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all-purpose-dish-soap · 28 days

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2.2k / 16 / gym buddy Gaz, part 4 (takes place immediately after doing push-ups with Gaz and distracting Gaz as he's counting reps and teasing your gym buddy Gaz a little too much)

...

You were always so goddamn distracting. Now that he has you, he’s gonna make it worth his time. He’s gonna get his mouth on every teasing part of you. Everything under those form-fitting workout clothes. And he’s gonna do it right here against the shower wall.

He pulls at your hips, grunting in pleasure as you grind against him, squeezing him back. You explore every bit of him that's exposed and then a few bits that aren't. It feels greedy to take every inch of him you can reach. You shouldn't be doing this. It's not like you to go so far with someone you're not dating. But Gaz is... God, he's something else. You'd swear right now he's the only man on earth who deserves your attention.

Gaz grunts with approval against your mouth and presses you against the shower wall more forcefully, burying his face into the side of your neck. You shove your hips against him harder, wanting more of him.

He slips his hand into your shorts to stroke your inner thigh. You let out a stuttering breath. Your head falls back into the tile wall with a thump, your legs twitching.

He chuckles, shifting you so he's pressing you up into the wall with his hip, giving himself space to rub his fingers into the crotch of your thong and collect the slick on your folds. God, the sounds you're making. He'd be enjoying them even more if you weren't biting your lip, trying to muffle yourself.

There's less foot traffic in the women's showers, yes, but even the sound of the water echoes around the tile room. People passing through the halls outside will hear.

The risk is nothing to him. Just a little extra thrill. He could have you two separated in half a second. But you've never done something this risky before, have you? To you, this is dangerous.

Keeping you steady on his hips, he grabs your jaw and hooks the edge of his thumb on your incisors to open your mouth up.

"Careful not to let them hear," he murmurs, enjoying the helpless need in your eyes. His thumb tightens over the edge of your lip. "You're gonna be a good girl for me, yeah?" he whispers. "Be nice and quiet?"

You return his heated stare, struggling to keep your throat closed around the sounds threatening to tear out.

He sees the challenge in your eyes and smirks back. "Be quiet or someone will hear us, and we'll have to stop. And if we have to stop before we get what we want," he murmurs into your jaw, "if you make me wait one more goddamn day to get inside you, you'll find out just how depraved I can be next time I get you alone. How's that sound?"

nsfw ⬇

His fingers press down harder into the crux of your thighs and you fight another open-mouthed groan.

"Always trying to lock horns with me," he breathes, pretending he doesn't love it. He works your panties to the side, and when he feels how hot and wet you are inside, he feels lightheaded. "Think you're enjoy acting like a challenge." He shifts his grip, pressing two fingers against your slit. "Think you're a little... a proper little... fuck..."

He pushes his fingers inside you, watching your mouth fall open around his thumb with a graphic moan. He slots his open mouth over yours and swallows it. He's half-convinced this is a dream when you keep moaning, high and urgent, into his mouth, desperately bumping your hips against his fingers.

He's real fucking close to losing the little bit of control he still has. Real fucking close to just ripping your shorts off you and taking you against the tile. He’s trying, but he doesn't know how much longer he can last when you’re riding his hand like that.

You bury your fingers in his hair, desperate to get closer to him. You're lost in what he's doing to you. You swear you're on the edge of whiting out when you hear another set of footsteps and--to your horror--the door unlatching and creaking open.

You gasp, dropping away from Gaz instantly. Trying to, at least, as he crowds you almost protectively against the shower wall. Luckily, there's another wall between you and the door. Unluckily, it's only about neck high for you, which means Gaz rises head and shoulders above it. You quickly push him down to his knees, eyes going to the door as a woman pokes her head through.

“Hello?”

Gaz catches his breath, his hands tense against the tile on either side of your legs. You try desperately not to dwell on how his warm breath fans over your stomach.

"Anyone in here?" says the woman. "Oh! Hi, sorry," she says, "have you seen a pink water bottle?"

She steps all the way inside. You tense. Gaz stays crouched behind the wall; if she keeps walking, she’ll see him.

"I, uh, no, I don't think so," you stutter out. She hardly seems to hear you, looking this way and that, ponytail bobbing behind her. Wow, she's cute. No, wait, you're panicked and horny and unable to focus on getting her out of here.

Her eye skims over a few other stalls and swings toward you. She takes two steps toward the back of the room--toward Gaz, crouching by your feet; Gaz, whose fingers are beginning to crawl up your legs--and if she takes one more step she's going to see oh God--

"Can you hand me that towel?" you blurt out, pointing to a used towel someone left in a heap on the other side of the room, behind her. Her head swivels back. "I could, uh, dry off and help you look," you add.

The woman reacts as if you’ve just given her an extremely normal request. She doubles back and grabs the towel. Then she makes a sound of surprise. "Oh, here it is." She picks up a pink bottle from the counter behind the towel. You hadn’t even seen it. "Thanks anyway."

"No problem," you say quickly. The rough, hot surface of Gaz's tongue runs against your waistline. You push his face away and feel him growl. His hands fist in the hem of your shorts.

You're beaming this woman psychic signals to get the fuck out of here before Gaz decides he doesn't care if he has an audience or not, but she doesn't pick up.

"Hey, don't I see you around some mornings? You and that guy?" she asks.

"Uh, yeah," you manage, just as Gaz yanks your shorts all the way down, thong and all, leaving you totally bare in one swift movement. "Y-Yeah. Kyle."

"Right, SAS guy. Are you and him, like, you know?"

You choke out half a laugh. "We're just friends."

If you weren't being driven half out of your fucking mind by Gaz's thumbs spreading your core open where you stand, this line of conversation would concern you.

He licks a long, greedy stripe up your core. You jerk and nearly stumble back, but he grabs your ass and pushes you harder into his face.

You swear you’re going to kill him slowly.

She doesn't notice--maybe it's the steam fogging up the room. You let out a shallow breath, relieved, until she doubles back and grabs the towel you'd haphazardly pointed at earlier. Oh, shit, she's bringing it to you. She's walking over.

You hope to God you look anything resembling normal when she walks right up to the neck-high tile wall separating you from her.

"Just wondering, you know?”

She takes the towel by one side and unfurls it. Then she pinches the corners together, casually and methodically refolding it in half once and then again as Gaz tongue-fucks you two feet below her line of sight.

“I mean, you're super pretty. I bet you have to fight these men off with a stick just to get an afternoon to yourself, right? But if you need a hand..."

She lays the neatly folded towel over the tile wall. You're forced to lean back just to allow her the space, and Gaz squeezes your ass even harder like he thinks you're trying to escape. He closes your clit lightly, warningly between his teeth, and you bite your bottom lip so hard you taste blood.

When you say nothing, she smiles—the kind of polite smile you give someone you don't know too well—and then turns and heads for the door. "Or, well, you know what I mean. Later."

The moment the door latches closed, Gaz shoves you against the wall of the stall, grabs your thigh, and lifts it over his shoulder. You gasp, grabbing hold of his shoulders and shying away from where his face is still so, so close to your core. He keeps his arm curled around your thigh, sandwiching it between his bicep and his ear.

"Are you fucking crazy?" you hiss.

“Helluva drug,” he mutters into your inner thigh. "Was that cute little blonde hitting on you?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Gaz."

"Mm. Liar." He nips your thigh hard enough to sting, then licks the spot to sooth it. "But you got that whole 'I-don't-mix-business-and-pleasure' thing, so what chance does she have?" He burrows his smirking mouth into the crease of your thigh and takes a slow teasing lick along your insides.

You cry out, leaning back against the wall and grinding your hips against his face.

He reaches his hand up under your thigh, grabbing your ass and pulling you more steeply against his mouth. Your legs splay out involuntarily against his hand and shoulder.

"Gaz-- fuck!" you curse, trying in vain to keep your voice down. "I'm gonna-- I have to--"

Gaz's arm tightens around your thigh. "You're gonna quiet down or I'll make you," he murmurs, eyes molten. He’s a hypocrite, telling you to keep it down while he slides his fingers back into you and pumps them in and out in earnest. He waits until you're writhing against the wall, half-pleas falling out of your mouth, to latch onto your clit again.

You come apart right there, grabbing at his shoulders until your nails score lines into his skin. Your body holds that delicious tension, oxytocin flooding your senses like steam, too far away to notice the way Gaz is growling softly into your core or the way he's fighting not to rut against the floor himself.

When you come back to your senses, Gaz settles back on his knees, looking up at you from between your legs with pupils blown wide.

"You sounded like you needed that," he says, his voice a little hoarse and his breathing uneven.

Still blinking stars out of your eyes, you stoop down to grab the gym shorts and thong pooling around your feet.

Gaz grabs your hand. "Leave them on the floor."

He pulls you down to your knees so you're straddling his lap. His hard length rubs against you through his shorts. He wraps one hand in your hair and the other around your hip, holding all your weight on him as he kisses you hungrily. You twist your hips skittishly, trying not to grind down on his lap as much as he's pulling you down into it. You shouldn't be doing this here. You were nearly caught already.

"Let's go to your room," you pant out of the corner of his mouth. "C'mon."

"I like it right here," Gaz purrs, his voice husky and low. He licks his lips, hovering just close enough that his tongue grazes your lips but his mouth doesn't meet yours. His hips keep moving, rubbing into you. "Right here."

You bite your torn lip, your mind sluggish with lust. "Mm... but..."

"You're not gonna make me wait," he growls, his hand in your hair tightening. "Not after all this time. Not after I took care of you. Not after you came on my face. Right?"

"But people--" You stutter out into a gasp as Gaz flips you over, his body curving around yours as your palms find the wet tile floor. "People will hear--"

"You want me to stop?"

You huff. "No."

He smirks. "You've never done something like this before, have you? Lucky me."

"You’re such a perv."

He runs his hands up your back and down your sides, taking in the feeling of your wet skin, your goosebumps, the flare of your hips as they press back against his. Goddamn, you're a sight. He's imagined this a dozen times, but having you in his hands... yeah, no, you'd never make it all the way back to his room if he were on your heels.

He bends down, his breathing ragged in your ear as he ruts up against you slowly, trying to pace himself. "And you're letting me do what I want to you right here on the bathroom floor, sweetheart. What does that say about you?"

You swallow, squeezing your thighs together.

He strips off his shorts and presses his bare cock up against you. Your breath hitches—you’re still so sensitive, and it's driving him mad. He's aching to feel you around him and see how expressive you really are.

"Nobody will hear us, yeah?" he murmurs. “And if they do, they’ll turn their heads and pretend they didn’t." He chuckles, heat bleeding into his deep voice as he presses the tip of his cock against your folds. "Unless you’re afraid someone will recognize your voice. Someone who might find out you're the little minx getting nailed in the showers.”

"Gaz, shut-- ah--" Your voice breaks as he ruts his hips forward just slightly, beginning to split you open.

"Better keep quiet," he murmurs, a wicked thrill running down his spine at the thought, “or they'll hear me making you mine.”

...

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / [part 4] / part 5

more Gaz / masterlist tag

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florencemtrash · 3 days

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The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Twenty

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: Canon typical graphic depictions

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

You were running on coffee and willpower, and both were in short supply. You cradled what you promised would be your last cup in your hands, feeling your fried nerves inch closer to bursting into flames with every bitter sip.

Azriel had one arm looped protectively around your waist, propping you up against his side like an overworked bookend. You both sat huddled over the map you’d spent the last day and night laboring over until you could picture every stark line pressed behind shuttered eyelids like an afterimage. Until your cramped hands shook while clutching the mug like a vice.

Feyre, Rhys, Mor, Nesta, Lucien, and Cassian similarly hovered over the innocuous sheet of paper. Pale parchment glow flickering over expressions of intense thought.

You traced the outline of the lake, its form vaguely star shaped and pointing abstractly towards the north, south, east, and west.

“Here.” You tapped the northeast edge where a greyed out huddle of shapes formed the forest and a collection of scribbles marked the Death god’s home close to the waters. The lines swirled in your mind like a thousand snakes locked in battle, swallowing each other whole and getting eaten alive in an endless, vicious cycle.

Koschei’s portion of the continent lay flat and unassuming, seemingly vulnerable with the flatlands peering at his back with limitless entry points for enemies from the Continent. But the seductive ease of access through that region was a guise. Koschei was a death god, and a powerful one at that. Magic grew in and out of the soil there and what walked those woods had a strange habit of toeing the line between life and death.

The western corners swam in seas of grasslands, flat and open and unprotected save for the expanse of water a mile wide.

And the lake. The lake was the most curious thing of all. A black shape on paper, still and foreboding.

You knew from Andrian’s memories that enchanted swans flocked there — women layered with curses that kept them bound to the region in animal form — but nothing else. No creatures floundered in the salty dark. No animals came to drink from it as if they could sense the power that tainted it with decay.

“The boundaries of the Koschei’s power lie somewhere along here.” You pointed to the lazy line sketched down. “But I wouldn’t trust it. When Andrian was first sent off from the lake he crossed the plains towards one of the harbor towns on the coast and he felt that Koschei’s influence scaled with the distance away from the source of his power.”

“Any weak points? Places we could slip in unnoticed?” Feyre’s eyes scanned the page, reimagining your weak swirls of ink into something more layered. Something with more meaning that could only come about from the mind of an artist and a warrior.

You pointed to one of the star points and then to another toward the south. “Here and here. Don’t ask me how and don’t ask me why but these are the only two blind spots. Andrian used to sneak away from Koschei’s house to these two places.”

“To do what?” Cassian asked. He lumbered towards the back of the war room, easily peering over everyone’s shoulders to the flattened parchment and eyeing the wooden pieces strewn across the map, his own piece being tipped with a glistening red stone.

“To plan his escape.”

A hush fell over the room, thick and suffocating.

The boy had never succeeded.

Feyre’s lips flattened to a pale line, the air around her reverberating with heat as the temperature in the room rose — a drop of Autumn’s power magnified. She nodded to the second map, this one gathered from Azriel’s contacts on the Continent. Whereas your map had laid out Koschei’s land in detail, Azriel’s was suspiciously empty where the lake was concerned. The two fit together like puzzle pieces. “What’s the nearest harbor town?”

“Tournnes.” Azriel replied without needing to look down. You’d memorized one map, he’d memorized the other. “It’s a small fishing village located twenty-three miles to the southwest. Most of the inhabitants are men that come and go with the season and travel west from Slairn and Friesieg. It will be empty this time of year.” The fish would have gone south in search of warmer waters. Even here the Sidra had turned frigid, crusts of ice lapping up against grey sand shores.

Cassian shook his head, examining the map with a scowl. “There’s poor coverage getting from Tournnes to Koschei. And an abandoned town’s too obvious a place to hide any soldiers. It’d be better to come in from the east, through the woods.”

“Then we’d need to take the long way around Koschei’s territory.” Lucien argued back, “Our soldiers would need to trek through foreign lands for weeks and we’d lose any advantage Tarquin could give us by staying close to the coast.”

“You can’t trust those woods,” you gasped, your eyes flashing with fear that didn’t wholly belong to you.

Never enter those woods. Henna had once warned her Andrian. Never. Do you understand me?

Azriel tightened his hold on you, pressing his lips into your hair to brush against your ear. “Breathe, my love. Breathe.”

You hadn’t realized you’d stopped.

It was a heavy burden carrying the memories of others. Like a weight tied around your belly that hadn’t been properly woven into flesh. Something both part and apart from you. And you’d been feeling too many of Andrian’s memories in the past week since his death.

Silence flung itself over growing irritation and anxiety as everyone circled back to the same conclusion.

They wouldn’t be able to bring their armies abroad. And with limited numbers, brute strength would only go so far when forced to bring a fight to a foreign land against a foreign god. This would be decided by few. It would be as intimate as lovers. As ruthless as enemies.

“There’s still the other plan.” Nesta reminded them, glancing first at Feyre and you with the faintest of nods.

“I hate that plan, Nes.” Cassian gripped the back of her wing-backed chair and she reached up to take his hand in her own. She looked like a queen in her own right — harsh, pragmatic, unwavering. And he her mirror — a roguish knight, rough and wild and raw.

“I know. Unfortunately for you, it’s the best one we’ve got.”

“It’s the only one we’ve got.” Mor said with a sigh, rubbing her temples to alleviate the ache there. “We’re asking for a blood bath one way or the other.”

“Ione is still with us.” Rhys squeezed his cousin’s knee. “Without her, he can be killed.”

“But for how long, Rhys? How long until he finds someone else? Some other way?”

The question hung in the air like an ax ready to fall. An invisible clock ticking its way towards doom. Koschei had read the book’s contents. He had to know the secret to freeing himself was sheltered in Ione’s veins. So long as she was alive and breathing she was a threat as much as she was a tantalizing prize for him to tear his teeth into.

Feyre’s fingernails clicked on the glossy tabletop, eyes narrowed in on that splash of black on paper. Through the golden string tied to her lower ribs, she felt the tug of her mate’s silent agreement. Her eyes flickered upward for a brief moment, as if she could see through the layers of the House to the skies above. “For as long as we have Ione, we have the upper hand. But we can’t rely on it forever.” She looked at you, “ We go with the first plan. It will have to be enough.”

You shivered.

Four years ago, when the Day Court had first opened its borders to foreigners from other Courts, you’d encountered a male in the market. He’d been young and reckless and glamoured himself to live amongst the humans for six months. In that time, he’d learned their version of magic — the sleight of hand tricks and elaborate games of misdirection humans played on one another. Caped entertainers bedazzling crowds with obvious moves, while the real work happened just out of frame.

You thought of him now. You pictured him in the marketplace as he made a hand-painted playing card disappear from his hand into the fold of his suit jacket, only to reappear under an overturned teacup.

Yes.

It would have to be enough.

The crisp blade flashed in the dull light as you moved your feet back and forth in a practiced dance.

Left, left, right, duck, keep your wrist straight and slice up. Just like Azriel had instructed you. He stood off the narrow mat, hazel eyes tracing every slow movement of yours with a critical gaze.

“Practice makes permanence.” He’d reminded you earlier. “Get it right first, then we’ll worry about speed.”

Magic hovered over the House of Wind’s training gym, warping the air like a soap bubble as it shielded you from the frigid rain. Even so, the scent of petrichor and the cleanliness of frosted wind hung close to warn of the storm churning its way down from the north, carrying with it the promise of rainfall or the first true flakes of snow.

How poetic that winter should come with death chasing its heels while you were learning a dozen ways to kill a man.

“Here.” Azriel took your wrist in a loose grip, arching your arm and sticking the point of the knife into the training dummy’s jugular. Hay crinkled and burst out from the burlap covering instead of blood and you stepped away, locating the points in the liver, the lungs, the heart, the throat, under the arms, and more. Gruesome things made digestible by the motionless, fake body propped up on wooden poles.

You didn’t need to imagine what it would feel like for your blade to meet flesh.

Your arms ached. Hot, unfamiliar stretches of muscle trembling while slick with sweat. You could taste salt on your tongue as Azriel repeated himself.

“Be precise. Be quick if you can. Then run like hell.”

Incapacitation and speed. Those were the only two things you could rely on if things went south on the Continent.

Precise. Quick. Run.

“Emphasis on run,” You muttered beneath your breath. You adjusted your feet to match Azriel’s stance, feeling the strength of his muscles close to your body and imagining some of that power seeping into the ground for you to drink up.

The corner of his mouth twitched, then rose in a smile. “Exactly.” He stepped in, hands twisting your hips to be straight and then drifting up to your wrist. “Too much.” He corrected your bones with a feather-light touch. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

It should have been romantic. Him touching you like this with his front pressed against your back and his breath sliding over your skin as he taught you to wield a knife. Instead his insides churned relentlessly. Visions of you, blood-splattered and motionless on the ground, flashed through his mind. He’d be damned if he let that happen again.

You practiced on him next. Blunt, stone knife gripped in your hands as he moved in slow-motion. Azriel must have had everything custom made for you. The balance felt right in your hands, the movement as fluid as your awkward limbs could manage.

You clasped a hand around the back of his neck, dragging him forward as you swung up.

Where the head goes, the body will follow.

He didn’t so much as grunt as the stone wedged itself into his ribs.

You locked eyes with him and saw his pupils blown wide as a doe’s. “Good.” He murmured. “Again.”

On and on you went for hours, Azriel’s panic fueling the training he put you through, as if he could fit a hundred years of combat into a handful of hours.

You grunted when Azriel easily flipped you over onto your back, a scarred hand catching the nape of your neck so your head wouldn’t slam into the floor. The knife slipped out from your sweaty fingers, skittering away and disappearing beneath one of the weapons racks along the wall. You breathed heavily beneath him, feeling the grit of the ground and the sweat sliding into your hair and the leather brushing your chest with every breath he took.

In a real fight, Azriel would have killed you a thousand times over and he knew it. There was not a single moment where you could have saved yourself.

You saw the tell tale flicker in his eyes, the tensing of his jaw before he gritted his teeth and swore beneath his breath.

You felt shame seep into your stomach again. “Az—”

“I want you to take my memories,” he said. “Everything I’ve learned over 500 years.”

Metal whispered against leather as a tendril of shadow retrieved the knife and slid it into the thigh sheath Azriel had tied around your legs only hours ago. It felt strange to have such an unfamiliar weight against your thighs. To know that only leather kept the wicked blade from slicing you to the bone.

“We’ve been over this before, Azriel. I can take however many memories I want from you until I can picture every way to take down an enemy in my mind’s eye. But that doesn’t mean my body will obey or follow through correctly. Knowing things mentally isn’t the same thing as knowing things physically.”

Azriel huffed in frustration, dropping one hand to your waist like he often did and gripping the flesh there to ground him.

“If we had more time—”

“When this is over we’ll have more time.”

If I make it.

Because if there was anyone who would survive what was to come. It was Azriel. And you could find a great deal of comfort in that.

Azriel must have read your doubt because his eyes hardened and his hands came up to cup your jaw. “We will have more time. We’ll have time for everything, do you understand me?”

“Like what?”

“Whatever you want. We’ll travel the Courts. I’ll take you dancing and—”

“You’ll teach me a dozen new ways to kill someone?”

“Exactly.”

“Should I start keeping a tally?”

“If that would help, then yes.” He dipped his head down, kissing you firmly on the lips, the taste salty and warm to the touch. Kissing you came easy now. Touches were a comforting drug he craved daily.

“If things go wrong—” He whispered, flicking a strand of hair out of your eyes. “Promise me you’ll find me.”

You blinked up at him, tracing fragments of gold in his eyes.

“Find you,” you echoed, your voice tinged with sadness. “You’re not going to convince me to run?”

He laughed bitterly. “I know you too well, my love. You wouldn’t listen even if I did. If anything, it would make you want to stay and fight even more, just to prove me wrong.“ “Then is this some reverse psychology? You tell me the opposite of what you want, so I end up doing what you intended all along?”

“You’re thinking too deeply about this.” He slid his arms around the small of your back, dropping his weight until you were flush against him. Until you could feel his heart beating beneath his skin in time to yours. “Find me, so I can protect you. And so if anything happens, we won’t be alone. I want you to promise me.”

You caressed his cheek, the coarse bandages he’d wound around your wrists and knuckles scratching the skin of his jaw and the faint stubble that had grown there over sleepless nights. “I promise I’ll find you, Azriel. We’re better together anyways.”

He could never disagree with you. He lifted you back onto your feet, kissing your forehead. “Three more drills, then we’ll be done for the day.”

He made you run five. The bastard.

You’d dreamed of what might come. Nightmares filled with glassy-eyed children and skeletal forests where the dead roamed free. A black lake with stones of bleached bone to fill your lungs and choke the life out of you.

You wanted to make Azriel proud. You wanted to be the kind of warrior who could match him physically, not just mentally. The kind of female he’d never have to worry about protecting in that way. But violence had never been beaten into your bones and you could only hope that the skills you did possess would see you through to the end.

You and Azriel would make it. You’d all make it.

Some way.

Somehow.

Then there would be time for everything you had ever wanted and everything you’d never had the courage to ask for.

You woke up to a world shivering beneath a dusting of snow. Frost creeped up the windowsill, trying to slither inside before the House’s magic burned it away. A grey, ashen sky hung low over the mountains, mist blowing over and gathering in valleys until they were transformed into pools of smoke.

So this is it. You thought wearily, tasting the change in the air. Winter’s finally here to choke the world into submission.

You burrowed further under Azriel’s wings, chasing the heat that rolled off his skin. When you looked up at his eyes they were already trained on the weather, some similar tangle of thoughts running through his mind that had his grip around your waist tightening.

“The other death gods. Have you met any of them, Az?” You whispered your question into the hollow of his neck, feeling the blood rushing beneath your lips until he answered.

“I’ve met a fair few. The Bone Carver, Stryga, and Bryaxis joined our side in the final battle against Hybern and Nesta was equivalent in power when she first emerged from the Cauldron.”

“Nesta?” You asked questionably.

She was a collection of sharp edges wrapped in silk and cunning, but a death god?

Azriel smiled ever so slightly. “You didn’t know her then, but she was a terror to behold. You could feel her presence in a room like a knife in your back or a flame licking at your heels so hold it starts to freeze. Only Cassian was foolish and lovestruck enough to approach her at the time.”

You tried to imagine it — Cassian’s wild, borderline arrogant mannerisms going toe-to-toe against Nesta’s magnified sharp grace. “That sounds about right.”

“Feyre knows the most about the death gods. Has come face to face with the most. Rhys sent her into the Weaver’s cabin to retrieve her engagement ring — don’t give me that look, my love, I don’t understand it either — and she’s the one who convinced The Bone Carver and Bryaxis to fight for us.”

“Feyre has a penchant for endearing herself to monsters.”

Azriel smirked, pearly teeth flashing. “You have no idea.” Then he said something that stuck with you. “The Bone Carver was especially close to her.”

Anytime the Bone Carver — Thanatos — was mentioned, you could only think of Bethsevah. The one person who had ever looked upon his true face and never flinched.

“How so?”

Shadows swarmed around his ears, as much a sign of his thinking as it was a sign that whispers beyond your own understanding were reaching him.

“When Feyre met with the Bone Carver, he made a bargain that he’d only fight for her if she could descend into the Court of Nightmares and bring back an enchanted mirror without going mad. Feyre said she saw her true form when she looked into her reflection, and that it was only by accepting this form that she was able to keep the madness at bay. The Bone Carver was impressed with her and pledged his loyalty to her from then on.” Azriel shook his head, wings flaring out in another sign of his thinking. “It never made sense to me why a being like him would even make that bargain to begin with.”

“Even death gods can be surprised. We should consider ourselves lucky.”

“It wasn’t just that though. I was watching when he died. He… he turned his face up to the field at Feyre and he smiled at her. It felt like a bittersweet ending to a story I didn’t know. Like he was saying goodbye to more than just this world.”

You draped your arm over his chest, tracing the black ink swirling across his chest and over his shoulders like ocean waves. The Bone Carver was more myth than legend to the few fae that had known of his existence and you knew with each passing century his story would be steadily wiped from the earth like wind shaving down stone. His name would become a whisper. His story, and Beth’s, a tragedy for no one but the stars to weep to.

But you were still here, and your time with Bethsevah’s book had left you with no small amount of fondness for him. For now you would still be able to whisper his true name.

“Thanatos.” You said. “He loved this world and the people in it. He sacrificed his life for it. I think he had many things he wanted to say goodbye to.”

“To Thanatos then.” Azriel raised an invisible cup towards the ceiling of his bedroom, silk sheets sliding down his arms.

“To Thanatos,” you echoed.

You eventually went through the morning motions together —Azriel helped lace up the back of your dress, and you buttoned up his shirts, careful to avoid the fragile membrane of his wings as you stood at his back.

He tugged you away from the bedroom door at the last moment, your questioning eyes softening when he cradled your face in his hands and stole one last kiss in the privacy of your room, murmuring "Beautiful," against the crown of your freshly brushed hair.

"Do the others know you're such a hopeless romantic?" You asked, finally opening the door and breaking the spell of privacy.

Before Azriel could answer, Cassian blew past the room, shockingly quiet for his mountainous size. "Yes, we all know," he shouted before disappearing down the hall.

Ione stood proud and tall in front of the windows, grey eyes narrowed at the Sidra as it wound through the valley like a snake. Cassian slid into the space beside her and handed her her cane. She knew instinctively where the warrior stood and where his hand reached out towards her. She took the cane without the second glance. A golden lion’s head roared from atop its wooden post, Ione’s fingers resting squarely between its glistening teeth as she leaned experimentally on the new device. Cassian had ordered it custom for her and she knew that hidden within the sleeve of glistening redwood was an iron rod forged in enchanted flames that rendered it near unbreakable.

“Careful.” She reminded Cassian when she caught him staring for too long. “This body may be different, but I can still bring you to your knees.”

Cassian chuckled, “I don’t doubt that.”

She slammed the cane against the ground once. Twice. Testing its strength and finding it worthy. “Do you think it will happen soon?”

This waiting — it was beginning to grate on her nerves. This foreboding calm that threatened to fall away into chaos and bloodshed. She almost wished she were living three years into the future, when she was finally done healing from her wounds and the future had faded into the background of her life once more.

“If I could see into the future, I would not be here right now waiting.”

“And yet here we are.” Ione sighed, shoulders rising and falling elegantly beneath a wrinkled but slender neck.

Cassian would have said more had Feyre and Rhys not entered the room together, bruises layered beneath their eyes as they plastered on bright smiles for their family, tension visible through the cracks in their porcelain teeth.

The Inner Circle had assembled in their entirety at the request of their High Lord and High Lady. There was no holiday to be celebrated. No birthdays or anniversaries or special occasions. The fare that had been laid out on the table was simple and everyone filled their plates before spilling out across the sofas and the armchairs or carving out a space on one of Rhysand’s expensive hand-woven rugs. There would be no special meal around the new table devoid of scratches and watermarks and the passage of time and love. This was their family, and for their family it was the company that put finery to shame.

Elain was a flutter of movement in and out of the kitchen, shepherding pots of tea and fruit tarts before Lucien finally caught her around the waist and made her rest. The House was equally restless. The lights strung above the fireplace mantle flickered like lantern flies.

Mor sat with Emerie’s wings draped around her shoulders like a cape and Gwyn sat on the floor, hugging her knees close to her chest as she rested her head against the Illyrian female’s knee. To no one’s surprise, you and Azriel clung to the corner of the room, content to watch everyone’s laughter with your arm subtly looped around his.

He still hasn’t told her, I see. Emerie noted, watching your smile stretch into place when Azriel leaned close to whisper in your ear.

Does it matter? Mor teased, kissing Emerie’s nose reverently. The Illyrian’s cheeks turned warm. Emerie had not been granted the freedom to explore romance to the same degree as Mor, something she’d worried about when they first started their courtship. But if anyone asked the blonde, she’d tell them it drove her wild to see how such simple gestures could reduce the fearsome warrior to a puddle, even now. Mor tucked herself into Emerie’s side, throwing her long legs over the armrest. It’s probably a good thing. If they could speak to each other like this, we’d never hear from them again.

Emerie laughed into Mor’s golden hair.

Conversations rose and fell. Plates emptied and clicked as they were laid out on the coffee table.

It was a simple peace they welcomed with open arms.

They didn’t hear the faintest thud coming from above their heads.

You smiled when one of Azriel’s shadows wove themselves into your hair, tickling the sensitive skin behind your ear and along your neck.

“Sorry,” Azriel whispered, trying and failing to draw them back to him for the nth time that day. “I don’t know what’s gotten into them.” They’d been especially touchy as of late, nipping at your heels like a litter of puppies vying for attention or hiding in your pockets. It was a mixture of Azriel’s own feelings that spurred them on and their own desire to protect what they’d claimed as theirs.

“It’s alright, Azriel. I like having them around.”

They hummed amongst themselves, happy to see you so pleased. Sometimes, Azriel wondered if you’d be able to learn to listen to them as well. To tease apart that secret language he couldn’t begin to describe.

Maybe you were listening to them now without even realizing it.

Maybe that’s why you and Azriel were the only ones whose eyes snapped towards the hallway before the first creak of wood sounded throughout the House.

The shuffling of a new, unfamiliar set of feet down the stairs had the hair on the back of your neck rising and crackling with energy.

It wasn’t Jurian. It wasn’t loud enough to be Jurian. He so rarely descended from the attic that he made a habit of making his presence known, tired feet shuffling along the rugged staircase with measured drags.

You walked over to your brother and tugged on the back of his shirt. “Jurian—”

“That’s not Jurian.” Lucien said with bated breath. He was the third person in the room to hear the sound.

He’d checked on his friends less than a handful of hours ago. Jurian had been as he always was — weary but hopeful as one hand had clenched the bundle of morphine and the other had leaned against the food cart Lucien had carried up to the top floor.

And Vassa… Vassa had been uncharacteristically quiet, slouching against the wall of her gilded cage, raw skin and thin feathers trembling with her haggard breath as she slept.

“You should come down.” Lucien had said. “You deserve a break.”

But Jurian had only shook his head and flashed a tight smile. “As much as I would love to bless you with my presence, I won’t leave her like this. But one day, my friend, we’ll both walk down those steps together and have a proper celebration. I promise you.”

Vassa came down the steps.

Alone.

Naked.

Shivering.

You eyed the window where the mid-afternoon sun beat down on a frosted city.

It was the middle of the day… and Vassa was human.

You clutched Lucien’s arm, fingernails digging through his cotton shirt before he could take another step forward. Silence suffocated the room. There was something deeply wrong with the cursed queen. She trembled like a newborn fawn unceremoniously dumped into the world, her skin puckered and pock-marked from where she’d picked at old scabs and opened new wounds. The whole array hung from bones so thin they may as well have belonged to a bird.

“Vassa…” Lucien’s voice broke on her name.

A path of bloody feathers trailed behind her.

She grasped at strands of her fiery red hair and tugged. Hard. You focused all your energy on keeping the food in your stomach when strands fell through her bloody fingers and saliva rose in your mouth.

“I’m so sorry, Lucien. I can’t… It won’t stop.” Her voice, which had once been beautiful, grated your ears. “My skin. It feels like I’m crawling out of it.”

“Vassa.” Lucien held out his hands, showing her they were empty. “Where’s Jurian?” He would come down. He would help her in ways only he was capable of.

“I don’t… I don’t know…”

“Where’s Jurian?”

At the second mention of her lover’s name, Vassa broke down crying. Fat, ugly tears streaking down tan cheeks that had turned sallow and grey. She wiped them away, fingers dripping. There was a deep, unyielding hunger evident in every stutter of her body as her eyes raked across the room. You flinched when those milky, teal eyes passed over you… and landed on Ione.

Elderly, painfully human, Ione.

Vassa’s left eye twitched and Azriel had only enough time to tackle you to the ground and cover your body with his own before the mortal queen burst into flames.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

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Author's Note:

^^ Visual depiction of how I've felt the last week like what in the world? I'm getting enough sleep I swear but every morning I feel like I'm dragging a two ton boulder behind me until I get a sip of that bitter goodness. Ugh. Hope y'all are resting better than I am.

Anyways, I know it's been a while since I posted, but the chapter is here! Whoop! And I hope you enjoyed :) As always, feedback is appreciated and welcome if you have burning things you need to get off your chest (doesn't even have to be SSIB-related honestly my inbox is there).

#the shadowsinger and the inkbird #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader slowburn #azriel x reader angst

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arthistoryanimalia · 1 year

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A closer look at the 6 #Australia mammal #stamps designed by Eileen Mayo (6d Banded Anteater, 8d Tiger Cat, 9d Kangaroos, 11d Rabbit Bandicoot, 1/. Platypus, 1/2 Tasmanian Tiger, 1959-1962), along with her next set of 4 marine life stamps (7c Humbug Fish, 8c Coral Fish, 9c Hermit Crab, 10c Anemone Fish, 1966).

#Australian animals #mammals #fish #crustaceans #stamps #postage stamps #stamp collecting #philately #Australian stamps #Eileen Mayo #women in art #graphic design #animals in art

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tired-teacher-blog · 1 month

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In the waiting room

Characters : Kirishima/ Fem reader

Warnings and Genre : NSFW/ 18+/ Handjob/ Fluff/ Cum eating/ One Shot

Notes : Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

• So, has anyone ever thought of professional boxer Kirishima? Just me? Okay cool.

Masterlist|Second Masterlist|Third Masterlist

A man who's nothing less than a beast in front of his opponents, and nothing more than a little puppy when you're around.

He's ripped, barely fits in his gym clothes, arms and chest are covered in tattoos and multiple scars -courtesy of the countless matches he's been involved in so far- striking fear in the bones of men, and lust in the hearts of women.

He's a legend in the world of combat sports, with many championship belts, trophies and medals with his name on them, everyone both hates, and wants to be him, it's a paradox really, and that's how impactful this man can be.

_ "You're an idiot," you grumble under your breath while gently using a gauze swab to clean the cut under his left eye, "this could have been bad."

_ "I'm sorry babe so please don't be mad at me, it's just that I got distracted by how beautiful you looked while cheering for me." a goofy smile appears on his face as he casually slips a hand under your skirt and slides it up slowly, only to retract it a moment after with a wince of pain when you intentionally dabbed at the wound a bit too harshly.

_ "Stop joking around will you?" you are definitely not amused, and the irritated expression on your face, says it all.

_ "It's fine love, I won didn't I?" he expresses cheerfully, puffing his chest and chuckling cutely, but you still do not find it funny.

_ "You really are an idiot huh?" you slap a band-aid on him before collecting the first aid kit and standing up from your seat with a roll of your eyes, "do you think winning is what's on my mind right now? I just want you to be safe you clueless asshole."

_ "So you were just worried about me?" and it seems as if he has just made a grand discovery, the spark in his eye is blinding and the stupid smile on his face is endearing, and you almost break into laughter yourself, watching the duality of this man's intimidating appearance, and pure heart.

A duality only you can witness.

_ "Of course I was, you big jerk." you finally give in to your giggles, cradling his cheeks and smoothing your thumb over the covered wound apologetically.

A shriek suddenly escapes you when he effortlessly picks you up in his arms and spins you around, banging on his chest and demanding to be put down between uncontrollabe laughter.

You know him well enough to realise what he has in mind, but you refuse to give in too easily as you were still on the arena's ground –albeit in his fancy waiting room, tucked away from the prying eyes of his fans and reporters who wish for nothing more than a glimpse of their champion.

_ "Come on sweetheart please, no one would dare come near our door, trust me." he cooes cutely, almost pathetically to be honest, while plopping down on the comfy sofa with you on his lap.

It's useless to ask of him to wait until you reach home, his patience is running thin already, and the forming bulge poking your thigh is enough proof of that.

You sigh defeatedly and plant a small peck under the bruise surrounding his cut, "okay but we can't go all the way here."

He nods his head enthusiastically and leans back against the backrest of the sofa with an excited expression on his face as you start running your fingers over the protruding muscles of his chest, secretly grateful he is still in his boxing shorts and nothing else.

You wiggle yourself a bit and reach down to palm his clothed cock, giving it a few teasing squeezes while your lips latch onto his tense jaw.

_ "Baby please, stop tormenting me." he breathes out the plea, eyes squeezing shut and hips bucking against the slow movements of your hand.

He clutches onto your butt cheeks and pulls you even closer to himself, little moans of your name are fanning over your ear and travelling straight to your loins as the caresses on his bulge quicken.

He isn't the only one enjoying himself, oh definitely not, because watching him this desperate for your touch and craving a release that only you can grant him, is a reward in itself.

Your kisses move lower, from his jawline to his neck, and your teeth graze the sensitive skin covering his wild pulse while swiftly slipping your hand into his shorts to free the raging shaft from its confinement.

_ "Oh, what do we have here? A few little touches got you all worked up?" you whisper the remark teasingly, stroking the smooth head and admiring the clear precum collected on your thumb.

_ "This is on you princess, your hand is so warm and soft so please don't stop." his breathing is labored and hips are restless as he chased the blissful feeling of your fist around his cock, and you gladly give him what he wants, tightening your hold as you pumped him faster, and relishing the little twitches against your palm along with the blunt nails pressing into your thighs as your cute little skirt rode up around your waist.

You kiss him on the lips, effectively silencing the thirsty growls escaping his throat while he devours the smirk appearing on your face as his hand moved to encircle your own and guide it to move even faster.

He is desperate and itching for release, and seeing him in this state is coaxing a pleasant heat to pool into the pit of your tummy as you wished to have him buried deep inside you when he finally reaches his high, but that needs to wait until later, until you're home together, away from everyone who is certainly still clinging to the hope of seeing him tonight.

_ "Fuck.. fuck.. fuck.. baby girl I'm cumming!" he breaks the kiss to rasp out the words, moving the hand that's been holding your thigh, to gently cradle your neck instead. It's his way of bringing your face towards him as he cums, the image of you is what he wants carved into his brain when he finally loses control.

_ "Go ahead Eijiro, let it all out honey." you coo sweetly, biting down on your lip as he whined louder, and that is all it took for the ropes of his pearly seeds to erupt from his tip and coat your hand and his.

A wide smile finds its way to his flushed face as he finally relaxed underneath you, but then a sudden darkness creeps in his eyes as you moved your glistening fingers to your lips, licking and sucking every single digit clean.

_ "Yummy." and your teasing continues towards your poor boyfriend whose mouth is hanging open while watching you in awe, but then a sharp squeal tears past your throat as you found yourself on your back, sinking into the plush sofa with his menacing frame hovering over your writhing body.

_ "I'm sorry princess but you're being so unfair." and his hands are already stripping off your clothes as he spoke.

You should have known the moment you walked into the room with him, that just a little bit of touching would not be nearly enough to quench his insufferable thirst for you, not that you mind going further anyway.

_ "Okay Eijiro, I'm all yours."

#kirishima eijiro #kirishima eijiro smut #eijiro kirishima x reader #eijiro kirishima smut #kirishima eijiro x reader #kirishima eijiro headcanons #kirishima eijiro imagine #kirishima eijiro x y/n #bnha smut #mha smut #bnha imagines #mha imagines #bnha headcannons #mha headcanons #kirishima smut

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folkookie97 · 2 months

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❝why'd you only call me when you're high?❞ — MYG

— SUMMARY: ❝ It's Yoongi's birthday and he starts feeling guilty for breaking up with you when you most needed him. ❞

— PAIRING: rockstar!yoongi x actress!reader

— TYPE: light angst, mild dark | rockstar!au, celebrities!au

— WORD COUNT: 907

— WARNINGS/TAGS: Part of "I Bet on Losing Dogs" One-Shots Collection, toxic love, exes to lovers, second chance romance, secret relationship, non-graphic smut (not with the reader), semi-public sex, Trust Issues, Implied/Referenced Alcoholism, ambiguous/open ending, Unplanned Pregnancy, arguing, Yoongi is bad at feeling here (maybe a lil bit toxic too lol), This part is based on Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High? (Arctic Monkeys), POV Second Person

— NOTES¹: This one-shot is part of the "I Bet On Losing Dogs" Collection, random scenarios of my AU where Yoongi is a toxic rockstar with trust issues and an alcohol addiction who secretly dated an actress at the beginning of her career.

— NOTES²: Happy bday Yoongi my sweetheart, I love you so much <3 (he was my ultimate bias from 2015 to 2019 guys, but I'll never get over him 😭😭)

— RELEASE DATE: March 08, 2024

— CROSSPOSTING: ao3

"So you must be the birthday guy of the party. Happy birthday, bro!"

Min Yoongi heard that last sentence a trillion times during the night, the insincerity of the congratulations already going unnoticed by his confused brain as he filled his body with an absurd amount of alcohol.

He hadn't been worried about nothing more since the last few hours. His face was no longer anything more than a mask whose faked fellow feeling had the sole intention of at least not making the situation even more uncomfortable for the guests and their random companions.

When the idea of celebrating his birthday with a party full of other celebrities came into his own mind, Yoongi didn't figured the bad scenarios that could happen at the private club. He just wanted to get rid of the feeling of loneliness that had been damaging him over the last few months. The impostor syndrome haunting him during sleepless nights with the creative block, whenever he tried writing some new songs for his new album.

The deadline until the new tour's start was short, and his patience was even shorter.

Yoongi just wanted to de-stress. Celebrate his special night with some friends from the same celebrities' world, drink a lot, eat some snacks and maybe have sex with random models. Everything he used doing before he met you.

All it took was drinking too much until he went to a far corner to make out with a Victoria's Secret's Angel who wasn't that famous, but at least made up for her lack of fame with her beauty and tongue technology.

However, maybe the weight of having a different mouth touching him after being used to feeling only someone specific for so long had been too much for his emotions heightened due alcohol.

Or maybe he felt guilty. Guilty for letting another woman touch him after sharing so many good moments with you.

Guilty for saying such cruel words to you during your latest arguments. Guilty for don't understanding your desire to see him publicly deny his dating rumors with other women. Guilty for accusing you of being paranoiac, too jealous and also accusing you of blame him for always putting his career before your relationship.

Guilty for never prioritizing you.

But mostly, guilty for leaving you when you needed him most. Guilty for accusing you of pregnancy trick for his fame and money. Guilty for always being a toxic boyfriend and already being a bad future dad.

Yoongi would always love you. He knew that. Everyone in his inner circle knew that. Even that hot model could realized that when he started crying right after cumming in her mouth.

But he didn't deserve your love. He didn't deserve your baby.

And being there, at his own pity party with his lips — and eyes — still swollen and more glasses in his hands as he continued greeting his guests only proved this cruel truth.

It was his fucking birthday. All he really wanted was being with you. Cuddling you, playing some of both of you favorite songs on his guitar, caressing your pregnant belly, talking to the baby...

Damn it! He just wanted you again. He just wanted being with you forever, being your husband. He wanted having a family with you. He needed to get you back. He needed his stupid party end up being useful, at least knocking some sense into his fucking mind.

With his vision blurred from tasting different colorful drinks, Yoongi searched for your number in his blocked contacts, letting out a long sigh with the increased guilt that hit in his chest when he realized that you didn't block him back.

So he pressed the call icon and waited.

Three rejected calls. Four missed calls. He could almost daydream, remembering you carrying your own shoes and calling him every possible curses while leaving your old apartment after one of your arguments.

Even though the clock on his cell phone showed that it was past three in the morning, he knew you were awake. Or at least you woken up with his fucking annoying stubbornness.

I'm so sorry love

It wasn't something very special, but it was as much as his high drunk state allowed him typing in your DMs without looking more stupid than his usual.

It wasn't a decent apology for everything he'd put you through lately. All the arguments, the swearing, the shade comments on the internet, his neglect about the baby...

Yoongi knew you deserved better words. You deserved all the love in the world. All the love he felt for you but never showed you in a healthy way.

But deep down, Yoongi knew you would answer him. He wasn't proud of being sure about that, but he knew it. He knew you better than you knew yourself.

Hi. Why'd you only call me when you're high?

And you unfortunately also knew him enough to know that alcohol was the cause behind his sudden motivation to contact you, after months of just ghosting your attempts to still save your relationship. Save your future family.

I'm so sorry

He practically repeated the same message before trying to click the call icon again.

This time, you answered, barely giving him time to process the situation before your trembling voice echoed through his phone. "Prove it to me without being fucking drunk as usual. Prove it to me without being at your stupid birthday party."

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