Jimin poured you a cup of cold tea. You received it with both hands and sipped.

“We should go show the new flowers to Yoongi.” You stood up once you finished your tea. Jimin’s eyes widened as he suddenly jumped in front of you, holding his hands out.

“W-We can’t!”

“Why not?” You tilted your head.

“Uh, we’re all covered in dirt. We should go wash up first before seeing jeonha or we’ll just be dragging mud with us everywhere.” Jimin said. You looked down at your mud covered shoes, Jimin was right. You nodded and bowed to the gardener before leaving with Jimin.

“We should get more strawberries to snack on.” He led you to walk by the back, where the kitchen was. You weren’t that dense that you couldn’t tell Jimin was acting weird but you would question him later.

“I’ll get a bowl to put them in.” Jimin said, running into the palace kitchen to get a bowl.

“Just put them here.” He handed you the metal bowl.

“Which ones should I pick?” You bent down. Jimin was beside you, guiding you on which ones looked good enough to harvest. It wasn’t long until you had a bowl full of strawberries.

“Are you sure we can pick so much?” You asked, laughing when you saw Jimin struggling to balance everything.

“Don’t worry. A lot more was already harvested prior.” Jimin assured. You held his hand and the both of you went back to your room. Jimin placed the bowl of strawberries down and assisted you with your bath. He ran the water, adding some boiled water so it wasn’t so cold while you undressed. There were water stains, plant pieces and dirt all over them.

“Thank you, Jimin ah.” You said, soaking in the tub.

“You’re welcome, (y/n) nim. Enjoy your bath.” Jimin bowed, collecting your soiled clothes before leaving the wash area.

“Ah.” The warm water was nice to soothe your aching knees and hips from having bent down so much. You sunk under and rose again, using your hands to push your wet hair back. 

“There are fresh towels here when you’re done, (y/n) nim.” Jimin’s voice sounded. 

“Maybe I should just stay here forever.” You replied. 

“Then you’ll be a prune.” Jimin giggled. You laughed along, starting to actually clean yourself. You made sure to wash and scrub all the dirt and sweat off your body, using the nice scented soaps. 

“I’m done.” You said to Jimin. He knocked before coming in with the towels. You helped you with drying yourself before applying a lotion on yourself. Even after Jimin dressed you back into a regular dress, he rubbed lotion into your hands, giving you a nice massage. 

“Ah, you don’t have to.” You shook your head. 

“That’s alright, you’ve worked hard today, (y/n) nim. I have to wait for your hair to dress anyway.” He smiled, continuing to massage your hands. 

“Jimin... you’re acting weird. Should I be concerned?” You asked with a tilt of your head. Jimin stopped for a mere second, looking up at your curious eyes with a clear of his throat. 

“There’s nothing wrong.” He said. 

“Liar. I know it has to do with Yoongi.” You scoffed. Jimin remained silent, standing up and heading to your vanity to get your hair brush. 

“Is it about his meeting now?” 

“It’s nothing really, (y/n) nim. It’s just... may not be a good idea to go visit him now. There are court trials today and they tend to make jeonha... very angry. Especially if there are executions.” Jimin tried to put it nicely. 

“I see, so he’s just deciding the fate of prisoners? Well, I mean if they did something really bad then they should be punished accordingly. But you’ve been here longer than I have and if you think seeing him now isn’t a good idea then we can just stay here. No big deal.” You smiled at him through the mirror as he brushed your hair. 

“Hayan.” You placed the kitten in your lap, the topic changing immediately. Jimin smiled at you, happy that you didn’t question him further. You didn’t need to see the horrors of execution day. 

“Here.” Jimin handed you the bowl of strawberries. He stayed by your side as you laid on your bed and munched on strawberries while playing with a very active Hayan. 

“I SAID GET OUT!” You heard Yoongi’s voice loudly, making you sit up. 

“I’m guessing that’s what you mean by angry?” You turned to Jimin. He nodded his head sheepishly. 

-

Yoongi looked at the scene before him emotionlessly. With one swing of his robe, he turned to head back to his throne. Hoseok was quick to run to his side as he removed his stained outer coat. He dropped it onto the ground while Hoseok scrambled to pick it up. 

“That’s all for today?” Yoongi turned to Namjoon. Namjoon nodded his head rather solemnly. But Yoongi didn’t really care. He waved for Jungkook and Seokjin to approach his throne.

“Get the cleaning crew then.” The king said. The advisor stood up and bowed, calmly walking out the door, narrowly avoiding the mess. 

“Shall I get-” 

“No.” Yoongi cut Hoseok off, picking up the robe that you had returned to him earlier. He slipped his arms through, casually tying a messy knot before sitting down onto his dragon throne. The robe had your faint scent. 

“Is she still in the garden?” 

“No, jeonha. She had returned to her room with her servant after finishing in the garden earlier.” Jungkook informed. 

“Hmm. I’ll dine with her in the dining room. I know this place won’t be cleaned in time. Useless.” Yoongi spat. Hoseok, Seokjin and Jungkook, unable to reply to that, just gave Yoongi a deep bow. The door opened and the palace maids entered to clean the place. Yoongi laid across his throne, legs swung over the leg rest like usual. 

“Seokjin, Jungkook, go ahead and clear the trash. These fools take forever. It’s a waste of time to wait for them.” Yoongi ordered. The two guards bowed and took the stack of boxes at the side, leaving the throne room immediately. 

“Excuse me, jeonha.” Hoseok approached Yoongi with a wet cloth. Yoongi grunted, closing his eyes.

“Make sure I’m spotless.” Yoongi said.

“Yes, jeonha.” Hoseok bowed his head, gently wiping the king’s face with the dampened cloth. Yoongi took this opportunity to rest for a short while since Hoseok was cleaning him. 

“J-Jeonha.” A new voice entered. Yoongi merely ignored the voice, staying completely still. All the palace staff knew not to disturb Yoongi during this time, it was an unspoken rule unless you wished for your own death. Even Namjoon was quiet and did what was told without any hesitation.

“Jeonha.” The voice called out to him repeatedly. 

“Hoseok. Stop.” Yoongi said and Hoseok immediately retracted from him. Yoongi dropped his head to the side, opening his eyes to stare at the figure that stood before him. 

“What? You want to share the same fate as them?” Yoongi asked, boredom laced in his voice. 

“N-No.”

“Then get out. While I’m still letting you.” Yoongi said, turning back to close his eyes. He raised his hand for Hoseok to continue cleaning him. Hoseok gently wiped his hands clean, making sure not to miss a spot. 

“Jeonha-”

“I SAID GET OUT!” Yoongi rose from his throne, anger burning in his eyes. He threw Hoseok aside harshly, not caring if the servant got hurt but Hoseok also knew better than to voice anything. Yoongi marched towards the lady, who was quick to back away. He grasped her neck, causing her to choke. He pulled her close until he was breathing on her.

“Let me tell you. No one crosses me. Nothing escapes me alive. Now let me ask again. Do you want to share the same fate your concubines did, Mrs Lee? Because I can gladly make that happen if that’s what you wish.” He growled. 

“N-No!” The older lady gasped. Yoongi released her, causing her to crumble to the ground, hand around her neck as she struggled to catch her breath. 

“You should consider yourself lucky that you at least still have one.” Yoongi stood over her. She scrambled to her knees, fully submitting to the king in front of her. Yoongi turned to sit back at his throne.

“Take this warning. If you want to continue walking, you better play by the rules of this palace.” He said.

~~

Series Masterlist

Tag list 1

@veronawrites @diamonddia-mond @georgie-me-myself-i @nlost21 @aqueenieme @nello-rie @ireallylikeyourwriting @imascreamerbabymakemeamute @kimahnjung98 @kimmieloveswho @aianloveseven @pb-n-juju @myggummy @baby-noodles @bt21chim @cait-with-luv @bbgniecyy @ggukkieland @awsome-small-k @huhuehuey @yeontanismypresident @strangeobjectmaker @mariana-mmtz @multicolourunicorn @zae007live @yiyi4657 @writingdust @hqtetsurou @fangirl125reader @saveme-imfine @untamedgrape @simplymemyself @cheonsa-unnie @skyys-universe @carolinexkpop @vishakhas-world @tinyoonsblog @mamemimoimoi @iamsherlocked271 @samararose21 @cherry-suna

Tag list 2

@jinscharms @crewzie-chan @bunzom @socoldasice​ @raemikaelson​ @kaithezaftig​ @yoonieebear @byeversley @ifellinluvwithdorks @lunasilver8​ @min-tata​ @someonekeepstakingmyusernames​ @ximenaxd14​ @justbangtanthingz​ @danny-boy27​ 

#kpop #kpop scenarios #kpop series #bts #bts scenarios #bts series #min yoongi #min yoongi scenarios #min yoongi series #yoongi #yoongi scenarios #yoongi series #suga #suga scenarios #suga series #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi x you #historical!au #king!yoongi #emperor yoongi #bts x reader #bts x y/n #bts x you

[hrwinter]

Lena placing a pair of glasses on a pillow and making out with it pretending it’s Kara

Lena’s not always this drunk. Well. Lena hasn’t historically imbibed this much after the age of 26, but her mother’s been arrested and her best friend is a liar, so what else is there to do other than look for an answer at the bottom of a very large bottle of scotch.

She’s been to three upscale bars and restaurants with Andrea, both of them reverting to their messy boarding school days almost instantaneously after the third glass, giggling in the corner and overtly hitting on men and women by sending them pretentious $24 cocktails.

But there’s still a dark streak in all the buffoonery. Lena can’t stop searching for blue eyes on the face of every blonde or broad shoulders under the lapels of every Armani jacket. She hates herself for it. And she hates Kara Danvers. Or Kara Zor-El, whatever the fuck.

Lena is pissed.

She takes another moody sip of scotch while some stock broker continues to shoot his shot (why do they all talk the same? why do they all feel the need to explain how money works to her, a billionaire?) and Andrea’s laughing and laughing at a woman far too loudly, her finger tips sloshing the edge of a martini she absolutely doesn’t need. While the man goes on about blue chip stocks, earnings per share, dividends (kill her), Lena’s eyeing the restroom.

No one would miss her if she ducked out. She could have a car here in minutes. Hell, Andrea would probably appreciate the attention of both parties at the same time. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d finagled a twosome into a threesome.

But that means going home. It means gazing at the dark sky from the cold enclave of her penthouse balcony. It means seeing the downturned photo frame, glass smashed, but still not thrown away.

God damn Kara. She stays.

She doesn’t go home with the man, and Andrea doesn’t go home with the woman. They don’t all go home together. But she and Andrea do go to another bar, and after that, an after hours bar. Then, by some misfortune of a higher power, they end up at a bratwurst stand at 4 AM with a horde of college kids. College children.

“Someone threw up just there,” Lena points at the pavement.

“Oh, don’t be such a snob!” Andrea shrieks into the night, grasping at Lena’s elbow and toying with a necklace Lena knows to cost more than a tricked out Vespa. Lena may be glassy-eyed, there may even be two of Andrea, but she can still spot irony.

“I’m starving. And I haven’t had one of these in yeaaarrrsss,” Andrea elongates as they move up a few paces in line. “Remember when we’d sneak into town and grift old men for drinks? That hot dog stand just outside of Hawthorne’s? I’ve been desperate for one.”

Lena wants to complain more, but it does smell good. And by the time they have bratwursts fisted in hand and are leaning against a nearby brick wall with the rest of the infants, Lena’s not feeling all that bad. It might be the best thing she’s ever tasted in her life. God, this might be the best she’s ever felt in her life. Numb, blitzed out of her mind, somewhere closer to nineteen sheets to the wind than three, she’s no longer a Luthor, no longer a simpering fool to a Super’s lies, not a CEO or a disappointment or even a person. She’s just a presence existing on this curb, eating a bratwurst.

“I’m having an out of body experience,” she tells Andrea with half her mouth full and still swallowing.

“That good, huh?” Andrea has mustard on her chin.

“I want another.”

Lena glances up, and her visions tunnels. Her existence is whittled down even further, to its basest instinct. She’s become the singular pursuit of a thousand more calories, of another bratwurst. Lena surges into the street, the stand a beacon of light in the darkness.

But several things happen at once. There’s a screech of tires, the smash of metal, what feels like getting hit with a brick wall and then being shot out of a circus canon.

Lena finds herself throwing up on the pavement on the other side of the road, and Kara fucking Danvers yelling at a motorist. The guy has gotten out of his car, hood dented and engine smoking.

“You smashed my car!”

“You almost hit a woman! You could’ve killed her!”

“She just bolted into the street, that’s not my fault!”

“PEDESTRIANS HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY!” Kara shouts back.

“Hey!” Lena slurs, having regained her dignity by wiping her mouth clean of vomit. It’s called class.

Both the guy and Kara turn to look at her, but her eyes are trained on Kara.

“I don’t need your help,” she tells her with a point of her finger.

This feels very witty. The pinnacle of sass. So what if she’s lost a heel at some point and may have missed a bit of vomit in her hair. She’s the one in control.

The guy’s eyes narrow.

“Are you blind or something? Didn’t your mom teach you to look both ways before you walk into the street?”

At the mention of Lena’s mother, her eyes narrow, she sways dangerously.

“You’re fired.”

“What?” the guy rolls his eyes. “I don’t have time for this.” He whips out his cell phone. “You’ve got insurance right?”

“Um, yeah,” Kara hands him a card, but she’s quick to come to Lena’s side, to place a steadying hand on her shoulder. Lena tries to wiggle away from it like a petulant child.

“Stop it!”

Kara ignores her.

“Lena, I didn’t want to say it around him,” Kara cups a blocking hand over her mouth and points at the guy so he can’t see.

It’s so adorable and infuriating.

She stage whispers, “But you were jaywalking! And you could’ve been hit by a car. What’re you even doing out here?”

Lena rolls her eyes so hard, she might’ve just incurred permanent damage.

“I’m an adult, Supergirl, and I don’t need an escort--”

Lena’s very mature tirade is interrupted by Andrea crossing the street, mouth still wide open and staring. The look she’s giving Kara is distinctly not platonic, and the look she’s giving Lena is one of deepest intrigue. Her eyes scan the pair of them, their body language, the way Kara’s hand is still on Lena’s shoulder (hadn’t she shaken that off?), and smirks.

“Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

Lena could kill her.

“Be quiet, Drea!”

Andrea dissolves into snorts, and Kara glances between the two of them, a look of recognition passing over her face. Now Lena wants to hurl herself into traffic for real.

Kara opens her mouth to speak, but Lena waves a hand in front of her nose.

“Just--everyone shut up and take me home.”

And the route Lena wants to be taken home is clear when she swats at Kara’s (firm) bicep (to push her away, of course), and that swat accidentally turns into a posessive squeeze.

“Oh, can I come, too?” Andrea purrs, and Kara’s eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“No!” Lena barks at her.

“Fine, fine! Call me tomorrow!” Andrea waves, and like some sort of rich superpower, she’s already getting into the back of a sleek black car.

“Okay, Lena,” Kara hushes against her head. It’s too soft and caring, and Lena wants to push her away. But she doesn’t. (Mainly because standing is feeling like quite a complex task, and she doesn’t have the balance for it.)

“This’ll only take a second.” 

Then, Lena’s wrapped in a warm and solid embrace. It’s nice... before everything blurs, and she has the distinct desire to vomit again.

She never wants another bratwurst.

In the very next moment, she’s being gingerly placed on her balcony, and Lena’s surging out of Kara’s grasp and pressing her face against the cold glass of her balcony sliding door. It feels amazing, calming her stomach down by degrees.

“What’re you doing?”

“Oh,” Lena says. Maybe she’d been doing that for a bit too long.

She runs her hands over the glass in an attempt to open the door, heavily petting various keypads and biometric scanners. Nothing happens. She scratches at the glass like a raccoon desperate to be inside.

“Um, isn’t it over there?” Kara indicates a different keypad to the left.

“I don’t need your help!” Lena shouts before following her instructions exactly. The door opens. She grumbles inside.

Unaware and uncaring, Lena starts undressing in her living room the very moment she’s crossed the threshhold, discarding her shirt, her skirt this way and that. There’s a gasp behind her and another suspicious super speeding sound, but she ignores Kara. She paces into her bedroom to strip off her bra and grab an oversized shirt. After, she spread eagles on her bed.

“I, um, brought you a glass of water.”

Lena cracks an eye open, takes in the sight of Kara standing at her bedside, nervous and uncertain, glass of water extended between them like some sort of peace offering.

She groans loudly and sits up to snatch it from her, water sloshing onto her bare legs. She doesn’t register it, draining it dry, glaring at Kara over the edge of the glass the entire time.

The Super pulls at her fingers.

“What’re you doing here?” Lena rasps, rolling the empty glass onto her exquisite and overpriced comforter.

“You were in trouble, Lena.”

“You don’t care about me.”

“Yes, I do.”

Lena scoffs, completely undignified, a sound appropriate for an elementary school playground. She does it again because it feels good. Kara’s eyebrows pinch.

Lena swivels at the waist and plucks her reading glasses off her bedside table. She places them over one of her giant, California King-sized pillows.

“Oh, Kara, there you are!” she says, squeezing it’s sides together like she’s cupping its cheeks. “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you in a pair of glasses!”

Kara’s brows furrow deeper, not amused.

“How did I not see that the kindness, the sincerity, the insistence that I was not just another Luthor was a total act!” she continues to talk to it.

“It wasn’t an act--”

Lena brings the pillow close in her arms.

“Stopping by to bring me lunch, complimentary puff pieces, spin class, game nights. You’re so sweeeeeet,” she elongates, squeezing the pillow tight. “And beautiful. You know what you deserve? A kiss.”

Surely, this bit has spiraled out of Lena’s control. This entire night has. And were she sober enough to realize it, she’d catch herself before this next part. But she’s not and she’s wasted. And this pillow is the Kara she used to know, the Kara Lena used to pine for unconditionally, fantasizing what it might be like to just, lean over and...

She loses her balance as she places a wet one just under the glasses of her pillowcase and falls over on top of it. Incidentally, it’s the perfect size for snuggling, just like Kara herself, and her eyes flutter closed, warm and content.

“I’ll--I’ll go,” she hears a voice say.

“Kara?” Lena mumbles, face down in her pillow and not long for this world.

“Yeah?”

“I lo--I mean, I hate you.”

Kara sighs.

“I love you too, Lena.”

#supercorp #hr's askhole #tumblr prompt #ficlet #god i was like #thisll be short #1800 words later #pillowcorp endgame

[feralthoughtdump]

The Kind of Love I’ve Been Dreaming Of

Based on the music video for Dinner & Diatribes by Hozier

CW: smut, a little bit of playing with fire, oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex (remember, always wear protection, Loki being a little bit manipulative???

Word Count: 2.3k

It was common knowledge that cats enjoyed playing with their food before they eat and right now, it was clear that Loki was the cat, and she… well, she was the food. 

To an outsider, maybe someone who knew little about Loki and the girl seated across from him, the scene was set like a fancy dinner date.

And in a way, it was. The tables were set with an array of dishes. Gold goblets filled with wine, and candles illuminated the room in a warm glow. 

She looks regal in the emerald green gown. The elaborate gold embroidery glitters under the candlelight and the long bell sleeves drape elegantly against her forearms. 

Loki’s quite proud of himself for choosing that gown. It was exquisite, truly a stunning piece. 

It was a picture-perfect romantic dinner. 

But of course, because Loki was well… Loki, he wanted to have some fun beforehand. He wanted to play a little game. 

The rules were simple. If the match hits him, she wins. 

And so far, she was far from winning.

So needless to say, a grin was stretched wide across his face as he stares at her brows furrow in frustration. 

“This is impossible.” She huffs, flicking the match against the box. 

The little flame flickers and disappears as the match lands a foot away from him.

“No,” He chuckles. “You just aren’t doing it right.” 

She crosses her arms and stares daggers into him. 

“Then why don’t you give me a hint?”

“You know I can’t do that.”

She scoffs. 

“Why not?”

He raises his arms.

“Well, that’ll take the fun out of it!”

There’s a pang of slight annoyance in her tone. 

“It’ll take the fun out of it for you. As of this moment, I’m not having any fun.”

It was such a simple game yet it was difficult. And the long, heavy sleeves of her gown do little to help. 

She sets the box of matches on the table.

“You said if I hit you with the match, I’ll win. What exactly am I winning?”

He leans forward, eyes twinkling with excitement.

“That’s for you to find out. After you win.”

She rolls her eyes and laughs.

“How am I supposed to claim my prize if I’m playing a game I can’t win? You know what? I’m not playing anymore. I don’t care about the prize.”

As she gets up, she feels invisible hands tug her back into the chair. 

“Now, now, pet,” his voice is silvery, “don’t go running off now.”

“Loki,” her eyes widen as her fingers dance along the edge of the table “stop it.”

“I’m not doing anything.” He chuckles, sitting still in his seat. 

It was like she was a puppet. Twisting and contorting her body into some strange dance. 

“Yes, you are!”

Her back arches against the table and her eyes meet Loki’s. He stares down at her with mischief in his eyes.

For a brief moment, his gaze and the low timbre of his voice ignited a fire within her abdomen. But it’s quickly dashed with a flick of his hand. 

She’s sent back into her chair, head nearly slamming into the wood. 

“Gods,” She groans. “I hate it when you do that.”

Loki laughs.

“Then stay seated and keep playing.” 

“I told you, I’m done playing.”

“Oh, pet, you give up so easily, even when you’re playing a simple game.”

She scowls. The whole “game” was bordering on pure irritation for her. 

“It’s not that simple when it’s near impossible to flick-“

She’s been playing it all wrong. 

Loki had said that as long as the match hits him, she wins. However, he never said how the match had to hit him. Flicking the match was never a requirement. 

She had simply assumed that she was supposed to flick the match at him. 

So with a quick hand, she ignites the match and simply tosses it at him. 

Her skin glows gold as the figure burns in front of her, engulfed in flames. 

“Congratulations.” His voice rings from behind her. “You’ve won.” 

The figure dissolves, revealing that his seat was empty the whole time. 

Sneaky bastard. 

Her head whips around, eyes landing on the god. 

“So I wasn’t even playing with the real Loki?”

His long legs stride towards her, footsteps echoing through the room.

“Do you think I would sit there and let you throw matches at me?” He places a finger under her chin, tilting her head to look at him. 

“I guess not.” 

He walks around the table and sits in the empty chair. He beckons her with a crook of his finger.

She’s about to stand when Loki shakes his head. 

“There’s a space between us. Crawl.”

She rolls her eyes.

“Are you being serious?”

“I am. Now, crawl.”

She slowly shifts, placing a knee on the table. Before she can say anything else, she feels her limbs move. His invisible strings manipulate her body and pull her towards him. 

She doesn’t fight it. Sure, it scared her, him taking control over her body, but at the same time, it excited her. 

When she reaches him, he places a firm hand on her back, helping her into his lap, thighs straddling his. 

“Now, it’s time for you to claim your prize.”

His fingers move the dark silk around her thighs, letting the fabric bunch around her hips and exposing her bare cunt to the cool air.

She noses at his jaw, placing a kiss next to his ear. Her lips trail kisses down his cheekbone and to his lips. 

“But we haven’t eaten yet.” She murmurs. “And those strawberries look really fresh.”

He captures her lips with fervor. 

“You’re right, but there’s something else I want to-“

She places her arms on his shoulders and pushes back. “I want to eat at least something.” She bats her eyelashes at him. “Please?”

Loki gives her a sugary grin. “Alright, my love.” 

The strawberry he brings to her lips is sweet. As the juice dribbles past her lower lip, he gently wipes it away with the pad of his thumb.

She parts her lips and uses her tongue to draw his thumb into her mouth. 

“You are insatiable,” He chuckles, pushing his thumb deeper into her mouth. 

She sucks on the digit, lapping at the last of the juice. A burning desire swims through her veins, replacing her appetite for food with something more lustful. 

His thumb is pulled from her lips with a pop and she can feel Loki stiffen underneath her.

She slowly grinds herself down on his clothed erection. The leather of his pants feels good against her cunt, making her wetter than she already is.

A needy gasp leaves her lips when he bites her neck, sucking a dark mark right above her collarbone.

It was a sign of ownership. A sign that she was his.

“Now,” he skims his teeth against the sensitive skin, making her yelp. “All of Asgard will know you’re mine.”

There’s a gentle tug on her hair and she tilts her head back. Loki takes this as an opportunity to let his saliva fall into her open mouth. She swallows it with blissed-out eyes and a grin on her face.

“Look at you.” He moves his hand to caress the length of her neck. “So pretty. So perfect.”

She hums, head thrown back, reveling in his soft touch. 

“You flatter me.” 

He playfully nips at her collarbone, smiling at her sweet giggle.

“It’s not flattery if what I’m saying is true.” 

She pulls herself closer to him and presses her lips to his.

It’s ravenous, hungry, and fiery with clashing teeth and bitten lips.

“Loki” she pants, “I need you. I need you now.” 

With desperate hands, they work in tandem to pull his leather pants past his hips. 

She reaches down to wrap her fingers around his cock, feeling it stiffen in her hand.

He hisses when she runs her finger over the tip.

Loki runs his palm up her thigh, fingers ghosting over her core. 

She squirms in his lap as he pushes a finger past her folds. 

“Stay still.” He murmurs. “Keep stroking my cock.”

She gulps and pumps her hand up and down, drawing groans from his mouth.

Loki pushes another finger inside of her, releasing a whimper from her. 

He pauses, eyes widening slightly with concern.

“Did I hurt you?” He gently asks.

“No.” She gasps. “It feels good. Keep going.” 

Loki grins and crooks his fingers upward.

“Look at that.” His other hand reaches behind her head, forcing her to look down at his fingers. “So wet already.”

He removes his fingers from inside of her and places a firm hold on her hips, her pussy hovering over his hard cock. 

A whine slips past her lips as she lowers herself onto him.

The stretch burns and tears prick at her eyes. 

“Come on, love.” He rubs his thumb against her jugular. “I know you can take it.”

A loud gasp leaves her lips as he pulls her down, spearing her onto his cock.

She grabs onto the golden horns of his helmet so she doesn’t fall, knuckles slowly turning white. 

Slowly, she lifts herself using his helmet for support and lowers herself back down.

“You like the horns, don’t you, pet?” He teases.

She gives him a desperate whine and is met with a tightened grip on her throat.

“I want a verbal answer, darling.” He seethes. 

“Yes.” She whines. “I like the horns.”

He releases his hold on her neck and sits back, watching her pull herself up and sink back down. 

Every thrust of his hips sends shockwave after shockwave of pleasure through her body, and she can feel herself wanting more. More of him. She wanted to be closer. 

A hand releases its grip from the helmet, grabbing onto the back of his neck and pulling him in for a kiss. They pant into each other’s mouths through bitten lips and needy whines and gasps. 

His grip on her tightens as he cums, throwing his head back and groaning. It brings her closer to the edge, but the feeling of his warm cum painting her walls wasn’t enough to bring her to an orgasm. 

But Loki is far from finished. He pulls out and she whines, desperation coursing through her veins. 

She’s left shaking, face flushed, and chest heaving as his cum trickles down her thighs. 

His eyes light up in a way that only means one thing: he has an idea. 

Excitement and dread fill her mind. What sick and twisted idea did he have in mind? To edge her to the point of tears, or to make her cum over and over again until her brain was mush?

She watches with bitten lips and wide eyes as he stands, leaving her in the chair.

“Loki, what-“

“Hush, my love.” He slowly takes his helmet off and places it atop her head. “Beautiful.”

He sinks to his knees, large hands spreading her thighs. A groan leaves his lips at the sight. 

“Loki-“

Her words are cut off when he licks a stripe up her folds. He grabs her thighs, the pads of his fingers digging into her skin, and pulls her towards him. Her knees are placed on his shoulders, allowing him to dive deeper.

From the view between her thighs, Loki thinks she’s beautiful, especially with his helmet. He’ll have to find one for her afterward. 

She’s divine, someone meant to sit on a throne. Someone meant to be queen. His queen. 

He’s always discussed the day of his coronation to her, picturing how people will kneel before him. But for her, he’d kneel for her any day of the week. 

“Gods,” he murmurs against her thigh, “you’d look good on a throne.”

“Uh-huh.”  she gasps, ignoring his words. “please, just shut up and stop teasing.”

Loki hums against her pussy.

“Of course, your majesty.” 

A loud moan reverberates through the room as he continues licking into her, soaking his face with her wetness and his cum. 

“Fuck!” She gasps, threading her fingers through his hair.

At this very moment, as he is drawing desperate sobs from her throat, he decides that he will make her queen. 

When he ascends to the throne, he’ll make sure there is one for her, all grand and gold. 

One of her hands grips onto one of the armrests and the other works its way into his hair, pulling his face closer to her. He deepens his ministrations and she lets out a strangled moan, pleasure coursing through her body. 

The intricate beading on her sleeves scratches at his face but he pays no mind to that. All he can focus on is how sweet she tasted against his tongue. Like the bowl of strawberries left abandoned on the dining table. 

She throws her head back, the heavy headpiece sliding down her forehead, obscuring her vision. Her hand quickly adjusts it so she can continue to admire the view from above. 

The prince has his eyes closed, cheeks, still flushed from his orgasm, pressed against her soft thighs. 

The sight sends her falling over the edge. She cums with gaspy breaths and loud moans. It’s music to his ears. 

As he stands from his position between her legs, she looks up at him with lust-glazed eyes. 

He bends over to grab her chin, pulling her in for another kiss, the taste of her orgasm fresh on her tongue. 

“Bless that silver tongue of yours.” She grins.

“You are the one who blessed it.” He gives her a cheeky smile, swooping her into his arms. 

“Don’t be vulgar.” She wraps her arms around his neck as he sits back in his chair. “Plus, I believe we still have to eat dinner.”

He laughs and presses a sweet kiss to the tip of her nose. 

“Oh, darling, I’ve already eaten.”

#loki #loki x reader #loki x female reader #loki smut #loki x reader smut #loki fanfic #loki laufeyson

[nikethestatue]

La Dolce Vita

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

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

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

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

Part I (Flowers)

 La Vie En Rose

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

Now

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

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

Well…maybe not the best-best.

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

Elain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you bragging?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elain chuckled, and turned back to face him.

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

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

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

“Yes, me too,” she said stupidly.

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

“Would you like me to show you around?”

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

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

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

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

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

“Doing what?”

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

Cassian fell behind, gawking at the display.

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

“What sort of business?”

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

“Flowers?”

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

“A car enthusiast?” he smirked.

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

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

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

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

“Um,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are a Seal, too?” she exclaimed.

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

“I heard,”

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

“So, you are retired?”

“We are vets,”

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

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

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

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

He paused and rubbed his chin,

“Any preference?”

“For what?”

“What car you’d like to go in?”

“I don’t know,”

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

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

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

Gorgeous.

Azriel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the fuck? Mouthed Cassian in confusion.

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

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

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

And that was that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cassian

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

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

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

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

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

About Azriel, Cassian had no doubts.

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

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

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

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

Elain giggled.

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

“Only just.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How interesting.

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

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

“What?”

“I know that look,” he winked.

“What look?” she frowned.

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

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

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

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

“You are welcome, by the way,”

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

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

Now

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

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

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

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

“Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Where?”

“How does lots of flowers sound?”

She smiled. 

Azriel

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

He shouldn’t have asked her.

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

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

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

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

He entered and whistled,

“That’s a lot of flowers!”

Yep, definitely a glamourized 50’s Paris vibe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Use you?”

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

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

“I am not a flower expert,”

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

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

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

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

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

It was well past midnight when they were finally done.

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

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

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

“How can I repay you?” she asked.

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

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

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

“A bargain?” her brow furrowed.

He nodded.

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

Elain stared at him, biting her plump lower lip.

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

He grinned and without thinking, cupped her cheek.

She didn’t recoil.

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell was wrong with him?

He never acted like this!

He never thought like this.

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

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

“Fine,” she shrugged.

“Fine?” he repeated, smiling.

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

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

“I can take an Uber,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then,

Elain sprawled face down on the pavement.

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

Azriel was instantly on his knees in front of her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am sorry,” she mumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jump in where?”

“Jump into my arms, of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The third.”

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

“You can’t say that!”

He was laughing and she began to laugh as well.

“You said it first,” he reminded her.

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

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

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

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

“You are nice,” she said suddenly.

He looked at her and smirked.

“Not with anyone.”

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

Elain

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

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

Light poured through the windows; the curtains still open.

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

Fuck.

Fuck.

He was here. With her.

He never left after last night’s debacle.

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

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

Yep, she was never going to see him again.

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

She wanted to cry.

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

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

Scarred fingers touched her hand and he opened his eyes.

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

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

“Pancakes?” he asked eagerly.

She glanced at him with incomprehension.

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

“I want to thank,”

He lifted his finger and shook his head,

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

“Why?”

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

She chuckled.

“So, you are Italian?”

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

He sat up and rolled his neck.

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

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

A tiny flare of hope lit in her belly.

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

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

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

He was different somehow.

Kind. Approachable.

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

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

She blinked at him.

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

At last, “Better?” he asked.

She only mooed incoherently.

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

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

“You cook too?” she asked incredulously.

He laughed.

“Too? In addition to what?”

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

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

“Cass?” she smiled.

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

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

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

“And you?”

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

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

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

He then asked, “coffee?”

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

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

“This is what you drink?”

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

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

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

In their house, they always drank Italian coffee.

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

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

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

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

He grinned and shrugged innocently.

“I know a guy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-uh.”

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

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

She fell in love completely.

Utterly.

Irreversibly.

And forever.

Now

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lips,” she murmured with audible desperation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To kiss you,” she insisted stubbornly.

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

“How about this?”

“This is nice, I suppose,”

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

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

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

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

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

“So confident, ombre?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Azriel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now

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

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

Four.

Four orgasms daily. That was his promise.

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

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

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

 Azriel

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

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

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

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

“They never argue,” Cassian nodded.

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

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

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

 Nevertheless, the word got around.

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

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

Well, they liked it.

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

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

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

Cassian cocked his brow and murmured seductively,

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

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

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

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

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

“Take your dirty talk and deeds,”

Dirty deeds done dirt cheap, dirty deeds done dirt cheap

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

Chicken choking forgotten for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Azriel started and finally tore his eyes from the flowers.

Both Rowan and Cassian were watching him, smirking.

“I guess it’s true then,”

“Fuck off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Macarons,” said Azriel.

“What?”

“It’s macaron. Not macaroon.”

“What the hell is the difference?”

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

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

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

Elide. Of course. He should’ve guessed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence fell.

Azriel won.

His 36th win.

 Now

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

 Azriel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Someone will see us,” she murmured sleepily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some, or many, called them soulmates.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tore his lips away from her bottom and grinned,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” she grunted, “yes,”

“Ask nicely, and maybe,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded.

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

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

“I love you, Azriel.”

“I love you, Elain.”

 Elain

Their day was long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Now

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

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

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

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

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

She whined impatiently and he smiled,

“We are almost there…”

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

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

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

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

“Naughty.”

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

“Oh, gods…Az…”

He was smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My thoughts exactly!” he nodded vigorously.

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

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

“Like it? I love it!”

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

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

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

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

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

The hills are alive with the sound of

Griswold, he helped out.

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

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

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

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

“I got hot,” she announced.

He grinned.

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

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

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

“I can make you a little more comfortable,” she promised, “but for that, you have to get up.”

With a groan, he got on his feet, only to have her slide on her knees in front of him. She looked up and murmured, “by the time you are done with me, I only want to have gelato to soothe my throat.”

He swallowed audibly, watching her unbutton his trousers and then his shirt. She removed the pants completely, but left the white shirt on, before placing a few soft, loving kisses on the thick slabs of muscles on his stomach. The well-defined outline of his Adonis Belt she traced with her tongue, inevitably making her way from his hip towards the final destination.

“And I want my knees bruised,” she added with a wicked smirk.

He flicked her nose and shook his head, “such filthy words coming from this pretty little mouth.”

She licked her lips with impatience, hungrily watching him fist his member and give it a few rough, preliminary strokes.

“Gods, your cock is gorgeous,” she gasped with admiration, watching him work himself with practiced determination.

“You like my cock?” he drew the thick, smooth head of it over her full lips and she whimpered with anticipation, nodding, kissing it affectionately, with slow, open mouth kisses, as he continued to pump it lazily.

She admitted, “more than anything. Az, Az,” she begged impatiently, as he smeared a trickle of liquid that dribbled from the tip over her lips, “please,”

“Please what?”

She rested her hands on his thighs, kneeling close enough so that her breasts brushed against them, “I want it in my mouth. Please.”

He lightly smacked the thick girth of his shaft over her half-opened mouth, making her shake with anticipation, smiling down at her. Her eyes burned with raw, overwhelming desire.

“But I like it when you ask me, baby. Tell me more,”

“That your cock is gorgeous and ridiculously huge?” she chuckled, relishing in his rubbing the tip insistently over her lips, as she licked the little slit.

“Keep going,” he encouraged.

“That I love you and can’t wait to suck it?”

“Alright, babe,” she nodded at last, “I guess you’ll just have to suck my huge dick,” and with that, he slid between her lips.

She smiled around him and pulled on it deeper, dragging her tongue over and under the thick shaft. It was always just a little too big for her, so she gasped, as he filled her mouth more and more, sliding in steadily. She eased her throat as much as she could, accepting the thrust and feeling the smooth head dip down, brushing the back of her throat. He was watching her intently, every bob and swallow of her throat, making sure that she was comfortable enough to hold him in. “Big?” he murmured. Her eyes teared up, but she managed a small nod. Her hands squeezed his thighs nervously, tightly, stroking the backs of them, while he began to pull out slowly, before sliding back in.

Nothing was more exciting than Elain’s ability to mould her throat around his shaft, while those big brown eyes blinked at him, seeking approval. He put his hand over her head, stroking it, then caressing her face, her hollowed cheeks, while giving her mouth a few exploratory thrusts.

She readied herself and pulled back, releasing the cock with an audible pop, and then licking the underside, from the balls to the tip.

“Just like that, my love,” he nodded, watching her tuck her face in the crease of his hip and slide her tongue up and down the sides of his cock. “Is that good?”

“It’s the best,” she vowed, “I love licking!” she added enthusiastically, proceeding to do just that.

He always remembered that she was very innocent and whatever she knew, no matter how sensual, erotic or even perverse, it all came from him. He taught her—gently, firmly and thoroughly the art of the bedroom and whatever they did, he was completely assured that she enjoyed and wanted every moment of it. Thankfully, she was so innocent that she didn’t know how to pretend or fake anything, especially when it came to sex, and didn’t know how to play games. She was eager and loving and excitable because what they did together, with each other, pleased her, and for no other reason. Azriel cherished this level of honesty more than anything.

Therefore, when she said that she loved licking, she showed him just how much she enjoyed it, licking up and down voraciously, over the sides, watching him unblinking. He cupped the pouch of his balls in one hand and carefully eased it into her mouth.

“You are so good to me,” he groaned, as she wrapped her lips around the ball and began to suck eagerly, not caring if she was loud, smacking her lips, tongue working non-stop, caressing the flesh. She hummed appreciatively around the balls, sending a pleasant shiver down his thighs, her mouth completely filled with him. “That’s good, my girl,” he stroked her head, “just like that. Keep going,” his head fell back with satisfaction, and she swallowed hard around his balls, almost moaning at the sight of his neck, the expression of pleasure written on his face.

“Can I tell you a story?” he muttered huskily, looking back down at her, his eyes dark and his face tense. Elain nodded. He gripped his cock and then slid it back in her mouth, almost to the hilt, making her choke and gag at once, watching her eyes widen.

She was drooling, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the pressure of her member in her throat, or from the visual display of his stunning body above her. The thick pectorals, adorned with black and blue ink twitched as he began to pump in and out of her mouth, hard and steady. He held the back of her head, but the clutch of his hand was light and casual, only keeping her in place, as his narrow hips flexed with each deep push. A delicious bead of sweat ran down the cobbled network of his abdominal muscles, slowly making its way to the deep V etched into his hips, towards the thick cock that he was currently ramming into her mouth.

She drooled. She licked and laved and lapped. She didn’t care how messy or ridiculous she looked, because her man loved her and loved her on her knees in front of him.

“I couldn’t stop watching you talk,” he grumbled, “the first time I saw you. Your plump lips…Oh fuck, baby, you feel so, so good,” he rode her smoothly, with deep, expert strokes, “you wore that rose-tinted lipstick…and all I could think of afterward was those lips wrapped around my dick.”

She smiled over his member, lightly shaking her head, as much as her current position would allow.

“I am sorry, honey,” he smiled at her, “this pervy mind couldn’t think of anything else but getting my dick down your throat.”

And demonstrating just that, and the resolution of his dream, he pushed further.

“Alright?” he asked, carefully holding her jaw. She blinked her approval. He was unable to take his eyes off her, her lush lips wrapped tightly around the dark mass of him, her beautiful eyes tearing from pressure. He wiped the tears with his thumbs and then gave a brief nod, “give me those flowers, baby.”

Obviously, she couldn’t glance down, so she blindly grabbed a handful of flowers and handed them to him, her expression amused, a little surprised.

“What’s more romantic,” he murmured, stroking her hollowed cheeks and then pulling out a little, before pushing back in, “than putting pretty flowers into my Lainey’s hair,” and he plucked a small poppy from the heap, and pushed in into her hair, “while she deepthroats me?”

He was heavy and thick in her mouth, salty, delicious and familiar, and as he began thrusting firmly, the thick head hitting the back of her throat, Elain settled in for a ride. She wasn’t kidding when she asked for her throat to be raw by the end of it—she liked being sore somewhere in her body from him, at all times. Between her legs, inside her rectum, in her throat—it didn’t matter, though it was nice if it was everywhere, but she loved being marked by him in some way.

The hum and rumble in Azriel’s throat, that of masculine satisfaction and some kind of primal dominance made her so wet, she leaked down her thighs. But he didn’t tell her to touch herself, so she didn’t. He just fucked her throat steadily, the audible sound of her choking and sputtering around his cock and the satisfied snarls emanating from him, the only sounds around them. His hips rocked hard, pumping deep, as he garbled endearments and praise to her, “is that so good, honey? You feel amazing…”

She squeezed his thighs in affirmation. As he worked on her, he kept putting flowers in her hair, admiring her sucking and his work, “so gorgeous, baby. My beautiful girl…Good cock?”

“Mmmm,” she only managed, saliva bathing her chin and chest, her eyes rolling back with pleasure and exhaustion.

“Can you handle a little more?” he begged, “I don’t want to come yet, my love,” another flower in her hair. “I love you on your knees with my cock in her mouth.”

He set a brutal rhythm, muttered, “choke, baby…” and she did, gagging and panting over his member, the lack of oxygen making her pliant and obliging, her mouth existing for his pleasure. When they played a little rougher, he could request to squeeze her throat a little with his hand, while he choked her with his cock, but today, he was feeling romantic, as was she.

Her hair dripped with flowers of all kinds, as he fashioned her into some kind of Summer Lady. Or maybe a Dusk Lady, since the sun began its descent and shadows spread over the pretty little valley.

“Fuck me, you are so beautiful,” he grunted, looking down at her. “My flower girl, with my cock in her mouth. Bob a little, love, show me how much you like it,” he encouraged and she immediately began to bob her head  up and down on him, drool sliding down his shaft, her eyes pleading for his approval, which he gave generously.

He gently, kindly stroked her face, her throat, feeling his cock deep inside it, moving in her, rubbing at the indentation with his thumb. Then, he cupped her face between his large hands and murmured, “open up”, thumbs brushing over her damp cheeks, as tears slid down when he started to thrust intently, battering her throat. “My girl is sucking so well,” he was relentless now, pounding and pounding, an Elain thought that she might just pass out from the sensation, feeling lightheaded. Azriel had inhuman stamina when he was between her legs, but that also translated to when he was in her mouth, which meant he could ravage her completely. “I’ll feed you all the gelato myself, if you can suck a little more,” he promised with a smirk, pulling out completely. “Breathe,” he ordered, and she gulped in some air, before he thrust back inside, “are you tired?”

She shook her head ‘no’. She was never tired for him. She moaned, though his cock pushed down all sound with brutal, excited enthusiasm, as he cupped his balls tightly in his hand, readying to finally come. “Fuck, baby, you suck so well,” he squeezed her shoulder, stooping over her, the muscled of his abdomen twitching and tensing, his balls tight against her chin. Grabbing her shoulder with one hand, he cupped her under the jaw and kept her head still, as he exploded in her mouth. He poured down her throat with a pleased, blissful moan, throwing his head back, pumping harshly and erratically, filling her mouth over and over. She sucked and drank, swallowing quickly, gluttonously. Azriel always tasted heavenly, but perhaps it was something about being in Italy and all the fruit and wine that they’ve been consuming, but she couldn’t get enough of him now. He shot rope after rope down her throat and she lapped it all with pleasure. He dropped on his knees, exhausted, his cock still in her mouth, and she stroked and caressed his body soothingly, swallowing the last of him.

“Gods, Elain,” was all he managed, as he finally withdrew in an endlessly long pull from her lips.

She gasped, and licked her lips, before placing a loving, playful kiss on the pink, wet head of the shaft.

“Did you have fun, my love?” she cooed tenderly, as Azriel slumped on the blanket, head her on her lap.

“Baby, why do you spoil me like this?” he moaned, reaching for her bare plump breast and cupping lightly.

“Probably because I love you more than it’s prudent,” she smiled, her voice hoarse. “More than anything. Love you like I didn’t know I could love anybody. Also,”

“Yes?”

His chest constricted from her simple admissions, from the pure earnestness of her words, from the love that was shining in her brown eyes. He was undeserving of this woman, of her overwhelming love for him, of everything that she gave him so selflessly. But he listened and listened, because everything she told him was like a balm on all the wounds of his soul, and music to his heart.

Her lips were gorgeously, obscenely swollen, and he dragged his thumb over their plumpness. She added, “you are very hot.”

“Ahhh,” he chuckled. “So you are using me for my body?”

“I’d be stupid not to use you for your body. You got one hell of a body, my mysterious, shadowy Azriel.”

“Well, flower girl, you go ahead and use my body as much as you want, for anything you desire. It’s yours.”

He kissed her hand. Then, reached up and kissed her pretty pink nipple.

“As is my heart,” he added softly. “Anything you want. It’s all yours.”

She lay next to him, both of them sprawled in the blanket of flowers. She picked a poppy and stuck it behind his ear.

“Pretty boy Azriel.”

He propped his cheek and turned to face her. She was still covered in flowers, from all his handiwork.

“We are good together, aren’t we?” she murmured, laying her hand on his neck.

“We are. We are very good together, Lainey.”

She bit her swollen lip and then said, voice quiet, a little uncertain,

“Maybe you want to marry me?” she proposed.

He stilled, waiting for more.

She squeezed the back of his neck a little tighter and continued, no stopping her now, “I know we were thinking later, maybe next y-,”

“Yes,” he nodded, “yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, Elain, I want to marry you now.”

She gasped, tears of joy moistening her eyes, “In Florence?” she begged.

“Yes. In Florence,” he cupped her face in his. “Let’s go get married!”

#elriel #elriel fanfic #elriel fanfiction #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #elain archeron #azriel #elain archeron fanfction #acotar fanfiction #my writing #my fanfiction #la dolce vita #sjm fanfic #acotar #acosf #elriel modern au #nikethestatue #nikethestatuewriting #elain x azriel #azriel and elain #azriel acosf #elain archeron and azriel

[bakerolivias-archived]

femslash february moodboards: ballerina!zoyalina au, enemies to lovers

She feels her throat constricting at the sight of Zoya, heat rising to her cheeks. Alina does nothing but watch as Zoya whips by in a blur, dark, curly hair that flowed like silky tresses of black ink swept into a bun at the crown of her head, lips a deep ruby red, black tank top clinging to Zoya’s form and hugging her curves at just the right places with a pink tutu, tights, and pointe shoes (the standard ballerina attire), all but waving her off dismissively with a sniff, not sparing her a glance, and - it hurts. A lot more than it should, really.

Alina’s breath hitches as Zoya begins a series of stretches for warm-ups which show off her divine, exquisite form, tearing her eyes away (though it is a valiant and laughably difficult effort) from Zoya’s arching back and abundant curves. She bites her lip, repeating a mantra in her head of how Zoya has no affect on her, that Zoya’s hateful brown eyes and smooth tanned skin and sculpted form don’t keep her awake at night, how Zoya is not the last thing she thinks of before sleep claims her body and her eyes flutter to a close. Her fingernails scrape her palms, forming crescent moon shapes in her fleshy skin, and she endeavors to use the pain as a means of distraction and, funnily enough, focus, though the two are often considered mutually exclusive; really, pain works wonders (being a ballerina is nothing but pain, after all, a way of stretching the body past its limits to form a graceful and beautiful dance with her limbs). Alina schools her features - ballet is all about discipline, and structure, and stoicism, and she needs to keep herself poised, maintain as much of an air of dignity as she possibly can.

She hangs on to the metal bar for balance, feeling the cool metal in her hands as she proceeds to her own warm-ups, matching the movements of the other girls - to which Zoya notably rolls her eyes, and Alina feels the flare of indignance deep in her stomach. Really, there’s no need for Zoya to have such an attitude, to be visibly annoyed by Alina’s mere existence, to act as if she’s better than her, than everyone here, with her nose turned up and head held high - and there’s no need for Zoya’s contempt for her to be such a turn on, but damn it, it is.

A hush falls through the room at the sound of the clapping of hands, loud and confident and demanding. The ballerinas around Alina stand up straighter, including Zoya - and she does too, stiffening her spine and hiking up her shoulders, hardly letting herself breathe. That’s the effect Genya Safin, infamous in the world of New York’s performing arts, has on her, on all of them.

“The Swan Lake concert approaches,” Genya intones dramatically, striking blue eyes giving each and every one of them a quick once-over. Pausing on Alina, before continuing, her red curls bouncing with her movements. “I trust you’ve been practicing, and I hope to see stellar performances from all of you. The New York Times will be there, as will several important people in the world of performing arts,” Genya being one of them goes unsaid, “and I expect you all to make me proud. We’ll be working with partners today.”

Alina’s heart hammers in her chest, dread curling around her ribs. Genya’s gaze swivels meaningfully from Zoya to Alina, and she knows what will happen before Genya even has the chance to say it-

“Zoya, you will be working with Alina,” Genya decides before rattling off a list of partnerships. Zoya approaches, and Genya’s silky voice is reduced to nothing but a buzzing drone in Alina’s ears.

It is far too early in the morning for this.

+

The intimacy of the moment is not lost on her. It’s too much, and it’s threatening to overwhelm her, and instantly, Alina feels ridiculous at the thought that this even means anything. She’s just - she’s being stupid, and horny, and it’s not entirely her fault that Zoya’s ruining her.

“You’re doing it all wrong,” Zoya snaps, an enraged spark in her eyes that is far too sexy for its own good. Alina, feeling petulant, sticks her tongue out - discreetly, of course, but it’s enough to make Zoya shake her head in exasperation.

Their fingers brush, the contact exploding across Alina’s nerves. Before she can bite her tongue, Alina finds herself speaking her mind - the stupidest words she’ll ever say, rising out of her throat uncontrolled - “you look breathtaking.”

It throws Zoya off, and she lets go of her contempt long enough for her eyes to widen in surprise, lips parting. A tongue peeks between her teeth, darting to her lips, before Zoya recovers and resumes the routine, albeit shakily. “Shut up,” she hisses.

“Have you ever heard of gratitude? It’s customary when given a compliment. I’m sure you’re not familiar with the concept.” A fire kindles deep in Alina’s chest - she’s never felt this confident before; normally, it’s Zoya who comes out superior in their verbal sparring.

“Why should I express gratitude for a faux-compliment meant to make me wobble? I know what game, you’re playing, Alina Starkov,” Zoya hisses with twice the normal amount of acidity, and Alina no longer wonders why she hasn’t seen any eligible men complimenting her, she’d probably just scared them off (she certainly wasn’t lacking in beauty, or intelligence, or spirit; Alina couldn’t help but think they were sorely missing out).

“You don’t have to be a bitch to be prima, Zoya Nazyalensky,” Alina snaps back. Two can play at the using the other’s full name game, and Alina will not be squirming first. A deadly rage fills Zoya’s eyes, which isn’t particularly rare for her, and Alina makes the unbiased, objective observation that this killing calm made her far more beautiful than she’d ever seen her, than she had the right to be.

The rest of rehearsal is spent this way, Zoya’s gaze never breaking hers, their eyes locked in a stare-off. Alina’s unsure of how this rivalry even happened to begin with, what lit the spark of this feud, but she doesn’t care. Tension ripples from Zoya’s body in waves - and Alina vividly imagines how relaxed Zoya would be if Alina was peppering kisses along her jaw, her lips, teeth scraping across her clavicle, nails sinking into her slim shoulders, bodies pressed into each other in a desperate attempt to close a non-existent gap.

She doesn’t act on the impulse afterwards, despite how much she aches to do so, to snake her fingers across Zoya’s thighs and bare back. When Zoya sends a last death glare her way with eyes of steel before leaving the locker room, Alina returns the gesture in kind, before leaning her head back against the locker with a sigh, exhaling deep breaths as frustration and arousal swirl in her blood.

#* #femslashfeb22** #myedit #mymoodboard #mygraphic #zoyalinaedit #shadowandboneedit #zoyanazyalenskyedit #alinastarkovedit #femslash february 2022 #grishaverseedit #dailyshadowandbone #grishaversenet #grishaverseonline #shadowandbonecentral #shadowandbonesource #shadow and bone #zoyalina #shadowandboneladies #zoya x alina #zoya nazyalensky #alina starkov #myfanfiction

[resbangmod]

Resbang 2021 Promo #12

Paint With The Color Of Your Soul

presented by author: @cupidelixir with collaborating trio: @Alcruid, @JustPocketChange, @EmmyYq and artist: @ochako99

Pairings: Soul/Maka Rating: T/PG-13 Warnings: AU, Talking about death, Existentialism, Minor character death, Descriptions of violence and injury

Summary: Soul Evans has never taken a job like this before. Commissioned at the request of Mr. Albarn to paint a portrait of his beloved, elusive, and nameless daughter, Soul finds himself hidden in the thick of the forest at Mr. Albarn's luscious garden estate. There's a secret embedded in the innumerable canvases hung on the walls, and Soul is determined to find out, but he soon learns that some paintings are left unfinished. (Death Palette AU)

Please enjoy the story and art previews below the cut!

Mr. Albarn–the man by the river.

Soul was expecting a deep booming voice that would demand him to leave the sacred room, or well placed frustration for trespassing his personal painted mausoleum. Instead, Mr. Albarn sauntered lightly next to him, placing a calloused hand on Soul’s shoulder and bathed in the light of the candle, dressing the painting like an old film. “Isn’t it incredible,” Mr. Albarn’s voice rasped when he spoke, a feeble whisper echoing in the expanse of the giant room, “How the human hands can do the work of God?”

Soul’s eyes wandered back to the painting, each individual component was so lifelike, like looking into a window from another world. Every brushstroke was placed with exquisite detail, colors blending into each other seamlessly. He admired the meticulous detail that went into this piece.

He thought about what Mr. Albarn said, could painters really play god? Soul had contemplated the intimacy of art before, how it was like peeling back a layer of skin to expose everything underneath–the good, the bad, and the ugly.

“I think it’s beautiful,” the older man continued, a wave of nostalgia washing over him and settling in his chest, “the reality that a few strokes of a brush can create. This moment in time is preserved forever, a perfect memory…untainted.”

Mr. Albarn’s hand left Soul’s shoulder as he neared closer to the old souvenir of his prime. His hand ever so gently grazed the cracking paint, right over the acrylic face of the young blonde girl in the picture. He whipped his head around to Soul, a bright gleam reflecting in his glassy eyes.

“If you want it, I can give it to you.” He says.

Soul is quick to decline, he could never take away something so precious to the old man, not in this state, “No, no, it’s yours sir–I couldn’t”

“Please,” His eyes falter, “there’s hardly any reason for me to hang onto it…She’s not here anymore.” The scrape in his voice hides the last few words. Albarn clutches his hands onto the elegant wooden frame of the painting and pulls it off the old rusted nails hammered into the wall.

He passes the canvas to Soul solemnly, like a father handing the last of his possessions to the son he never had.

Mr. Albarn’s tired eyes squint into thin lines, folding his face down into a frown. “Take it and get back to your job, young man.” His voice rises into stern, but not loud. “Don’t come back to this room again.”

Soul nods his head and takes his leave. He has to exit sideways through the small door frame. He waits to hear the clack of Albarn’s patent leather oxfords following behind him, but no such thing happens, and Soul is left with the silence of the long winding corridor once again.

#resbang #soul eater #resbang 2021 #resbang promos #paint with the color of your soul