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tashacee · 6 months

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If Time used the truth mask-thing would he be able to see Wild as a hylian?

HMMMMM on the one hand i'm not sure it would work on this situation, on the other hand....

have a crack fic. I made myself laugh.

Aspects of Two Idiots

Wild had wandered off.

This was not unusual in and of itself - the guy was forever wandering off and exploring and getting himself into all sorts of trouble. At least, unlike Hyrule, he tended not to get himself hopelessly lost. And no matter how filthy he was when he came back (and oh, did he come back filthy) he always actually cleaned himself off.

But that wasn’t the point. The point was, Wild had wandered off, and the Chain were starting to get hungry. Of course, they were all grown adults - well, most of them, at least, and in theory they could provide for themselves. Hyrule had his dried meats and fruit and they had a supply of bread and cheese. And of course, one of them could always try to actually cook.

It was just that. Well.

The Chain cooking never ended well.

Time had sighed at the latest moan, this time from Sky, who despite his generally sweet disposition could still get grumpy when he was hungry enough. They had all had a long day and desperately needed this break. The woods that they were travelling through were full of glamours and illusions, and it had taken every ounce of magical awareness to get through without falling into any traps.

Wild, he was pretty sure, had just gone down to the nearby stream to wash off after someone had shot a massive chu too close to him and the whole thing had exploded into his fur.

He had been very, very angry after that.

Time could understand him needing a break.

Still, the Chain was hungry, and Time couldn’t be bothered listening to them complain any longer. At least if he went to find their missing brother then he would be doing something, and perhaps he could be of help scrubbing the dried chu jelly from his fur.

Ugh. It had been so gross.

“I’ll go.” Time had said, and strode out of camp without waiting for a response.

It was peaceful enough. In a sudden stroke of inspiration he had slipped on the Mask of Truth and now could easily see through any illusions in the forest long before they became an issue. The mask didn’t do anything for sounds, unfortunately, so he couldn’t hear anything coming, but it was good enough to do.

Time hummed to himself idly as he walked down to the stream, an old, gentle tune. It wasn’t until he was nearly at the water’s edge that he realised something was wrong.

Wild wasn’t where he should have been. In his place was a short, blond man, a boy, really, irritably scrubbing at his long blond hair. From where he stood in the trees, Time could see how scars - horrible, familiar scars - twisted around half of his body. He could see how one arm had been removed and set to the side, out of the way of the water.

What the fuck.

Time blinked, and then slipped the mask down, peering over with his own eyes.

There was Wild, lifting one leg to his shoulder and twisting so that he could clean himself properly.

He put the mask back on. The hero he knew and loved was replaced by this blond stranger.

What in the-

Time shifted his weight, and beneath his feet a stick cracked.

Not-Wild looked around, his eyes wide. He whined in question.

Time slipped the mask off, not wanting to startle his brother.

“It’s me.” he said, coming into the light, looking at Wild and trying to understand what he had just seen.

Wild… for want of a better word, Wild looked terrified. Like he had been caught doing something taboo, something terrible. Like a deer in the headlights. Like a man about to face the chopping block.

“Wild-” Time began to ask, but in an instant his brother was upon him, jamming his arm back in place and pressing his hands to Time’s lips in a silencing gesture, eyes wide as he desperately shook his head. Time wondered at the back of his mind what he would be seeing in the mask - the boy that had been in place of Wild had been so much shorter, would he have to reach to cover Time’s lips?

Clearly Wild knew he had been seen, that Time knew about his secret form. Was this Wild’s real body? The body he had been born into? Had he been changed into the form he had now? Made to change? Chosen to change?

What the hell was going on?

Time pulled away - “Okay, okay, i just - i have some questio-”

Wild yipped in alarm and shook his head frantically. He even tried some of the rudimentary sign he had picked up, Time could just about make out the words ‘secret’ and ‘please’ through his shaking fingers.

Slowly, Time nodded. Whatever this was, whyever Wild looked so different through the Mask, it clearly wasn’t something that was supposed to be shared. It was private, a secret. Time could understand that, he supposed. Plenty of people had pasts they didn’t want others to know about, other forms they would rather keep private. Time himself could think of a number of different forms he had borne that he would rather not share with the group.

He didn’t know why his brother might show as a hylian through whatever glamour he must have been wearing, but if he didn’t want to share, then Time wasn’t going to ask.

“It’s okay.” Time murmured, as reassuring as he could. “I won’t tell anyone, your secret’s safe with me.”

In front of him, Wild nearly melted with relief.

Wild had gone down to the river to get some peace. Not because he was mad! Really, Wind couldn’t have known when he shot what must have been the world’s largest chu chu that it was going to explode literally all over Wild. He couldn’t have known that they still would have to fight the rest of the battle in the baking sun and then hike through hours through this terrible cursed forest until they found a safe camp site.

No one could have foreseen that the jelly would solidify into a horrible, sticky gunk that matted through wild’s fur and stank to high heaven.

It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It just sucked.

The longer the jelly stayed on the harder it got, and it tugged and pulled at Wild’s fur as he moved. It was awful. He hated it. He knew that he was in a bad mood because of it. That was way he refused any offers of company to the river as politely as he could and went off on his own. He needed some time to just groom himself in peace.

And so he had. It had been nice, despite the spookiness of the woods. Once he got the jelly wet again it came off fairly easily, so he had been able to relax into his grooming routine. Gently, he brushed through his fur, humming softly to himself, enjoying the feeling of being clean again.

It was a cat thing. He was pretty sure that while he had understood the importance of hygiene and enjoyed the occasional luxurious soak before, it had never been like this. He wondered what else he was missing out on, what other feline habits he should try out while he had the chance. Grooming was so good, after all.

…grooming. Huh.

Didn’t cats groom with their tongues?

Ugh! No! He wasn’t trying that, gross!

Unless…

No!

But maybe…

Wild looked around to make sure he was alone. Nothing stirred in the forest. He looked down at his arm, recently cleaned and neatly brushed. He leaned over and gave it a testing ‘lick’.

Huh. Weird. It… it didn’t feel the most natural in the world, but it also wasn’t terrible. He licked again, more firmly this time. To his surprise, the fur rearranged itself neatly, lying flatter than before.

What the fuck.

He bent over and twisted, lifting his leg to try licking his ankle. Not for any other reason than it was there, and he was doing an experiment.

Huh. No, it didn’t feel right. And besides, it was all very well him saying it wasn’t the worst, but he was freshly clean now. The idea of licking his fur when he was actually dirty was still pretty repulsive.

Welp, there was one cat habit he could safely say he hadn’t absorbed.

Something rustled behind him.

Wild was on his feet in an instant, ready to attack whatever it was but also horrified at the thought that one of his brothers might have seen him.

Time stepped out of the trees. “It’s me.” he said, and he looked more than a little bewildered.

Ah, shit. He’d seen.

Wild whined as his brother said his name, and grabbed his arm from where he had left it by the water’s edge. Jamming it back into place, he rushed up to time and slammed his hands over his mouth, shaking his head viciously.

Don’t say it. Please please please, Old Man, don’t say it out loud. Ah, shit, Wild couldn’t take the embarrassment. This was terrible! Why had he ever thought that he should try licking his fur of all things, he wasn’t actually an animal!

Time pulled away from his grasp, holding out his hands in what was clearly meant to be a pacifying gesture. “Okay, okay, i just - i have some questio-”

NOPE! NO QUESTIONS FOR YOU, OLD MAN.

Wild barely contained his screech of alarm, shaking his head again. He never, ever wanted to talk about this with anyone, ever. He would do anything, give anything. He’d make Time’s favourite food every night for the rest of their adventure, he’d clean his shoes, he’d stop groaning at his terrible old man jokes, anything to avoid the humiliation of this conversation.

Finally, Time sighed and offered him a small smile. “It’s okay.” he said, and Wild had never been more relieved that the Chain just assumed some of his odd habits were normal. With any luck, the old man would just presume that this was something he did in private and that it was inappropriate to talk about in public. Like going to the toilet or something. “I won’t tell anyone, your secret’s safe with me.”

OH THANK HYLIA.

And with that, the misunderstanding went unaddressed. Time knew about Wild’s other form as a hylian and didn’t bring it up because he thought it was a secret. Wild, believing his brother to have seen him grooming with his tongue, made Time’s favourite food every night for a week.

Neither mentioned that evening by the river again.

After all, they were heroes of courage, not wisdom.

#replies #hero’s aspect au #hero's aspect #linked universe fic #linked universe fanfic #linked universe #lu #it me #my writing

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wildpeachfarm · 1 month

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Never thought I’d see the day Nick Deorio was fighting in the trenches with us as a drolo. It almost makes me want to reinstall twitter just for that. Almost. Mans was scarred from John Swan and he wants to be on the right side of the argument this time. He’s seen dream come with receipts so he knows. Not an expected soldier, but I’ll take him regardless.

Saw a previous anon post about how Twitter has the mindset of “being a woman means being a perfect person” and how that’s not a good mindset to have; I wholeheartedly agree with that anon.

I’m of the mindset that I will protect all women, but I will not support them. There have been people in my life that are women that have made dumb decisions and have dangerous mindsets and I’ve called them out on it continuously. However, the second they tell me they need my help, I’m there. It doesn’t matter if we haven’t talked in months, or since high school-you ask for my help, you got it. No questions asked. Because like that anon said, we are human first before we’re women and we are going to make mistakes. I want to make mistakes and have the ability to own up to them like anyone else, cause if people protect me from myself, I’ll be a very misguided and disillusioned person.

I also think that mindset stems from many people not knowing what feminism actually is. I’ve seen on TikTok this trend of women going “I’m not a feminist” and then saying some wild ass thing like “I can wear dresses” as if that’s all feminism entails. True feminism is recognizing men and women are equal to each other and deserve to be treated as such. Equal pay, same opportunities corporate-wise, same options to be SAHM or SAHDs, etc. That also means women can be horrible people just as much as men, and they deserve to be held accountable for it.

Twitter thinks women need protecting and we can do no wrong and that’s absolutely dangerous. And I think thats part of why Caiti responded the way she did in her final stream, cause she’s been misguided to believe that she can do no wrong as a woman, hence the angry reaction to people pointing out her inconsistencies. And I feel for her, cause she’s young, and it seems like shes still easily impressionable, which is the perfect combination for Twitter to take over her thinking. I hope she takes a long, indefinite break from the internet and goes to see adults who aren’t chronically online to help her, cause she’s a very unstable person.

Women aren’t perfect, and we shouldn’t be protected from ourselves. But if one of us is in genuine need of help, we rally as a people to be there; that’s the best part of being a woman-the sisterhood and that gets taken away the more people develop the “women are perfect and need to be protected” mindset.

-L :)

oooh very good additions!

One of the worst things to ever happen to the internet is to create a space for words to be watered down to the point that people have completely missed the meaning of the original word and now it's something different.

Which leads people to speak damaging rhetoric in the name of something they /think/ they're representing properly when thats just not the case. (Unfortunately this is how we get radfems and terf rhetoric under "feminism" according to some people on the internet)

#ask #anon #anti drummyache tag

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call-sign-shark · 1 year

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From Blood We'll Grow || Arthur Shelby x Reader!OC

Prompt: You don’t understand the kind of love you’re getting yourself in

Words: 1.1K

TW: references to murder and crimes, hurt/comfort, I tried something a bit different from what we are used to reading about Arthur

Notes:

✞ Written for the celebration of @runnning-outof-time's 3K revolving around the theme of a flower garden. Flower used: Red Poppies, which are said to grow best in blood-fertilized soil.

✞ This work is a part of the Heaven in Your Eyes universe, but it can be read as a stand-alone. Consequently, Reader is Heaven, OP's original character (Moodboard here). Feel free to check this ongoing series if you wanna know more. Newest chapter of the series HERE.

“Talk to me, please.”

The soft breeze of Birmingham’s spring caressed his skin and carried the words away. Even though Arthur’s piercing blue eyes were watching the sky, all his attention was focused on you. His hand, large and calloused, was covering the palm of yours, frail and perpetually cold. Sometimes he wondered if blood was actually flowing through your veins or if you were made of frostbite and stardust.

“Tell me everything’s awful you did and let me love you anyway.”

The melody of his beating heart echoed in his chest at the same pace as yours. Two souls yearning for each other. Arthur’s fingers tightened their protective grip around you, afraid you would vanish if he did not constantly keep physical contact with you. Moreover, your ice always managed to calm the raging fire he was made of.

“I’ve killed people.”

These three little words hurt as they were spoken. They felt like razor cuts on the tongue, blades coated with caustic acid. And yet, an intense feeling of relief followed soon after. Arthur’s body relaxed.

“I already knew that.”

“No, you didn’t. You suspected it but you still had the choice not to believe it.”

“Does that make a difference?”

“It does for me. Until now you were free to genuinely tell yourself I was a good person, even though you suspected it was not the case. But now that you are aware of my wicked nature you’ll come to realize I might not be as good as you think for you.”

“Bullshit. It doesn’t change anything for me. You’re the creature I love with all my heart. No matter what you’ve done, and no matter what you’ll do, my soul and yours are entangled.”

Arthur, who was laying with his head on your lap abandoned the horizon and looked up to stare at your enchanting doll face. Your long ivory mane danced at the wind’s discretion, the pale and orange hue of the sunset forming a glowing halo on the top of your head. A soothing silence lulled you, only disrupted by the blowing wind and the nearby stream’s murmur. He could not help but smile at your mesmerizing beauty, whose presence embellished the bucolic landscape.

“But I’ve got blood on my hands.”

“So do I, Heaven.”

You looked down at him, the jewels of your iris drowning in the ocean of his, and stopped petting his hair.

“Trust me, angel, I know the best. Each time I enter in a room I see the face of all the people I’ve murdered. Those who deserved it share the place with the innocents who were just unlucky enough to cross paths with the brute I am. Sometimes I see that young lad from the boxing ring sipping on a coffee with the many soldiers I’ve killed… My hands still tingle with the sensation of my fists tightening around their necks or bashing their brains out. But still, you are, kissing the scars on my knuckles and allowing these dirty, murderous hands to touch you when we make love,” Arthur paused and, with his head leaving your lap, he sat next to you in the middle of the vast wild field you loved exploring together, “that’s how I love you. Perfectly imperfect. Because even angels have their own demons…” He said, bringing his free hand on your cheek to stroke it with indescribable softness no one suspected he was capable of, not even himself, “ And Maybe, if you believe in it just a little bit, the ghosts that follow you will find peace in mine eh.”

Like magical balm on a sucking wound, the gravel in his voice soothed the pain of your heart. Admittedly you had been scared to tell him the truth about you for fear he stopped considering you like an Angel — but the truth was you didn’t understand the kind of love you got yourself into. It was the kind of love so intoxicating that you’d physically suffer if you parted from each other for too long. In him you did not find only love, but also understanding and acceptance. Arthur’s way of handling you, with indescribable care and softness, had become a necessity in your life. Were you really his angel? Or was he yours? A violent, twisted seraph with wings as black as cold, but a heart as sweet as honey. He was keeping you safe, wrapped in the dark feather of his wings, ready to take the pain for you — he did not matter, your well-being did.

Without uttering a single word, you almost tackled him with a hug. An embrace so fierce he fell backward, his back gently hitting the ground. Both surprised and endeared, Arthur could not help but chuckle before welcoming you in his arms.

“I am so lucky to have you…” You whispered, burying your nose in his neck. His perfume, musky and manly, lulled your insecurities and wrapped you in a blissful haze.

“I promise you’ll have me forever, love.”

Arthur was caressing your back, and sometimes he laid a kiss on your head as if his lips could not stay away from you for too long. Which was certainly the case. After a while, he caught sight of a red flower at the corner of his eye. The only flower that had grown here, among the weed and the fallen leaves.

“Look, Angel.”

You raised your head at his voice, curiously gazing at what he wanted to show you. When you noticed it was a red poppy, you looked at Arthur with a slightly confused gleam in your eyes. After all, poppies were not scarce flowers. Yet, Arthur’s iris shone with fascination and unexplainable joy. His lips had stretched in an innocent and almost childish smile, the first since years. The kind of smile Miss Changretta had been talking about. The way his face enlightened and his traits relaxed made you sink a little deeper for him. With the tips of his fingers, Arthur picked up the poppy and shifted his full attention back to you.

“In Flander fields, the poppies blow…”

He started, slipping the flower in your hair. Its blood-red petals, exposing the poppy’s black heart, contrasted with the whiteness of your hair just like a drop of blood in a desert of snow.

“Between the crosses, row and row,

That mark our place, and in the sky

The larks still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the gun below.”

You closed your eyes, your soul carried away by Arthur’s low and hoarse voice as well as the steady melody of his heart beating. He let his long and thin fingers lose themselves in your hair as he kept reciting the poem he liked so much.

“We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

In Flanders fields.”

With your free hand, you brushed the flower’s petals. Their soft texture awaked your sense. While you did so, Arthur’s free hand pressed on your lower back to bring your hips closer to his. He did not want to leave any space between your two bodies.

“Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.”

When he finished the last line, Arthur reached for your chin and raised your head until your lips grazed against each other, “From blood, we will grow love.” He whispered, his warm breath melting in yours.

“From blood, we will grow.” You repeated.

Any comment, review, reblog, or constructive criticism is welcome. Your reactions really motivate me and keep me alive, so please don't be shy. English is not my first language.

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nikethestatue · 10 months

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The Agreement

Chapter 7

Elain Archeron

Elain woke up at first light. The sun only just began streaming light through the gauzy drapes on her windows when her eyes fluttered open.

She lay in her luxurious bed for a good while, just thinking about nothing.

Taking account of her body, she felt a slight ache in her nipples and a deep heated blush spread over her whole body. The things he did to her–glorious, wonderfully wicked, depraved things. The way he licked on her skin, the way he bit her neck–she pressed on the tender spot where he’d left his mark–and then he made her suck his finger. She wouldn’t have even dreamt of doing something so…ludicrously delicious. And yet, she did. Whatever he said, she followed his guidance, his orders and she did it all.

Did it make her immoral and wanton?

She wasn’t sure. Perhaps it wasn’t necessarily sinful to enjoy sexual relations, but she wasn’t married to him and surely, this was inappropriate. However, it felt so good. When he cupped her breasts, when he pinched and rubbed her nipples and she skirted the line of pleasure and pain, she couldn’t think of one thing that felt wrong or impudent about it. Every touch of his scarred hands set her skin alight, and all the kisses and caresses felt uniquely natural. She tried to feel bad about it, she really did. She wanted to feel shame and disgust with herself, with her behaviour, but she simply couldn’t.

Azriel was thoughtful and passionate. He was accepting and encouraging. He made her feel wild and safe all at once. She was positive that if she’d requested him to do something to her, however debauched it was, he would acquiesce immediately and gladly. And she thought that maybe if he asked her to do something, she’d do it for him too. And not because he ordered her to. But because she…wanted to.

She tossed and turned last night in this glorious bed, while Azriel and Cassian discussed something aggressively. Somehow, she figured that it was about her, but she didn’t feel that she should eavesdrop. Not because it was wrong, but because she didn’t want to hear what Azriel had to say. If he was agreeing with his brother and maybe…maybe…he was going to send her away.

She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to go back to her sad life, and didn’t want to return to the struggle, though she was sure that he’d offer her some money. But it wasn’t about the money–it should’ve been, and she should’ve kept her eyes on the prize–but she didn’t want to leave…him.

It was awful–the realisation that perhaps she was falling for him. How could she? It’s been three days! And no, she wasn’t stupid and she knew that it wasn’t love, but she enjoyed the companionship. She loved the attention that he offered her, and how his gaze was always pointed in her direction, all his want and need zoomed on her. He told her that when he cared about something, he cared fully and completely. And she felt it now. She was the middle daughter–not the eldest child, serious and intense, and neither was she the baby, who was allowed much freedom and few expectations were attached to her. Elain was the middle one and no one truly cared about her. She didn’t feel unwanted exactly, but she felt unnecessarily. As if no one ever dared to spare any attention, any love on her. Nesta loved her, in some strange manner specific to Nesta, but the only person who ever cared for Elain was Azriel Night.

Elain wanted to lounge in bed for a little while longer, considering that she again was woken up by someone walking outside her door, but this time, she was confident that it was Azriel. It could only be him because the servants did not come up here during the night. However, she got up, because she wanted to make breakfast for Azriel and see him off. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been doing that–attaching herself to him, making this domestic, and caring for him.

Today, she was going to enjoy a long shower and do some private things…which were for her to know and for him not to find out. Though he would, soon enough.

Yesterday, she and the twins had gone to the apothecary, which apparently catered to some special clientele and their specific needs. Elain did not know why they were there, but Nuala whispered something to the pharmacist and he disappeared in the back, before emerging with a few bottles and jars, and quietly offering Nuala instructions, as he put the bottles into a paper bag.

It was embarrassing when Elain found out what they had purchased. Because as she learned, these were salves and lotions for personal care–to get rid of hair, to moisturise skin with, to wash and style hair with, buffers and paints for nails, and even cosmetics for the face. Elain had never used any such items, especially not the ones for more intimate care, but Nuala simply told her ‘the lord likes what he likes’.

Cosmetics were frowned upon, especially for unmarried maids, so Elain never even tried any, let alone painted her nails, or removed any of her body hair. The twins though told her that the lotion was a good choice, because it kept the hair off the body for about a month.

“Why does he like this?” Elain asked.

Cerridwen shrugged, as they unloaded all the purchases in her wardrobe and her bathing room.

“The lord is peculiar in what he likes,”

“But it’s not our place to question him,” Nuala said.

“Just like he refuses to follow social conventions and does not wear a beard or hats, he has requirements for his lovers…”

At that, Elain flushed and bit her lip, deeply disliking hearing about Azriel’s ‘lovers’.

“And does he have many of them?”

Nuala was hanging new blouses and Cerridwen was folding chemises and stockings, while Elain was organising her new dresses. It was busy, pointless work, but calming and pleasurable, seeing how many new things Elain now possessed.

“Who?” Cerridwen asked.

“Lovers,” Elain murmured, her voice barely a whisper.

“Oh, he’s had his share. He is handsome and wealthy–it was expected. He’d kept them quiet though, but no one since Lady Morrigan became his wife, and not since…” Nuala’s voice faded and Elain gave a nod of understanding.

And there was relief.

She shouldn’t have cared, and certainly shouldn’t have felt relief, but she did. She never considered that there might have been someone else and that Azriel might have had a mistress or casual relationships since his lady wife was indisposed, but that thought suddenly horrified her. Sharing him with others, knowing that his affections might go to another woman, or even worse–women–quickly became an intolerable thought.

Nuala gave Elain the peace of mind Elain didn’t know she needed.

It was only her. Azriel needed only her.

She washed her face, brushed her hair and tucked it into a messy bun, slipped on her house dress (she couldn’t even believe that she had a different house dress for every day of the week!) and slipped on a pair of slippers.

Opening the door as quietly as possible, she promptly let out a shriek of fright.

Sitting on the floor, right by the door, was Azriel.

He looked…dishevelled.

His long legs were bent at the knees and his heavy arms rested on them, hands hanging listlessly. He wasn’t even wearing shoes–only socks, and his shirt and trousers were wrinkled and the same ones he wore yesterday. His normally thick, lustrous hair lay limply on his head.

“Sir,” Elain finally whispered, “are you…are you alright, sir? Good morning.”

“Good morning, beautiful,” she mumbled under his breath, not even looking at her.

Eland didn't know what to do with him when he was like this. Normally, Lord Night was self-assured, confident, even a bit cocky, funny and teasing, and completely in control.

This wreck of a man, burdened by secrets and the weight that he carried on his shoulders, sad and dark was not someone Elain was familiar with. But it didn’t mean she didn’t feel the same about this version of Azriel as she did about the splendid and worldly Azriel.

“Did you spend the night here?” she asked softly, standing in front of him, nervously tugging on her dress.

“I did,” he confirmed.

“May I ask why?”

“I wanted to enter your bedroom,” he admitted. “Wanted to take you in my arms. Say goodbye. And I couldn't.”

Elain’s heart dropped in her chest and instinctively, she placed her hand on his head, and caressed him, threading her fingers through his hair.

“Don’t say goodbye to me,” she begged, her eyes welling with tears.

Why was he thinking about this? How was she displeasing him? Why was there doubt in his mind about her?

He finally looked up at her, his face drawn and more angular than usual.

Grasping her hand in his, he dragged it over his face and then pressed his lips to the inside of her palm.

“Will you forgive me, Elain?” he murmured into her hand.

“Yes,” she nodded instantly.

“Even if I do something awful and unforgivable?”

“I don’t think you would do something like that, sir.”

“Will you forgive me for not doing what I should?”

“Don’t listen to you brother, sir,” she recommended stiffly. “If this is his doing. Our business is our own and no one has any say in it.”

Azriel kissed the inside of her hand again and pleaded, “I don’t want to make you unhappy, beautiful girl.”

“Well, you aren't,” she insisted primly, looking down at him, and then she tentatively, gently stroked his cheek, and as she did, he nuzzled at her like a dog. Her faithful and tender beast.

“I shouldn’t be doing any of this,” he admitted, mostly to himself.

Elain pursed her lips and argued,

“You know, my lord, it was I who came here! Alone. On the train. It was I who made this decision. Maybe it was stupid and reckless of me to do it, but here we are. And I am not regretting my decision even a little bit. I want to be here. With you. So if you don’t want me to be here, then you better tell me right now!” she sniffled angrily. “Because…because…I don’t want to leave and you shouldn’t send me away,”

Her little tirade ended when suddenly, Azriel lunged at her and wrapped his long, strong arms around her thighs and hips, pulling her between his legs. She wobbled and propped herself on one arm against the wall, while her other hand dipped further into his hair.

He squeezed her hard, his arms digging into her skirts, and then he pushed his whole face into her belly. Elain shuddered, as he dragged his face over the thin material of her dress, before he dipped lower and suddenly, inhaled a voracious, deep intake of air. He sounded like a drowning man gasping for air.

And he was smelling her…down there.

“Oh god,” Elain cried out nervously, but he only buried his face deeper between her legs and wouldn’t let go, and as she tried to wiggle away, he growled,

“Quit squirming, woman!”

“But, this is…”

“You smell divine!” he told her boldly. And then he…

Well.

He cupped her bottom in his hands!

Two handfuls in his large hands and he held her steady, while he nosed into her stomach and inhaled into her sex.

“My lord,” she tried, but he shushed her and whispered,

“Can you just settle down, lass? Let me smell your fine, delicious pussy,” he swatted her away, and she cried out,

“My lord, you cannot say things like these to me!!!!”

“Which things?” he teased, looking up at her, while he dug deeper into her flesh, his hands kneading and caressing her bottom, the fingertips definitely, definitely sneaking into the crevice between her buttocks.

“You cannot use such words!” she insisted frantically. “It’s uncouth. It’s not…”

“What? What words would you like me to use?”

Frustrated, she stomped her feet and he laughed, squeezing and caressing and spreading her ever so slightly under her skirt.

“You are everything I’ve ever wanted, lassie. You are my own personal brand of madness…my perfect, preferred poison,”

“You can’t call me that!”

“But I can. I love getting lost in you. I love touching you,”

“I can certainly feel that!” she hissed, but he only kissed her hand, and then her belly through the dress.

“Is it wrong of me to want to possess every tiny perfect hole of your body? Probably. But that’s what I need. Tell me you’ll give me everything?” he pressed urgently.

She looked at him in confusion.

“I only have the one,”

He smiled and stroked her waist, smoothing his hands over her belly, the small of her back, before returning to her bottom.

“You are sweet, my lass,” he vowed. “My perfect girl.”

She wasn’t really ‘his’ girl, but when he said such things to her, when his eyes blazed with that warmth and his lips smiled at her like that, when he called her tender names and made her feel lightheaded, then she felt powerless. Her body reacted to his words, to his touches with uncontrollable desire…heat, need, longing. She felt things that she never felt before–warmth and some kind of strange wetness between her legs. It made her…ache. Squirm in his arms. She could feel herself, her own body in ways that she never imagined before. She felt her own pulse inside herself, in her core, beating and pulsating, like a tiny heartbeat at the juncture of her legs. And something–she wasn’t sure what it was exactly–but something tensed and squeezed pleasantly and needily low in her belly. It felt good. Incredible even. But also empty. There was a hollowness inside of her which needed to be filled. And suddenly, to her surprise and horror, it dawned on her what she wanted to be filled with.

Azriel was watching her with a smirk, reading every emotion on her face, and deciphering it with a maddeningly annoying ease. And when she bucked in the circle of his arms, he held on tight and wouldn’t release her.

“I am hungry!” she lied at last.

“Indeed?” he cocked her brow at her. “Well, let’s go feed you then, my lass.”

“I can…I can eat myself!”

“Not a chance,” he decided sternly. “You are sitting on my lap, like always, and I am feeding you. And I might play with your tits as well,”

“What?!”

“Oh, you heard me.” He reached up and suddenly squeezed her breasts, willing her to push him off with his daring gaze. She didn’t though.

“My good girl–wearing a brassiere again,” he approved. “Is it for me, sweetheart?” his thumbs brushed over her puckering nipples.

“Get up, my lord,” she ordered him. “And I like the brassiere…It’s a little uncomfortable to wear still, but I am enjoying it. I can breathe.”

He chuckled and agreed, “breathing is important.”

At last, he got up and then took her hand and pulled her behind him.

“Go downstairs. I will be there in ten minutes. I will make you some eggs,” he said firmly.

She stared at him with incomprehension,

“You will cook eggs?”

“I will. You’ll be impressed with me.”

Exactly ten minutes later, Azriel entered the kitchen, where Elain was already making toast and Cerridwen was busy with beverages and cooking the sausages.

“Cer, I’ll take it from here,” Azriel told her and it didn’t seem to Elain that Cerridwen was surprised by the request.

“I shall set the table then, my lord,” Cerridwen said calmly and left the kitchen.

He looked put together, his hair was wet and brushed back, the tiredness on his face having disappeared for the most part. There was a brightness in his gaze, a determination, as if he had made some internal decision for himself and was going to stick with it now.

“Go sit and wait for me, pretty girl,” Azriel said to Elain, before catching her neck with his lips and planting a kiss on the back of her neck.

“You don’t need any help, sir?”

“No. I will be taking care of you.”

He then turned her face so she looked at him and held it in his palm, watching her intently.

“If I am going to go through with this I will be taking care of you then, Elain.”

“You already do, sir,” she reminded him.

“No. Using you for my needs, and taking care of you are two different things. Therefore, as I am now set on using you, the only compromise that I can come up with is to care for you fully,”

“I can take care of myself,” she argued stubbornly. “I have been,”

“Maybe,” he shrugged. “But not like I will. Not the way I can. Also, you can try to resist me all you want, but I can read you like an open book.”

“And what are you reading exactly?” she demanded, trying to sound stern, though she sounded breathless instead.

He grasped her wrist in his hand and wrenched her arm back, as his other hand squeezed her hip, pulling her closer to him. Immobilised, she watched his face, as he lowered closer to hers, his lips skirting over her mouth.

“I know that you want me, even if you don’t realise that you do.”

He breathed over her lips, and asked,

“Have you been kissed, Elain?”

“Ummm,” she flushed and muttered, “on the cheek…”

He laughed softly and said,

“Not by your father, lass. A man? Not related to you,”

“My fiance kissed me on the cheek,” she clarified further.

At the word ‘fiance’ Azriel’s face instantly changed and he looked clearly displeased. Confused. Almost angry.

He released her at once and then said tersely, “go sit at the table, Elain. I’ll meet you there.”

Put off by the change in his attitude, Elain scratched her head, but turned around and wordlessly went to the dining room.

Busying herself with coffee, she poured both of them a cup, buttered the toast, and then sat down at the table, feeling nervous. She didn’t do anything wrong, but Azriel’s reaction was instant and it was obvious that he wasn’t happy.

He emerged a few minutes later, carrying a platter with eggs, which looked fantastic.

“Come here and get your food,” he said to her, no warmth in his voice.

It was awkward, but she did as he told her, and by the time she was done, he was already sitting.

“What are you doing?” he asked, watching her sit in her chair. “You sit here, with me. Like always.”

Elain bit her lip, but knowing that arguing would be pointless, she brought her plate with her as she approached him.

“Talk to me,” Azriel squeezed her hand and covered it with his, as he sat back in his chair and looked at her. “Is there something I need to know?”

His elegant eyebrows furrowed, as Elain watched his face bathed with doubt and apprehension.

“I’d rather know if I am being taken advantage of,” he said crisply. “And if I am, I will understand. But,”

Anxiously she tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear and shook her head,

“There is nothing to know, sir.”

His stare was heavy and expectant and he waited for her to say more.

“I feel strongly about you, Elain,” he admitted, his thumb rubbing the pulse point on her wrist. “But I expect honesty from you, just as you should expect it from me. Are you engaged to be married?”

“No, sir.”

Her answer wasn’t satisfactory, judging by his doubtful expression.

So she continued,

“Sir, I was engaged, it is true. But it was when I was sixteen,”

“Sixteen?” he snapped. “You were but a child!”

“Yes,”

“Were you even bleeding yet?”

“I…yes…” she hung her head low. “I was my father’s last hope–he already lost much of our fortune by then, but we kept up appearances the best we could. He had arranged for me to marry Lord Graysen Nolan, though as you said, I was very young. But father wanted to secure one successful match with someone of good standing.”

“And? What happened?”

She sighed and tugged on her sleeve nervously.

“Graysen…he…well, he rejected me,”

“Rejected you? How do you mean?”

“He refused to marry me once he found out that my dowry wouldn’t be as large as it was assumed. We were at a ball, and there was an argument between my father and his father…And then, Lord Graysen…well, he rejected me. Publicly.”

Two tears slipped from her eyes and she felt stupid and childish, mourning a life she never got to live, still seemingly grieving over a man who didn’t deserve her affection.

“I am sorry,” Azriel said tenderly, stroking her hand, then her arm, “I am sorry for being cross with you. I was just taken aback when you,”

“He struck me,” she whispered a muffled sob. “In front of others. In front of everyone. He hit my face,”

Azriel was up from his seat in a heartbeat and he grabbed her face between his hands, his expression furious.

“He slapped you?” he snarled murderously.

She nodded, wiping her eyes.

“He was very angry,”

“He slapped you?” he repeated again, his voice trembling with rage.

“Yes,” she nodded again. “And then he ripped the engagement ring from my finger and took it with him…That is all, sir. I swear,” she mumbled, tears running down her cheeks. “I swear. I would never take advantage of you,”

Azriel wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him, embracing her tightly. He pressed her face to his neck and rocked her against him, while she cried. Elain didn’t even know why, but it felt cathartic to tell him about this–because Azriel accepted her. He wanted her. The way no one else ever wanted her. And yes, he had ulterior motives, but he was honest with her, always. He wanted her in ways Graysen never did.

“I am sorry, sweetheart,” he kept muttering into her hair, caressing her back, “I was a fool. I can’t believe that I accused you like that,”

“No, you are the only good thing in my life,” she sobbed. “The only one. You treat me well, and you are kind,”

“Oh lass, but I am still a jealous fool. Even the thought of someone else having any little bit of your love or affection filled me with such resentment. I am sorry that I made you relive that. It wasn’t fair…I understand why you didn’t tell me and I am ashamed of my reaction.”

While Azriel was wiping away her tears with his fingers, she said apologetically,

“I shouldn’t have called him that. He isn’t my fiance. Never was, not in any way that mattered.”

“And I shouldn’t have accused you of something you never intended to do.”

She smiled through her tears and asked,

“Are you a jealous person, sir?”

He huffed a mirthless laugh and said, “I didn’t think that I was, but I guess I am.”

He drew his fingertips over her lips, then her cheeks and her cheekbones. Over her ears. Her neck.

“That imbecile had you and he let you go,” Azriel was shaking his head, as if the thought was incomprehensible. “He had you, and he only kissed your cheek?”

Elain laughed weakly.

“I don’t want to kiss you now when you are in tears,” he said, just as he began to pepper her face with gentle kisses and she laughed again,

“I am quite sure that that’s exactly what you are doing, sir!”

“No, I am not kissing. I am comforting you,” he corrected, as his soft beautiful lips landed all over her face, before tenderly kissing her eyes.

“Ahhh…well, I enjoy being comforted then.”

“But when I do kiss you…well, it wouldn’t be on the cheek, sweetheart.”

It was late afternoon and Elain was alone, in her bedroom.

She was informed that Azriel would not be home for dinner and he sent her a note of apology. He was still stuck at the War Office and was expected to be there until late evening.

The last bit of information Elain found oddly comforting. She knew that she had no claim on Azriel, on his time or even his attention, but somehow, it made her feel better that he was being delayed because of work and not some other reason. He wasn’t avoiding her, and not having dinner with her seemed to upset him a bit judging by the tone of his note.

Just now, she also received a bouquet of flowers, which was delivered to the house.

It was an extravagant concoction of expensive flowers, but perfectly arranged.

Elain hauled a big crystal vase from downstairs, filled it with water and placed the bouquet on her writing desk in her sitting room. It was ridiculous to think that she even had a sitting room. She was used to sharing a bed with both of her sisters–the big brass bed with a lumpy mattress that was salvaged after the creditors ransacked their house.

Now, she had an apartment inside a palatial estate. Her bedroom was larger than their hovel. She had a sitting room, with sofas, a bookcase, and a writing desk. She had a walk-in wardrobe, where all her clothes hung and she had her own bathing room, with a tub, a shower and hot water, not to mention a water closet, where she could poop and flush and never worry about a bedpan ever again.

Feeling guilty, because she had spent days being completely bedazzled by Azriel, and because he occupied so much of her time and energy she didn’t think of much of anything but him, she finally sat down and gathered her thoughts, before picking up a pen and dipping it in ink.

Dearest Nesta,

I hope the letter finds you well. My stay in London has been a whirlwind, but I am enjoying it greatly. My studies will begin next week. Meanwhile, I’ve been incredibly lucky to have obtained a lucrative position here. I’ve become a gardener’s apprentice for the household of the Duke of Velaris. He is a kind and generous lord, and I’ve been provided lodgings and food at his estate. I’ve also been receiving wages, and since I do not have much that I am in need of, I am sending you the money.

Please make sure not to let father know about this development. I trust you with the funds. Please buy Feyre her medicines. I shall speak with the Duke in due course and inquire whether there are specialists here in London who can treat her.

This should be enough money for you to obtain new lodgings–please find a better apartment, so that Feyre could be comfortable and all of you would have more space. I will be sending money monthly.

Perhaps now is the time for you to consider taking those secretarial courses, Nesta. I think it would be a fine position for you if you could become a secretary. I will try to buy you a typing machine.

Take care of yourself and Feyre. Send my regards to father.

Much Love,

Elain

Elain felt terrible about lying to Nesta because most of her letter was filled with untruths, but she had no other choice. What could she say? Nesta was difficult to trick, and Elain suspected that Nesta would see right through the lies, but it had to be this way. She folded the letter, stuck a ten pound note in there, and then put it in an envelope.

It was worth it.

She had to tell herself this again and again.

It was all worth it.

For her family, for her sisters.

What she was doing was going to make a difference in their fortune.

Feyre would get healthy. Nesta could obtain a job. Both of them could get married. They wouldn’t have to struggle anymore.

It was worth it.

Elain Archeron had never seen herself in the mirror fully. Her face, her torso. But it’s been years since she’d seen her whole body in the mirror and she’d changed. Somewhere, somehow, she became a woman. She had not one, but two full length mirrors now, and she stood in front of one. Naked.

She was thin.

She doubted that this was her natural shape, but right now she was thin. Her ribs stuck out from under her pale skin. Her hip bones protruded unattractively above her too-skinny thighs. Her belly was so flat, it was almost concave. Truth be told, she wasn’t even sure how Azriel found her attractive. Maybe that’s why he insisted on feeding her three meals a day, not to mention afternoon tea and even snacks, if she so desired. Could she even carry a babe successfully in her emaciated body? She wasn’t sure.

But she had full breasts, much like Nesta, whose breasts were even larger.

And now, she looked down, where she never looked before.

She was pink. Bare. Hairless.

It was…attractive. She could see why Azriel would ask her to do this. She looked sensual. And she found herself thinking that she wouldn’t mind showing it to him.

…The pacing behind her door hadn’t stopped. Steady and discrete pounding of feet–bare feet–from what she could tell, for 30 minutes. 45 minutes. An hour. Longer. Even longer still.

In the dying embers of the fireplace there was enough light to illuminate the clock on the mantle–it was 2:37 in the morning.

Throwing off the blanket Elain got up and tiptoed to the door.

She wasn’t sure what she was doing. There was no plan.

But he’s been pacing by her door for four nights in the row now and she was wound up as tightly as he was. His relentless restlessness was imprinting on her and she was exhausted.

In one swift motion, he opened the door and looked out in the corridor.

Azriel was standing there, framed in darkness, long shadows writhing around him. He was barefoot, and bare chested. In fact, the only thing he was wearing was a pair of long underpants. Before Elain could say anything, she felt her brain ignited with lust, mixed with confusion, mixed with awe, with a sprinkling of strange self-envy. Was it even possible to be envious of one’s self? No. But that’s how she felt–gleeful. Because this spectacular specimen of a man was standing in front of her, dishevelled, imperfect, and…raw. Hungry? Parched? Whatever it was, his attention was wholly on her. She couldn't discern his look in the murky darkness, but she could feel it. His reaction to her was palatable. Sadness and yearning and infinite emptiness.

“My lord,” she whispered.

He took a step closer and she saw that his big, muscular hands were balled into fists, the thick scarred forearms bulging from the pressure.

“Invite me in, Elain,” he told her.

It wasn’t a polite request.

She stood in silence for a beat, and then stepped aside, offering him a silent welcome.

“Say it,” he insisted. “Tell me I can enter your bedroom.”

“Come in then,” she whispered.

His bulk crowded her and she back stepped inside the room, being pushed by his body, though he wasn’t touching her.

And what a body it was…

The tattoos were unexpected. They perplexed her. Men of his station were not tattooed. But he was covered in them–arms, shoulders, the upper part of his chest, they licked all the way up to his neck. There were intricate designs, bold black swirls, patterns and runes that would take time to decipher. They were all black, with tiny bits of dark blue added here and there. They stretched over his magnificent form, which was lean and so firmly clad in muscle, it seemed unreal. As if someone shaded in all his muscles and tendons, the stacked abdomen, the shockingly explicit V, that slid from his lips and into the waistband of his trousers. Each muscle was perfectly defined and contoured–the man in front of her healthy and virile, with sexual vitality and manliness dripping off him in warm waves. She could feel it–the heat of his body, how it responded to her nearness and tensed and coiled.

“Get back in bed,” he said, and when she gasped and jerked back, he gently clasped her arm and in a kinder tone added, “it’s alright. We are not going to be engaging in lustful fornication.”

At that, he also smiled and there was something relaxing and pleasant and familiar about his teasing tone.

“Oh,” was all she mustered, as she slipped back in the bed. She was wildly nervous, not knowing what to do and what he wanted from her. Was she supposed to cover herself? Did he want to join her?

In the next moment, one of her questions was answered, when he slid in bed next to her and she yelped softly.

“Yet,” he said.

“What?”

“We are not going to engage in lustful fornication yet.”

He stretched on the mattress, settling into the sheets and pillows, his eyes wide open, looking up at the ceiling. He breathed calmly, deeply, and it offered Elain a measure of tranquillity.

His breath was warm, lightly scented with tobacco and tea.

“Can you not sleep?” she asked softly, turning on her side and tucking her hands beneath her cheek.

After a long pause, he answered,

“No. Not for almost five weeks now.”

“Five weeks?!” she exclaimed, immediately lifting her head up to peer at him. “But why? Are you thinking about your lady wife?”

“No,” he said bluntly.

What happened five weeks ago?

She’s been here for four days now. And four weeks prior…

She gave her photograph to Mrs. Amren about five weeks ago. It must have reached him then. Did she dare assume that he had not slept for weeks because of her?

“Been thinking,” he offered, and then lightly, but firmly, pressed her head back into the pillow. His powerful, thick arm stretched out and wrapped around her. He jostled her easily and pressed her to his side, forcing her to slot his leg between hers. Only then, was there a smile on his lips again. A pleased one at that.

“Feels good?” he asked.

“Yes, it does,” she admitted, snuggling to him. He was big and safe, and he smelled good, and his skin was smooth and warm.

“The nightgown is ugly,” he informed her, eyes skimming over her plain long nightgown. “I’ll get you new ones.”

“It’s just a nightgown,” she shrugged.

“And you are just my woman.”

His woman.

She wasn’t a woman.

And she wasn’t his.

But it sounded nice to her ear.

This plainly-spoken fact.

“Why haven’t you been sleeping?” she whispered.

“Been worried.”

“About?”

“You, mostly.”

“Why?”

“Wanted you to like me. And I wanted to like you.”

“Hmmm,” she hummed, and what should’ve or would’ve unsettled her before, just sounded…normal now. That’s how he spoke. And she grew to like it.

“Have you interviewed anyone before me?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Four.”

“And you didn’t like them?”

“I only wanted you.”

She tried to process the admission, but it was difficult because she couldn’t understand why. Why her?

“You think I am pretty?”

“You are pretty.”

His thumb played with a stray lock of hair, until he wrapped it around his finger and looked down at her.

“You are pretty, Elain,” he repeated. “But there is so much more to you.”

She waited for him to expand on the thought, but he fell silent for a moment.

“What was your mother’s name?” he asked suddenly.

“Ida.”

“Father is Voldemar. I know. You are the middle sister. Which one of the sisters do you love more?”

Before she could protest, he just shook his head in warning, expecting her to tell the truth and Elain said with a sigh,

“Nesta.”

“Why?”

“I think because she is lonely. And her character is difficult. And maybe she needed someone to love.”

“You love her because she loves you?”

“No. We don’t get to choose who we love.”

“Do you have a middle name?”

“Marie Paige.”

He breathed out and repeated, “Elain Marie Paige Archeron.”

“Marie, because my grandmother was Catholic. Paige was my great,”

“You are Catholic?” he interrupted.

“I guess.”

He barked a laugh.

“You aren’t sure?”

“We stopped going to church a long time ago. When mother got sick, and when she died, father wouldn’t step foot in a church.”

“Understandable.”

After he considered something in his head, he continued with his inquisition.

“Favourite colour?”

“All shades of blue.”

“Good choice. What’s Nesta’s middle name?”

“Nesta Alexandra Grace Archeron.”

“Oh, she is a proper queen with a name like that.”

“Yes, Nesta was born to rule.”

“So you write?”

“Yes.”

“What do you write? Stories? Novels? Erotica?”

She huffed.

“Just stories. When the nights were long and cold, I could always escape into my writing. Or when I was feeling lonely. Or sad. Which was often.”

“What did the sisters do?”

“Feyre painted. Nesta read.”

“What’s Feyre’s full name?”

“Feyre Adeline.”

“No one knitted or crocheted?”

“No one knows how to. We were never taught.”

“What else weren’t you taught?”

“Much, if I am honest. Didn’t know how to cook, how to launder clothes, how to sew, how to grow vegetables,”

“You grow things,”

“Flowers. It’s much harder to grow food. If everyone knew how to, no one would go hungry. It requires a lot of cultivation, land, resources and time. Not to mention weather that cooperates. Seeds and roots and…well, let’s just say, it’s difficult.”

“And then you learned how to do things?”

“Yes, how to cook, bake, make clothes. We all had our chores–I cooked and got water from the well, and was responsible for the bathtub as well and the weekly bathing. Nesta is responsible for the finances, any repairs, purchases. She chops wood, mends clothes, makes sure we have kerosine for the lamps. And Feyre would fish in the summer, and sometimes hunt in the winter, when her health permitted it. She also sold whatever she could–flowers that I grew, pelts, anything we could think of…”

“Did you love Graysen Nolan?”

“I am not sure. I thought I did, but then, I didn’t.”

“What do you like to eat?”

“A proper Sunday roast! With a good, juicy roast, and Yorkshire puds, and a creamy mash…”

“Mash?” he interrupted her, scandalised. “No mash! Roasties and carrots!”

“No. Mash,” she insisted.

“That’s insane.”

“Well, I like mash and gravy.”

“Then eat bangers, Miss Archeron! And don’t come here talking nonsense with your roast and mash.”

“Fey and I like mash, and glazed turnips and onions. Father and Nesta preferred roasties and carrots.”

“Yeah, because they are not heathens!” he muttered.

“Or they play by the rules. And we are rule breakers.”

“Oh, you fancy yourself a rule breaker then?”

“I am!”

“And then I am, by your reckoning, sheeple?”

“I think that’s a tad harsh.”

Now it was his turn to hum, while Elain perked up and offered,

“I shall change your mind!”

“I doubt it,” he argued.

“You’ll have to trust me. I will make you a Sunday roast like you wouldn’t believe.”

“So, you’ve learned to cook after all?”

“Someone’s had to. Neither Nesta nor Feyre have aptitude for cooking.”

“What is your dream?”

She thought for a long while, and he didn’t hurry her. At last, he said,

“I’d like to vote.”

“Vo- Vote?” he repeated, perplexed.

“Yes,” Elain nodded. “What you take for granted and never question, I cannot do. By law. What the law allows you to do freely, it forbids me, on the basis of my sex and only that.

“You, men, trust us women, to have your children, raise them, nurture them, teach them, and then, at once, you take away the rights from the females and unequivocally give them to males. All the mothers who raised those sons aren’t permitted to vote, but the son can do it as soon as he turns of age. Where is the fairness in that?”

“There isn’t any fairness, I suppose,” he agreed. “So you want to vote?”

“Yes. I want to go and vote with my sisters. I want to matter. And if I ever have daughters, I want to go and vote with them as well.”

Elain woke up because she felt…cold.

Her room was warm–the fireplace smouldering with embers–but her bed was cool.

She spent the night in Azriel’s arms, tucked to his firm, very warm body. She didn’t really know what to do with her arms, or her legs, and lay stiffly at first, barely breathing. Until the moment he wordlessly tugged her to him and placed her hand on his wide bare chest.

“Sleep, pretty girl,” he told her.

“Will you?”

“Now I think I will,” he decided. His heavy, hot palm rested easily on her bottom and he gave it a firm squeeze. “Now that this is all next to me and you are mine. Now, I think I can sleep.”

She opened her eyes and found her bed empty, but it didn’t mean that he’d left her, because in the next moment, Azriel sauntered out of her bathing room, completely naked.

Naked.

With only a towel wrapped around his slender waist.

Elain blinked at him, immediately taken with his stunning body yet again. Now, in the muted light of the morning, she could see him even better, and that did not help matters at all. He was breathtaking. Powerful and muscular and tall and imposing in every way.

He propped himself in the doorway, and crossed his arms on his chest.

He was still damp from his bath and his hair was wet, tiny droplets sliding over his neck and his thick shoulders, dripping down his torso.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he smiled at her, cocking his head, as he observed her in all her messy morning state.

“Good morning.”

“I think I am going to have to fuck you before the end of the week, beautiful.”

#elriel #elain archeron #azriel #azriel and elain #elain x azriel #pro elriel #elain #the agreement #chapter 7 #my writing #my fanfiction #elriel fanfiction #elriel fanfic #historical AU #victorian england #acotar fanfic

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beepen · 11 months

Text

Love Something With you

Been a while since I posted on this blog but ghostsoap has me exhuming it from its grave.

I will probably add to this because I have an idea what kind of pet they should get....but this is what I was able to finish before the Benadryl kicked in.

Anyway, here is domestic ghostsoap. Go hog wild.

**********

Relationships meant compromise. This is a moto Soap repeats to himself often, like a mantra. He repeats it to Simon as well, a subtle knock to the head saying “work with me here”. It is probably brought up an abnormal amount of times compared to normal couples, but nothing about this—their relationship—is normal. Things have to be slow; things have to be repeated and thought about. It helps them heal. Not the bad parts, but some parts. The smaller cracks encircling holes in a wall, like streams protruding from a lake.

Emotional vulnerability is another one, but that’s slow-going, on Simon’s part at least. He’s trying, Soap can tell by the way he doesn’t stiffen when he is hugged from behind at the kitchen counter, or how he doesn’t jerk his hand back when Soap reaches to hold it. He can communicate when he doesn’t like something, when something irritates him. When it comes to feeling upset in other ways, not so much, but the attempt is there in his body language.

It is that same body language that Soap has to go off of when he asks Simon about adopting a dog.

The morning was a blue one, too early to be orange and sunny but late enough that when Soap opened his eyes, he could see the corners of their room just fine. No shadows. Simon was sleeping soundly beside him, the scarred expanse of his back facing him as he was curled on his side. The devil sleeping like an angel. Soap wanted to reach out and touch him, smooth his hand across those wide ribs and wrap an arm around that chest. He rolled out of bed instead, quietly walked out of the room, and made breakfast while Simon slept on. He was rewarded by a sleepy Simon joining him 40 minutes later, hair tousled and bleary eyes half open.

“What do you think of dogs?” Soap asked once Simon had a cup of tea in his hands. The man shrugged his big shoulders, sipping his drink. He had been rather mute since waking up, typical after a night of intense love-making. Something about processing his feelings, about Soap being too much—not in a bad way, but just. Overwhelming. Too much love, is what Simon managed to grumble out one day. Soap would be lying if he said it didn’t boost his ego, that he could fuck the Ghost into quietude. Quite literally render him speechless for a night and half a day.

The consequence is coaxing him back out into a normal human being again. A Ghost kind of normal.

“I was thinking,” Soap continued, finishing off his own coffee, “that we could adopt one.”

And that was when Simon’s body language changed. Soap watched as everything about him just…tightened. His hands, the muscles of his arms and shoulders. A tick in his jaw, like he was clenching his teeth. The change was so sudden it had Soap scrambling to figure out what was so wrong about the question.

“Or not,” he quickly added. “Just a thought.”

It was a thought Simon clearly did not want to think about. He was still so tense despite the backpedaling, silent and brooding, but not in the typical endearing way that first caught Soap’s attention all those years ago, and still does.

Soap reached forward, recognizing the disturbed, restrained horror on Simon’s face for what it was, and held his hand out with his palms facing upward. Not taking anything, not forcing anything, but leaving the space between them open and questioning. After a long, long few seconds, Simon placed his own hand over Soap’s.

Soap only squeezed back when Simon did so first, warmth spreading up his arm, like the sun was nestled between their entwined hands.

“Sorry,” Soap started, but stopped when Simon squeezed harder.

“No,” Simon said, voice quiet and raspy, whether from last night or the sudden stress. Maybe both. “You want a dog?”

Soap didn’t answer at first, only waited for Simon to look up from where he was staring at their hands. When he did, they locked eyes, and Soap saw the struggle in a swirl of dark brown. A slight twinge between Simon’s eyebrows. Compromise, compromise, compromise. Simon was trying so hard.

Finally, Soap said, “Only if you want one,” and that seemed to alleviate whatever kind of stress that had Simon bound so tight.

“I don’t.” A simple two-word sentence, but an effort to get out.

Soap smiled. “Then we won’t.”

He reached with his other hand so Simon’s was snug between both of his own. No hard feelings. No big deal. And, thank you. For not just saying no, but for thinking about it, for almost saying yes if Soap had really, really wanted one.

Simon exhaled and took another sip of his tea.

Later, Soap drew from his memory a portrait of a very groggy and sleepy Simon.

**********

Now, two nights after that conversation, Simon is turning in bed to face him, something intense in his eyes. Soap feels the electricity immediately and closes his sketchbook, all eyes and ears.

“You want a pet.” Simon says, matter of fact. Like he’s just realized. Soap can’t help the laugh, can’t help that he shuffles closer until they are almost nose to nose, giving Simon his biggest grin.

“Already have one,” he whispers, and he knows it’s silly, worthy of Ghost’s famous eye-roll. Simon surprises him by throwing him a glare instead, a soft one.

“Fuck off,” he almost growls. “Do you want one or not.”

Soap hums, staring and staring into those brown, almost-black eyes, taking in the rumble lying deep within them like he is taking a huge gulp of air. Like he needs those eyes on him always, or else he’ll stop breathing.

“Dinnae have to be so rude about it,” he says, voice still a low whisper. His fingers move on their own volition, sliding up Simon’s side. Would have made it to that divine chest if a hand didn’t wrap around his wrist and stop him.

“Johnny.”

Soap pouts at the warning, almost whines, but retreats anyway. Not too far, though. He still wants to be close—so close. Wants to crawl inside his ribcage and stay there forever. This will do—this warm space between them, breath mingling together.

“Like I said before,” he starts, smiles when Simon’s gaze darts to his lips then back up again, “Only if you want one.”

Simon grunts, like he’s displeased with that answer. “That was a dog. What about a pet, in general?”

Soap shrugs with one shoulder. “Meant it the same. Dog, pet. Dinnae want one unless you do.”

Simon is quiet then, eyes still locked on Soap’s, searching. He moves from one eye to the other, once, twice, three times, like he isn’t satisfied with what he sees in either of them. Soap feels he should be offended, but Simon doesn’t give him much time to dwell under the scrutiny. He moves, slow and soft and hushed, in a way Soap has only seen a handful of times, maybe less. The bed doesn’t make a sound, there is only a slight rustle of clothes and sheets. And then Simon is on top of him.

The Ghost is looming over him. It is so quick and quiet that if Soap were asleep, Ghost could slit his throat and he’d be none the wiser.

A hand rests on his jaw, and Soap’s breath hitches in time with a skip in his heartbeat. He keens when lips press against his, an embarrassing whine expelling from his throat. Simon swallows it, swallows all of him until Soap is dizzy.

“Tell me the truth,” Simon mumbles against his lips. Do you want a pet?

God yes, did Soap want a pet. Something to take care of with Simon. To see Simon take care of something.

It’s funny; he adores Simon so much, with everything he’s got, that it shouldn’t be possible to have any more love left to give. But loving Simon has, somehow, awakened his ability to love even more. He has so much to share, and he wants to share it with Simon. He wants to love Simon, and love with him.

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he says, “I want a pet. Really bad.” He hopes Simon can read between the lines.

“Okay,” is all Simon says before he kisses him again. And again. And again and again and again until he’s kissing streaks of fire all the way down his cheek and jaw and burying his face in Soap’s neck. Soap is in the clouds, feeling like he has to scream but bottles it up and chucks it far, far away. This moment has to be silent. He doesn’t want to scare away this rare gift Simon is giving him.

He manages a soft, “But no dogs?”, quite a feat when Simon’s hands are on his hips now and his lips hot on his skin. He is everywhere, their bodies pressed so close.

“No dogs.”

“Will you tell me why?”

Simon pauses, mouth still pressed wetly against Soap’s neck. No kisses, just a touch. Then he mumbles against his skin, and the vibrations travel everywhere, “Maybe one day.”

Soap is okay with that.

#ghostsoap #soapghost #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #call of duty mw2 #my writings #Simon riley #John mactavish #fanfic

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silvrash-797 · 2 months

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For @bokettochild

Strangers in a strange land

Day 22: "You weren't meant to be there"

I don't write Legend a lot, so hopefully this is at least mostly in character for him

Read on ao3

Legend wove deftly between stalls, carts, and Hylians, the busy marketplace of Time's Castletown a soothing hum after the chaos of the last few portals. They’d been fighting infected monsters nonstop through Wild, Four, Twilight, and finally Time's Hyrules before they finally dragged themselves to the Ranch, all but collapsing as they crossed the threshold.

They’d already spent a few days cleaning up wounds, resting, and helping around the Ranch; now it was time for a supply run before the next portal swept them away.

Someone abruptly moved into his way, and Legend found himself laid out flat on the ground. “Hey!” he complained, “Watch where you’re…”

“I’m so sorry, young man, I wasn’t…”

Legend and the stranger paused, staring at each other. Familiarity pricked uncomfortably across Legend’s skin. There’s no way! How…how could he be here?

The man looked like Time, if he were a bit younger and missing the facial scars, but…he also looked like Raven, the ancestor he met on his quest to Labrynna. But they were nowhere near his time, never mind his timeline. This timeline would become Twilight's, how could Raven be here?

Not-Time-maybe-Raven was still staring at him, an undecipherable look in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he asked, “but…have we perhaps met before?”

Din, the man even talked like Raven. Then again, now that he thought about it, so did the Old Man. But Raven wasn’t meant to be here, and the stranger was definitely not Time, so who was this??

Legend shook the circling thoughts from his head. He refused to make assumptions. His intuition was usually scarily good, but not when it came to people close to him. “I’m not sure,” he finally replied, “maybe in another life?”

The man – whoever he was – smiled slightly at that, face softening like he’d remembered something. “Maybe so,” he agreed softly, extending a hand to help Legend up. “I apologize again for knocking you over.”

Legend allowed himself to be pulled up, brushing the dust from his tunics once he was stable. “Ehh, don’t worry about it,” he dismissed the sentiment with his characteristic aloofness, although his mind was still screaming at him, trying to place just who this guy was. “Coulda happened to anyone.”

The man's smile grew, but then he looked at the dirt beneath their feet and it faded. “Did you drop something when you fell?”

Legend felt around himself: pouches, bags, gear, everything seemed to be in order. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“I thought I saw…” the man's voice faded as he crouched near Legend's feet, feeling around in the dirt. “Never mind,” he said, standing again, “must have been a trick of the light.” He waved as he moved on. “Safe travels, friend.”

“Safe travels!” Legend called in return, merging with the stream of marketgoers to complete his shopping. He mulled the incident over as he went, unable to make any headway on who the man might be.

It wasn’t until he was back at the Ranch that he felt something sharp inside one of his boots. He removed the boot carefully, feeling around inside. His fingers found something rounded, with a sharp tip, and he pulled it out.

Legend stared dumbly at the fishing hook in his hand. The fishing hook that looked exactly like the one he’d used to pick the lock on his cell in Labrynna. The one he’d seen Raven use when he followed him to the hidden village. It wasn’t possible…

“TIME!” he called, hunting down the Old Man. “Where’s the closest fishing hole?!”

#SilvrAsh writes #febuwhump #day 22 #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu legend #lu raven #...maybe #😁

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sillyromances · 8 months

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@gunslingcr asked: [ TEND ]: sender begins to care for the receiver’s injuries.

She flinched at the burning sensation of raw skin being tended to, blood still trickling like a red stream in rivulets down a scarred arm as Mary Beth tensed, but didn't pull away from him. Karen might have talked about how it all felt like a big game, how going out and robbing and shooting used to be fun, but Mary Beth wasn't a fool and knew there were consequences to the outlaw life. Sure, maybe she didn't go around waving a gun and killing people, maybe her usefulness (or uselessness, depending on if you were talking to Miss Grimshaw or not) was limited to knitting and sewing, but Mary Beth wasn't a fool and she didn't have to go out on jobs as often as the men did to know they didn't always come back in the best shape.

Didn't even need to be out on a job to come back hurt, just look at John's face.

If you wanted to go anywhere that was still wild in the world (or do something wild in a little more of a civilized place), then you needed to be prepared for the world to take its stab at you, sometimes literally. Mary Beth was the one that had begged to be taken out, needlework about boring her to tears and she wasn't going to complain about getting just what she'd asked for.

"I need to learn how to use a gun." Mary Beth said, watching his hands work. She didn't even particularly want to know how to use a gun, but... well, life wasn't always about want, now was it?

#answered #gunslingcr #injury tw

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mellarkdandelion · 1 year

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One Thing - a Clove Kentwell Story

Clove sits by the water, her feet barely touching the gentle stream passing by. Two daisies dangle from her fingers as she quickly weaves them together, the sweet sap dampening her hands. This peace isn’t a rarity for Clove; despite the rigorous training and constant exposure to battle, she still finds time for this—time for something that was always instilled in her as a child.

“Clover, if you don’t take a moment each day to breathe—to feel the earth and its many elements move all around you—the raging war inside your heart will never cease,” her grandmother always said. As a child she didn’t understand—for no corruption or vacillation was coursing through her being yet—but as she grew older and the ways of the district were forced onto her, meaning took hold.

So Clove sits in her little spot in the wilds behind the Academy, her deepening breaths dragging in the freshness and greenery of the air around her. Without noticing, she’s finished another daisy chain—once again something her grandmother taught her. Clove sets it down beside her dejectedly.

Why am I doing this? she thinks, looking down at her hands. Little white scars mark her pale and freckled skin. The searing pain of her slicing knives comes back each time she touches the defacements. She gingerly picks up her pile of flower chains. The delicate work seems as if it can only come from hands of the same beautiful nature, yet her mauled-and-mauling hands are the infinite source.

“You’re named after an unopened flower bud. Many think this means you’ll be stunted in life—but, my dear Clover, this only shows the untapped potential within you. You’re not just one thing,” her grandmother said.

You’re not just one thing. This message radiates through her thoughts. Every day she’s told what a good tribute she’ll make and how her ruthlessness in combat is her biggest and only strength—yet here she sits, able to create rather than destroy.

Clove places a dandelion crown on her head, then throws the rest of her creations into the stream. She watches the petals float away, off to who-knows-where. Her dark hair tangles with the stems of the weeds, but she doesn’t care. Clove soaks in the serenity, then follows her desire trail back to the Academy—ready to be more than a botanist and more than a weapon.

#the hunger games #thg #catching fire #mockingjay #clove moodboard #clove thg #clove the hunger games #clove x cato #clove #clove kentwell #mini story #fanfic #the hunger games fic #the hunger games fanfiction #clove headcanons #thg headcanon

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quellmythirst · 2 years

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Solace

Summary: You've been hunting the madman the destroyed downtown, but what happens when you find him?

Pairing: Jigsaw!Billy Russo x Assasin!Reader

Words: 3k

Warnings: 18+ONLY MINORS DNI. Canon typical Violence, Smut, Oral (MR), Soulmate AU.

AN: It came to me in a dream or some shit. Definitely not me procrastinating.

You had been hunting this man for weeks. Your boss had called him Jigsaw, a maniac on the run, the guy had taken out half of downtown and your boss knew you were the only one who could stop him. After spending years in and out of SHIELD, the FBI and now the CIA, they knew you were the only one short of an Avenger that could get the job done. Well, the only capable one with the free time to get it done.

Strapping your guns, knives and your favorite taser to your body you start up your motorcycle. You head towards the last known location of this supposed Jigsaw. You'd been given pictures of him, though his face was covered in the black and white mask, you knew the face that would lie beneath. Probably not one to dissimilar to your own, marked and ruined by years of fighting.

You approach the building you see a feight light glimmer on the third floor, a torch. Just one. He’s alone. You creep your way up the stairs, careful to keep quiet. Taking out every man that lined the staircase, he may have looked alone from the outside but there were men peppered throughout the building. You move fast and quietly knock them all out before moving onto the next.

By the time you reach the next floor you're covered in the blood of twenty broken noses and missing teeth. Trying to wipe the blood from your face you try to gather yourself. Not wanting to startle the maniac. You don’t want him to run, you need to catch him alive so that he can face the consequences of his actions. You stare down at the words written on your arm, the mark of your soul mate. Maybe he’s the one. The one that will say those words to you and you’ll finally find some fucking peace. But you've thought that many times. Fuck, it was the reason you kept fighting, knowing that they were out there somewhere, probably just as desperate to find you.

The door is a jar when you reach the third floor of the fire stairs, pulling your sleeve back down to cover the mark. You ready yourself for a fight. The reports said he was unhinged and easy to anger. But as you sneak into the room you spot a man, he seems tall from the way his legs bend around the chair he was sitting on. His head hanging in his hands, he looked- sad. Like something was wrong, maybe he just needs some help, you think as you approach.

The floor of the old building betrays you, the wood creaking under your feet and the man's face snaps to you. His eyes wild and feral, sneering at you with all the fury of a disturbed lion. His mask hangs in his hand, he releases it and it drops to the ground with a large thud that echoes through the empty room. Fuck he was beautiful, the scars glittering on his face as the sun from outside shines through the dirty windows. A dark leather jacket wrapping around his muscular form, while his jeans which were once black are now almost white with dust. He leers at you, his towering form pulling at something from behind his back, you catch a glance at his long fingers and before you can even comprehend how fucking handsome he is, he starts firing at you.

You duck and weave, landing behind an overturned table. You pull out your own gun and fire it around him. You need him alive, but that does not mean unharmed. You aim for his legs, arms, but he doesn't stop advancing. Those long legs stomping towards you, his bullet stream never ceasing.

When you hear the machine gun stop, watching as he pulls out a 45. His steps are almost silent as approaches you, dropping his gun when the clip empties. You see his shadow fall over your hidden form. He long arms leaning over the table, his hands grasping onto your ponytail. He yanks you up, the strands in your scalp burning and chilling you all at once. His other hand thrusts forward knocking the gun from your hand, it fires your last shot into the far wall. You kick at him, trying to move your legs around to flip him on his ass. But he’s smart, a knife flips from his sleeve, pressing it into your neck forcing you to be silent. You reach down into your pocket, pulling the 6 shooter out, twisting your body so you’re facing him and pointing the gun at his stomach. He releases your hair, slicing down into your hand. “Shouldn’t have brought a gun to a knife fight,” the man tuts. Watching as your eyes light up, the gun falling to the ground beside you. Your ears start to ring, fire lighting in your veins, it was him. Jigsaw stares at you as confusion fills his features at your response to his threat. It was him, the words searing into your arm as they no doubt have into your brain the amount of times you've read and reread them.

“I know, I’ve been looking for you,” you smirk back, kicking up and tasing him in the leg, a move you had practiced and practiced in hopes of finally meeting the person that deserved it. He blinks at you, staring wide eyed, his pretty mouth falling open like he wants to say something, but doesn’t know what. You take his shock as confirmation, kicking him back and sliding your own knife from your pocket.

“You,” was all he said, staring up at you while you straddle him, pressing the knife into his neck. He couldn’t beleive it, this woman just burst into his life. The hungry look in her eyes mirroring his own.

“Me,” you wink, throwing the knife away and keeping your hand in its place, “Jigsaw is it?” you ask, cracking your neck as you lean in close to him.

“Yeah, I guess. Who are you?” he asks, flipping you over so that he’s leaning on top of you.

“The woman who was sent to bring you in,”

“And now?”

“We’ll see,” you wink, grabbing onto his leather jacket and pulling him down on top of you. Your lips slot into his like you had been doing it your whole life. Sparks lighting up inside you when you feel his tongue press into your mouth. Your whole body tingles and you can’t remember anything ever feeling this good before, “Fuck,” you sigh when his hands slip down your body, feeling and caressing every inch of you.

“Get this off,” he says, his fingers fumbling at the buckle on your belt. Fuck why had you worn so many clothes, this was taking to long. Reaching around him you guess that he’s hiding more knives on him, your hands roam around his taut body searching for something sharp to latch onto while his lips latch onto the soft skin of your neck. Your body gives away just how much he is affecting you when you are unable to keep the soft whimpers inside.

Your hands work fast unsheathing all the knives from his person and throwing them across the room. His long fingers do the same, ripping knives, guns and your taser from your many pockets. Both of you not missing the opportunity to get your hands, mouth and teeth on any part of exposed skin that you can reach, while you attempt to get undressed.

He strips your vest from you, his hand moving up to palm at your tits. His teeth latch onto your ear, his soft moans filling your ears. You try to remove his shirt and press yourself up into him. He won't budge, won't remove his hands from you long enough for you to get it off. His whole being overwhelms you; it becomes all that you can see, hear, smell and feel. You nudge his coat off eager to get his skin on yours, certain that it would feel as electric as the kiss you were sharing. “Fuck, why you got to wear so many clothes?” you mutter, grabbing one of his knives you had thrown and ripping at his shirt, his pants, anything that was getting in the way of feeling his delicious skin on yours.

“Stand up,” he instructs you, pulling you to your feet. “Jump,” he says, gripping under your arms while you wrap your legs around his middle. His hands knead into your ass as he rips at the seams of your pants, his own falling down to the ground making him stumble and push you into the wall.

You let out a loud huff when the hard concrete hits your back, heat creeping up your spine and into your pussy. “You like that?” he asks, slamming you back into the wall, his hand tightening around your neck, “Like the pain?”

“Yes,” you breathe harshly, his grip tightening on your throat as your mind turns foggy. “So good,” He tears at your shirt, throwing it over his shoulder when he finally gets it over your head. His hand only leaves your throat for an instant, wrapping those strong fingers back around when your top half is as naked as the bottom.

“You want to be mine, little hell cat?” he coos, his hand moving from your throat to your jaw, tilting your face up towards him.

“I was always yours.” you say staring deep into those beautiful dark eyes, “But I’ll make you mine if you don’t move faster,” you snip, grinding your pussy down onto him, “Please just fuck me,” you beg, lining up his hard cock with your sopping hole. You watch as he shivers, his eyes drinking in the lust in your eyes. You push him back, his legs stumble, forcing him to step back. You take his wrist in yours, spinning him around pushing him into the wall and sinking to your knees. You look up at him, your hands hooking into the hem of his briefs, slowly pulling them down his toned legs. “Fuck,” you mutter to himself as his hard cock stares you in the face. You take him in your hand, licking a stripe down the underside, staring up at him. “You took too long,” you smirk, “Now you have to wait,” winking at him, your harsh breath ghosting over the swollen tip of his cock as it bobs in your hand.

He watches you, transfixed by the sight of this beautiful deranged woman, who he is certain is covered in the blood of his men. On her knees for him, looking up at him like he deserves it, deserves all of her, “take me,” He whispers, nudging himself into your lips. Your mouth opens, his warm cock slipping effortlessly into your awaiting mouth. His cock throbs, aching to cum when you close your mouth around him. He can’t look away as you suck, lick and nip at his cock. One hand gripping onto his firm thigh, while the is hidden between your legs, “Get wet for me,” His hands grip into your hair, tugging harshly, until he releases one to slap the side of your face. He watches your body jolt up, repeating the action when you moans vibrate around him.

Your mouth feels exquisite on him, your teeth just nipping underneath and making his legs shake. How had it taken this long to find you? Fuck, he wants to stay inside you forever. He craves you, craves your pussy, he needs to know if it feels as perfect as your mouth. His fingers strain to push further into your mouth. He needs you to stop, but doesn't want it to end. He yank's your head back so that he leaves your mouth with a pop.

“You're beautiful,” you moan, kissing the head of his cock. He leans down, getting down on his knees so that his face is level with yours. His hands wrap around your cheeks and pulling you into a devouring kiss, pushing you back so that you’re sprawling out underneath him.

“Do you want this? Tell me you want it as much as me,” he begs, pressing his weight onto you. His whole body surrounding and covering you, like he thought someone might see his woman.

“Please, Jig-” he cuts you off with a slap to your face and your body shivers as you grind down on his thigh,

“Billy,” he whispers as his nose nudges up the side of your throat, “Call me Billy,”

“Billy, Please. Fuck me,” you say peering into those deep dark eyes, wrapping your legs around his and drawing him in closer. His throbbing cock parts you, dipping into your pussy, the stretch making you both sigh with relief as you begin to move together. It was like- like you had found the thing that made all the fighting, the scars and the endless torture worth it. A light you thought that had dimmed forever ago is now switching on and shining through your heart.

“Fuck, FUck me,” he growls, “So fucking perfect,” he wrapping his hand around your throat, while you hold on tight to his biceps. His harsh thrusting pushing you back and back while he fucked the life out of you.

“Never felt so full,” you moan, “Kiss me,” you press into him, pulling him down by the hair so that your lips collide.

His thick cock grinds in and out of you with ease while your fingers trace every delicate inch of his skin and his eyes watch your reactions to his every movement. “Open your eyes,'' Billy growls, his hand holding your chin so that you can’t look away. “Keep those pretty eyes on me, baby,” his fingers digging into your cheeks, your eyes beginning to roll back into your head.

“Billy, fuck,” you moan, trying so hard to keep your eyes open but his free hand slides under your ass lifting you up so he can pound deeper into you. His fingers sliding around your middle to toy with your clit, “Just like that,” you moan, his fingers dance over your clit, rubbing tight circles, pinching and tugging on it. Your pussy begins to clench down hard on him. Your hands winding up around his neck pressing your thumbs into his clavicle keeping his face close to yours. You stare at each other, the waves of pleasure rising with each thrust.

“Cum with me,” he pleads, nudging his nose into yours, your moans twitching and gasping together.

“Yes,”

“Can I? Inside?”

“Yes, fill me. Make me yours,”

“Fuck, you’re perfect for me,”

“You’re perfect,” you moan, feeling his cock grow and his legs start to shake even harder, “CUm for me,” you say as your legs start seizing your back arching off the cold wooden floor. Your pussy violently flutters and convulses on his cock. He screams, the sound bouncing off the wall as he fills you with his warm cum. The both of you panting as you try try to catch your breath,

"So an assassin?" Billy asks, leaning his forehead into yours. His breaths slowly evening out while he softens within you.

"Something like that. A maniac then?" you retort hearing your phone buzz from across the room.

“What we going to do now?” Billy asks, leaning up on his elbow

“Now we’re going to run,” you say, reaching around for your phone, it was confirmation that backup was on the way, “They’ll be here soon, we need to go,” you say throwing his jacket at him and fishing around for a spare shirt and pulling on some pants on, you both rush to grab your weapons.

“Not going to turn me in then?” he jokes, slapping you on the ass.

“No.” you say, pointing a serious stare at him, “Never, you’re stuck with me now,” you wink, throwing a knife you found by the door at him, “Billy you need to hurry,” he laughs at you, picking up your 45 and throwing it into your hand. You tuck it into the back of the spare sweats, hoping that they aren't so loose as to lose your favorite gun.

“Where can we go?” He asks, picking up his mask, “they’ll just send more of you after us,” turning it over in his hands when he looks up at you.

“I know some people, It’ll be ok,” you say, placing a reassuring hand on his back, “Leave that.” taking the mask from his hands and snapping it in half in your hands, “I want to see your face,” your hands cup his jaw, gently drawing his face down to yours, “I’m not going to let anyone else hurt you,” promising him. You bring his lips down to yours, keeping your eyes open as you seal it with a kiss, “Never again. But we need to go,” you take him by the hand, pulling your burner phone from your pocket and calling the one person who would maybe help you, if she was even nearby or even wanted to. You ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“Get In,” you shout at Billy, throwing the doors open to the first car you see. You can hear the sirens wailing in the distance and know you don’t have a lot of time left. You quickly punch in the number, angling the phone between your ear and shoulder. Your expert fingers jump starting the car with ease. You thank the universe that she picks up almost immediately, “Dude I need a favor,”

“Yes,” the woman said, sounding somewhat annoyed with you.

“Plane, out of the country, anywhere,”

“And where are you know?”

“New York,”

“Usualy pick up?”

“Plus one,”

“You have found them?”

“Yes,”

“ten minutes, old place,”

“Who was that?” Billy asks, apprehensive of the forgien sounding woman on the other end of the call.

“An old friend, She’s going to pick us up,”

“Can we trust her?”

“Definitely not. But if you don't piss her off, maybe she won't kill you,” you smile at him as you make your way down to the bar in Jersey where you and Yelena use to hang out.

AN:Iis this a good ending? Or should I go more? I'll leave it upto you guys.

Taglist: (If I have you in a specific Fic list, I wont move you to the everything list without your permission. So just let me know if that's something you would like)

@nyctophiliiiaa @imagine-a-fictional-boyfriend @misstimeless @profoundme444 @restingbitchsblog

#billy russo x female reader #billy russo fanfic #female!reader x billy russo #billy russo x you #reader x billy russo #the punisher fanfic #billy russo x reader #billy russo #billy russo imagine

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cloudbattrolls · 3 months

Text

Mercy

Ginger Mycoba | Bukit Berongga | Present Night

Ginger threw up a magical barrier sphere as they raced down the hill toward Thrixe. It wouldn’t hold forever, or if he tried to break it on purpose, but they had to contain whatever was going to happen as best they could.

They felt resistance as it shot through the ground as well, but with a push of effort, they felt it complete and seal them and Thrixe in.

The containment zone was about a quarter mile across in every direction, barely visible except as a translucent bluish shimmer in the air. No living or undead being could come in or out now, and no magical or eldritch power could leave.

As a bonus, it would block any tech or magical scrying that might be trying to see what was happening within it. The only way to witness what would come was with a troll’s own eyes, but Ginger wouldn’t advise that to anyone.

If it weren’t for the mental protections granted by their mantle, they’d be screwed.

As Thrixe caught sight of them with his dozens of eyes, his expression was…pleading. Fevered, wild, but miserable and supplicating, his tendrils moving erratically in small, weak flops and twitches.

Ginger stopped as they reached the sand, fifty feet or so from the suffering hybrid.

“I…don’t know…what’s happening to me.”

The slow, labored words were barely comprehensible. The usual even, moderately deep voice Thrixe had in troll form was thick and distorted, and Ginger had to strain to make out what he was saying, even though he spoke from multiple mouths.

“You’re sick, Thrixe.” They said bluntly. “You were infected on purpose. Don’t know why, but I’m gonna find out.”

“Sick…?”

The word stretched out into whispers and gurgles from the mouths. Which, Ginger noticed, were starting to lose their shape, as was the rest of him.

Thrixe cried out, a deep dirge of loss from all his voices.

“I can’t…don’t want to hurt…”

His whole body begun melting down, rippling and warping as it begun spreading into black ooze and streaming over the shore.

“Stop me.”

It was barely a whisper, and Ginger drew their sword just in time to block several spiny, lashing tendrils of violet and black.

Though far bigger than the sword, the dull gray blade had a sheen of whitish energy that made the tendrils stiffen and crack, bleeding and oozing as they fell to pieces.

The ooze tried to cling to Dunny’s hooves, but with a disdainful snort, the horse stomped all four of his legs and blasted the black matter back from himself in a perfect circle, blood and scar tissue now spreading across it.

The sand itself rippled and distorted, turning to something more like sludge…then back to sand again, cycling through the states of matter erratically.

Ginger countered by willing the bacteria of all the life in the sand to multiply, to hold it together, and to make it so toxic and sickened that if Thrixe tried to mess with it, he’d poison himself.

They added some viruses too, the tiny DNA hijackers working their way through taking over their other infected life.

He tried to engulf them and Dunny in a mass of writhing, blackened starfish spines. The horseman let it press closer…so they could swing their sword across it in a perfect arc, making the spines brittle, withering them to dust as they brushed against their armor.

Their mount whinnied piercingly, the noise counteracting the deep and agonized hum of the maddened hybrid and making the spines near him disintegrate into blood.

Ginger took the brief reprieve to gallop away, knowing they had seconds.

Thrixe wailed so loudly that it briefly stunned them, wincing behind their helmet as Dunny flattened his ears.

The air began to boil. Its aeroplankton multiplied by the thousands and millions, becoming more lashing ribbons of black ooze rushing toward the horse and rider.

Ginger tore their facial mask off, then killed the plankton - enough for them and Dunny to breathe as they gasped, lungs heaving, but they only made a small breathable space.

The ooze began to weave together into a black crust in the air, blocking out the moonlight.

The water began to change as well, becoming black and viscous, rising up into shapes that constantly broke and reformed, vaguely like sea creatures, but…wrong.

Things that had never been on Alternia. Should never be.

They detached and came for Ginger as Thrixe’s song became stronger and louder, the Choir in so much pain he could not help releasing it into the world.

The horseman felt the weight of his agony vibrating in their bones, and gray tears ran down their marred face from the song.

Still they raised their sword to slash at the creatures, which shifted and displaced around them, lashing at their armor and…corroding it, where they touched.

With a raspy voice, Ginger called a spell, making their armor all detach at once and hover around them, leaving the hemoanon in only their tank top and pants.

They flung them into the reeking, snapping mass, turning them into small bombs of contaminated shrapnel, coming apart and causing the constructs to scream as the air crackled with ozone and they dissolved into chunks of flesh and spores.

As Thrixe flailed in confusion, his massive tendrils grasping for them, Ginger had Dunny race away as they felt their viruses finally grow numerous enough to use.

A corona of white and blue magic surged through the now utter darkness surrounding them, the sky now gone from sight, as Pestilence bore down on the Choir’s very cells.

The hybrid might be half horrorterror. But he was still half troll, still partially worked according to biological law.

Just like the plants around the medical tents, his body could be turned against itself.

Thrixe screamed and Ginger’s ears bled as they gripped Dunny so hard the horse bucked a little, but the horseman held firm even as their body shook from fear and pain.

Thrixe fought it. His regeneration tried to flush the attackers out. But that was the thing about viruses, why the common cold always came back: they could keep mutating, over and over again, as much as they had to so they could do their work.

Ginger had made so many different kinds, along with bacteria to feed on the hybrid’s flesh as his immune system failed, piece by piece.

They could barely move. Dunny could barely move, the animal bleeding from his own ears as well.

They urged him forward.

One step at a time. One more step. Small, persistent hoof prints in the sludgy sand as Ginger took deep breaths.

Ignore the blood dripping down their neck. Ignore the black ooze pressing closer again, their magical aura the only light now as Thrixe’s bioluminescence began to dim, began to die.

The starfish monster was smaller now, his black ooze spreading across the sand and sea beginning to retreat, to retract back into his body. He moaned and whispered and hacked in his voices, curling up where he had crawled out of the ocean.

Ginger slowly, heavily got off Dunny. They walked over to what seemed like the closest thing the hybrid had to a head right now, a mass of tendrils with more eyes than the rest of his body.

Violet and yellow eyes that looked up at them hazily, yet with a sense of relief despite the pain.

They raised their sword.

“I gotta kill you a little. But it won’t stick.”

They slashed down, hacking him open, scattering the diseased flesh into melting pieces. They carved through the hybrid until he was nothing but scattered flesh and black ooze.

Ginger dripped with sweat by the end, wiping it off their disease-marked forehead with a similarly scarred and pitted hand. All they wanted to do was take a nap.

Nope, now it was time to -

The whole beach shook, and Thrixe’s pieces with it. Ginger nearly fell over, barely managing to stay standing as they looked around in bewilderment.

Trolls. Hundreds of humming trolls were pressed up against their barrier, eyes vacant, now partially crusted over with black.

The hemoanon would swear Thrixe’s pieces shivered.

Ginger went to mount Dunny again, as fast as they could drag their exhausted body, but it was too late.

The trolls had broken the sphere. They swarmed in and gathered up all of Thrixe’s pieces as the horseman of Pestilence watched helplessly, utterly spent by taking down the hybrid.

They managed one last thing: a tracking, scrying spell, in the hope they could witness whatever was about to happen.

They nearly fell unconscious, only the support of their horse keeping them upright.

But they had to get back to their staff. To Quinne.

To Leshwi.

The horseman of Pestilence slowly, carefully made their way back up one of the hills of Bukit Berongga, thinking of their olive assistant.

It was so easy for anyone who worked for them to die, no matter how well they protected them.

They tried not to get attached even to the staff they liked, because they knew how likely it was that they wouldn’t last too long. It was a distraction from their work, an issue to be avoided.

But hey. They’d just come pretty close themself. Maybe they should relax a little.

Thrixe might be about to die, who knew.

“Sorry, buddy.” Rumbled the fatigued horseman. “You’re on your own now. Don’t know what Cyvell’s gonna do to you, but I’m sure it won’t be pretty. Good luck.”

It wasn’t as if he could hear them. Kind of a useless thing to say.

Yet as they came to the top of one of the hollow hills once more, a hot wind blowing around their unusually bare skin, Ginger still hoped that the hybrid could make it out alive.

That he too could return to the people he loved, whole once more.

#cloud writes #ginger mycoba #thrixe varzim #harbinger #I actually wanted this fight scene to be longer but I realized it didn't make sense for it to be since ginger is trying to end this quickly #and thrixe is mostly acting on instinct #so it is what it is. I still had fun writing it #penultimate part! almost at the end now!

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