Follow us at @elainarcheronweek for the main event

My Elain is made up in part of deeply personal headcanons, plus versions of her in works by @bloomingdarkgarden (What Bloomed in the Dark Garden) and @thefangirlofhp (sillage). She is Danielle De Barbarac, a quiet girl with a rich internal world and a heart capable of feeling every emotion ten fold. She has one foot in The Dreaming world of the mystics, and one foot in her rapidly evolving life in Velaris. She wants to be seen for who she is and loved for who she is, gardening-scarred hands and all. She quietly yearns for someone she can't have, never once sharing her woes with any of her sisters. She brings things to life and values learning, creation, travel. This is a musical journey that represents my interpretation of Elain's soul, her internal world, her life in Velaris, her hopes for the future. (It is Elriel leaning, as a disclaimer, because ... I simply cannot help it.) I started off the journey with nature sounds, because Elain is so deeply tied to the land in my mind, and with lush, atmospheric music representing how she presents to the world. As the list goes on, we go deeper and more secrets are revealed until the songs become almost entirely instrumental (moody and brooding in nature to represent an emotional landscape). There are songs in different languages or without words entirely, to represent her displacement into an unfamiliar land, in a changed body, and the uprooting of her ingrained beliefs about that land and the creatures living there; about her integration into the Night Court and her insistence that she belongs. It ends with her prayer to The Mother.

SONGLIST

(Sometimes I will include my decisions for including certain pieces. Other times, I hope you can glean your own meaning <;3) PART I

(nature sounds)

I often imagine Elain waking up at sunrise, before the rest of the city, and just imbibing the land, the birds, the flowers. Noticing things other's don't notice. Seeking solace among nature.

James Newton Howard - A Hidden Life (instrumental)

Mariee Sioux - Wild Eyes tiny darling ghost holder you our soft spirit breather... you plant your burderns way deep down in

Wickerbird - Llewellyn sleep, interred within old Avalon

A song that evokes visions, dreams, prophecy, distant lands

AURORA - Under the Water under the water, we can't breathe we can't breathe under the water, we die hearts will dream again lungs will breathe in feet won't fail you now arms won't let you down

This song has been on my Elain playlist since the start. I always reminds me of her journey into the cauldron, the terror and grief that befell her afterward, and learning how to keep going despite everything.

Flower Face - Cornflower Blue i wanna lay on the kitchen floor with you i wanna do all the things that lovers do bruised on your face like a watercolour bloom moonlight paints your skin cornflower blue

Elain develops feelings for a quiet Shadowsinger...

Steven Price - Ophelia (instrumental) Jean Luc Lenoir - The Mermaid's Croon (instrumental)

"The quiet dreamer"

Ane Brun - Joga (live version) all that no one sees, you see what's inside of me every nerve that hurts, you heal deep inside of me you don't have to speak i feel emotional landscapes

This is a quintessential Elriel song for me, so perfectly capturing how I believe she feels about him (how they feel about each other, honestly).

AURORA - Exist for Love and then you take me in and everything in me begins to feel like I belong

Joe Hisaishi - Heartbroken Kiki (instrumental)

Rachel Portman - Three Women (instrumental)

Elain, Nuala, and Cerridwen's blossoming friendship. Them in the kitchen learning how to make bread, them teaching Elain how to slyfoot, them whispering secrets about lovers and childhood to each other.

PART II (Powers Awakening, Hidden Secrets of the Magic of Velaris, Witches and Mystics)

AURORA - The Forbidden Fruits of Eden (an interlude)

Powers brimming just below the surface, unseen, but felt by Elain.

(nature sounds)

Elain starts visiting the Sidra more and more as her powers develop stronger. I just imagine her sitting by the water, with a scarf around her head, and a small picnic basket, just enjoying the quiet and thinking about her visions and dreams.

Thomas Newman - Starlit (instrumental)

Night-blooming Jasmine, Elain discovers her place in the shadows of Velaris

Karliene - The Fields of Ard Skellig

Elain digs her fingers into the soil of Velaris and night-blooming flowers blossom all around her. She learns the secrets of the mystics and how to control her powers. Our Lady Kingslayer comes into her own and surprises everyone with her strength of spirit.

The Naked and the Famous - Teardrop night, night of matter black flowers blossom fearless on my breath Runah - Witch how she bathes in it she never had a lover that said her name before the way it drops from his lips it's like she's never heard her name sound like a song and she craves it oh she has woken the witch she's becoming Kati Ran - Vinda slowly the journey goes like the walk of an old man seeking in waves and seeking in sand hear the psalm of the wind, its being sung over the mountain and you, will you listen to the melody in the evening Mykur - Nordlys (instrumental) Thomas Newman - Luthien Tinuviel (instrumental) Agnes Obel - Rosian (instrumental) Helisir - Brisingamen (instrumental) Johannes Bornlof - Wolfpack (instrumental) Honey Gentry - Aphrodite Aphrodite, hear my pain I want to fall in love again Not in love with a man of this world Fall in love with life itself

(1) 

 A ghost slides through the flaps of a tent into its cold, vacant interior.

   The space is cramped, a rough bed of furs, a small table filled with piles of heavy tomes, ink-splattered journals, and clothing. The heavy smell of mold, grass, and candle wax permeates the air, almost tangible like dust through a shaft of yellow light.   

  There’s a slight tremble to the hands which reach for the half-burned candles sitting sadly on the far end of the table, lighting them with slow, feeble movements, the only survivors of a dreadful day.

  Hands that are not blue and translucent, but pale and corporeal, numbed from the cold but filled with blood. 

  The ghost doesn’t contemplate any of it, set in her chore. There are things to be done, still. It is night and she’s gone inside. Yet it repeats, a loop inside her mind, there are things to be done.

   A swoosh of breath sparks a coal-smudged piece of timber which quickly develops into a sickly fire. It barely warms the minute space. It’s necessary, nevertheless. Like her, it does its job.

  Tent.

  Light.

  Wash. 

  Lay.

 A book with its spine cracked allows a weary mirror to lean on it, a lonely figure moving through it. The specter in the mirror finds a copper bowl, frigid water inside, a ring of humidity staining the book cover used as its resting place. A smudge of soft pink and crimson reflects on the rust-speckled surface. A braid of what used to be bright brown hair lays limp on a tired, curved spine, brown eyes with deep purple half-moons underneath - the only hint of color on once flushed features.

 Her face remains impassive as her hands dip a cloth beneath the icy surface tinting the water brown.

 The amount is insufficient to wash away the grime and blood of the day, but Elain will not leave her tolerably cold tent for more, so she makes do. 

 Alone she lingers in her chair, the only creature inside, water dripping from her hands and drawing patterns in the dirt powdering her arms.

  An image intrudes her mind, for a few seconds. Warm tan hands bringing a deep bucket of water they would heat themselves with a careful touch. She thinks of the thankful smile she’d give for it. She wonders, the thought whispered like a swish of butterfly wings, of what his face would say as he cares for her. Maybe his scar would reflect firelight just so, and she would forget where she is and allow herself to blush. She welcomes it, for the minute it sparks until the next when it fizzles.

 As predicted, the water is only enough for her arms and face. Once, the disgust alone would be a reason to risk outside, maybe dare the nearby stream, or else sleep would escape her stench, running away with a hand plugging its nose.

 Elain plops down on her pallet, fur covers warming her body, her tight muscles consoled by the rough structure beneath. It is in no way comfortable, only it’s reliable and quiet. One of the best tents in their camp, the one privilege the High Lady’s sister has, if only because it is the only one to be had. 

 Most importantly, it doesn’t die or spray contaminated blood into her face. It does its job as it is, with all its faults. It stays still through the night and belongs to her.

 There’s sleep to be had. Poor, fitful sleep. But it does its job as it is. 

 Tomorrow, she knows, she’ll immerse herself in the unforgiving cold from the stream, and a faerie will emerge, dress, and present herself to her duties at the main healer’s tent.

 There’s always work to be done.

(2)

 The first time Elain sees a healer, there’s a woman screaming. Loud, painful bellows that have harried maids coming in and out of heavy wooden doors with buckets of steaming water, clean and in turn, bloody towels. Nesta holds her shoulders, small fingers digging absently into Elain’s clavicles through her pink cotton nightgown. Barely a year older than Elain, yet she sees such wisdom in her eldest sister’s eyes, as if Nesta knows all the secrets of the universe at the soft age of 7. There’s no place in Archeron Hall Nesta could go where Elain wouldn’t follow. They’re supposed to be asleep, but there are no dreams to be had during a storm like the one that has been pouring down, soaking the garden soil into swimming pools for frogs and threatening to bring down even the wisest and sturdiest of oak trees. 

  Soon, there will be a deafening quiet, quickly followed by a babe’s booming cries. Elain thinks it just like the noise that sounds right before one of her father’s ships is about to leave the shore, taking fairy dust and bright-colored jewels to the continent, where they will be sold to queens and wizards. She knows it because Nesta is always explaining the world around them to her. 

 It’s Feyre, born in the bleak hours of the night, lighting tearing down the sky like a claw through silk.

 Their governess catches them, huddled by an alcove, spying on the birth of the smallest of them as if they are as inconspicuous as flies on a wall.

 “Come,” she demands, a small smile on the tough line of her lips, “Your sister awaits you.”

 It’s the only time a healer was the bringer of fortune and good news.

(3)

Madja had her fingers pressed around Elain’s wrist. 

 The ancient healer’s brown eyes were focused on the time counter ticking on the wall, steady knobby knuckles cradling Elain’s palm.

 If Elain had feeling in any part of her body, if even a single inch of soft, hollow skin wasn’t as numb as a reflective glacier tip, she would have been able to feel her own heartbeat fighting against the High Lord’s favored healer’s fingertips. Her wooden eyes, however, remain filmy, like coffee sat still cooling outside for too long. 

 The bedding should have been the downiest she ever felt, the warm hug of a thousand sheep who only survive in the mountain range closest to Dawn Court. Called Woolen Peaks, because during spring one would be hard-pressed to find a stretch of land free of the bleating creatures, also known for secreting iridescent mucus from their blue snouts. A sea of endless white. 

 Elain should’ve loved to have known that, should’ve giggled, and maybe even requested to see such charming animals. 

 Once, she might have.

 There were no sounds in the bed chamber but those of instruments being enclosed in a lovingly used leather bag, which promptly vanished into the fold between worlds for later use. 

 “I believe tea is in order” Madja said in the rough monotone of age, voice traveling through the air, her gaze watchful like a wise tree, leading Nesta and Feyre to exit the sunlit room.

 Elain was profoundly grateful for the silence, the stillness of her mind, her whole being stripped down to understanding the heat around her, registering the passage of time solely through decoding the illumination, no previous knowledge guiding her thoughts, images of old folded into drawers, only an amalgam of threads in her mind, the fear to pull at any of them curbed, until any will was pressed so flat it vanished into particles. The effort, like stopping water with a barrage of hands, to tune out rhythmic drumming in her ears.

 There were the dreams, of course. Sad. Unavoidable. Drenched in foreign sentiments that left her dizzy and breathless, trembling through the aftershocks of a rumbling earth no one else seemed to notice. Those came and scrambled her meticulous system of calmness. Elain, in her excruciating bouts of clarity, hated them with a strength her strange body found unfamiliar, hated how they made Nesta look as though she was watching a duckling swim into a waterfall through a looking glass. How they made Feyre’s face contort into hopelessness.

  Hated how they made her see.

 Those are not mine; she’d plead silently on particularly violent nights; I would know, I once would have known.

 Elain closed her eyes and searched for the wall of dark swirling steel delimitating her mind. The ivy branches were nearly covering every inch of cold metal now, blooming in sleepiness. Her closed lids allowed the sun breaching the skin to paint her vision a newly comforting shade of red.

 Red had always been Nesta’s color. Nesta’s dresses, Nesta’s fire, Nesta’s anger. Or the insubstantial maroon of the fire in her family’s frozen cottage, the violent crimson of the carcasses Feyre brought home. Those had never awakened thoughts of safety before. Protection, maybe, like a cage made of thorns and spikes. But never the safety of a hearth, of burgundy crackling fire.

Now, when her thoughts gently explored the unknown paths in her mind, red would forge itself into crisp Autumn leaves. Bergamots and warm skin

 Elain buried herself deeper into the covers.

 She left before contemplating any of it.

⠀

(4)

There is a house on a land that is surrounded by ivy-covered iron walls.

 A wrap-around porch cracked open by vicious thorns that sprout from the ground, the rotten wood gouged open, foliage like teardrops on every crack, splinters shimmering on air, spores in the wind.

 A felled roof, with a mighty willow trunk through it - a stab wound on a soft, white underbelly - warms the rain inside in a mother’s embrace, a shroud of dark green moss slipping from the gable into the stillness inside

The front door is open, a beckoning hand of wispy white smoke so thin one wouldn’t be sure whether it is only a trick of the pressing nebulous light.

 If a breeze like the grey finger of an ancient hand were to curl around it and move the hinges in a half-moon motion, a woman would be seen on the inside.

 She is tucked upon herself, sleeping on disintegrating wool and dye, the remnants of a beautiful rug. The slope of her waist breathes up and down like the rolling of a hill.

 The room around her is filled to the brim, clocks covering an entire wall, some pointers spinning madly onto themselves, some turning with the patience of a grandfather reading a book to his lineage. 

 Rain, it reads on the chipped blue label of a numberless clock, a hand circling in a rhythmic tick, a mass of angry black clouds where midnight should be, the drawings changing around the wheel from April showers to jolly drizzle.

 There are rusty gardening tools beneath a boarded-up window and opened sacks of humus bleed into the abandoned floors. Unnervingly arranged dead seeds form a stream towards the shadow beneath a hand-painted chest of drawers.

 An open portmanteau rests on the wall framed by rays of moribund light squeezing through rickety walls; lavish ragged dresses and dusty stuffed bunnies swimming within; pink baby shoes and over-washed underskirts having a tea party at the bottom.

 Lined-up novels on bookshelves lay on top of each other in the comfort of touch, interspaced with torn childish letters in alphabetic order. A tiny cloak made of velvet hangs on a chair as if a visitor dropped by for tea.

 A precarious chandelier hovers watchfully over the lonely sleeping woman, unsafe chain links repaired with strong white threads that spread unevenly on the whole ceiling.

 Guarded by an unnatural radius of clean floor, a white gown lies.

 Sewn to perfection, beaded with gleaming pearls and the most delicate of laces. Impeccable seams, regal lines.

 A dress made mindful of love, of promise. A dress fit for a future princess.

 A rumble of thunder shakes the house as the pointer in the blue clock approaches woeful clouds.

 Next to it, a black clock with eight bent lines shooting from the sides of its mechanism box moves from sleepy lids to the daunting indication of bug wide eyes in a resounding clang.

 Come see, flurry black bodies with milky white eyes descend on long lines of silk hanging from the ceiling. Siblings, mothers, and children crawl over the mold, spidery legs fortifying supporting beams, the walls, covering memories in a shield of white.

 Come see come see come see come see

 I do not wish to open my eyes; she mumbles.

 I do not wish; she rolls to her side; her nightgown catching in the shards beneath.

 I do not want; she covers her face with a feeble palm.

 I do not feel; she insists.

  You must, the wind howls, rattles her clothes, scrapes down her skin. Your house is dying.

 The hearth coughs soot, black and filthy like a diseased lung.

 I do not see; she screams, eyes sewn shut, tears fighting to slip through the sutures, cracked fingernails pulling at the roots of her hair, weeds from soil. I am no longer this body.

 The unstoppable hand of time reaches midnight.

Storm water slides down the walls in a furious current, washing away the grime and dislodging all the clocks. Those crack and splash onto the rising puddles on the floor with various clangs, cuckoos flailing madly in their springs before falling into final silence.

 The bookshelf cracks under a stretch of ceiling that collapses, books losing themselves from each other, weeping in their solitude as they drown in now waist-deep water, loose papers with family drawings (Mum, Dad, Nesta, Me, and Feyre) soften and rip, the colors bleeding and blending into undistinguished blobs of ink.

 Seeds of all shapes twirl wildly in whirlpools, and a window box of dead flowers floats aimlessly in the chaos. In the aquatic graveyard beneath them lays a dress of snow, pulled until it is trapped below the floorboards; a bunny covers itself in an old velvet cloak, lingering tragically hopeful underneath the hand-painted dresser.

Cobwebs are unwoven by each violent raindrop, supporting beams breaking like bones.

 The woman stands limply in the midst of it all, eyes unseeing, unaware of the fatal torrent around her.

  There is a cause to her silence, just as there is a cause to a collapsed house.

 I am made of fear, she mulls under the debris, quiet in the wreckage, silent in the aftermath

 There’s nothing else for me but forever.

(5)

  The House of Wind’s library was the biggest private collection Elain had ever seen. Rows upon rows of carefully curated stories, some ancient with cracking leather covers, tell-tale signs of use staining the spines, dented with the accumulated pressure of readers’ hands. Other books seemed new, the residual smell of press machine oil and ink lingering on the pages, spines unbroken.

  Nesta had smuggled romance books from their old village’s dusty bookstore for years, kept them below a loose floorboard in their cottage, discreetly wrapping them in old, moth-eaten clothes to prevent damage. Nesta had cherished those books, had wished for them, and would come into a nasty mood when it was time to return them to the store to avoid the wrath of a deceived salesman with the law by his side.

  Old habits die hard, Elain discerned, as her sister slipped a pocket-sized, pink-covered booklet into the folds of her dress. Even with permission to own the piece, Nesta still chose to take it for herself like a criminal. Never conceding, never compromising. 

  Elain eyes remained unmoving while she made her inspections, the unbending lids to the husk which sheltered her thoughts. She had been counting the organized shelves, internally categorizing books within her eyesight.

 83 with single-worded titles, 6 – 12 letters.

102 with double-worded titles, the first being predominately articles.

329 with three words in the title, a maximum of 27 letters.

  A small fold in her brow flattened into the clear glass of her forehead, all the muscles in Elain’s face relaxing as the shallowness of her research settled her bones.

 Elain was perched on the window’s nook, manufactured lightness to her sentience, while Nesta was lounging straight-backed on a velvet armchair, both hawk-eyed towards their worries. Biscuits grew stale and tea turned cold in gleaming silver trays between them.

  There was one volume, Elain noticed, with undisguised and not yet restrained annoyance, which clashed horribly with her elegant system of grouping books by minimalist names. There’s control in succinct titles. There’s calmness in brevity. No space for subterfuge, for mazes or threads leading to somebody else’s memories, eyes not of her own.

 A raging woman made of flame, screaming screaming screaming-

 One blink of cavern-like pupils.

 514 publications with respectable construction.

 Not that one, though.

 Norton’s Concise Manual for Swift Diagnosis and Treatment of Battlefield Injuries

 First, it blatantly lied. There was no brevity of title or length, the heavy-looking tome glaringly thicker than a closed fist. A deceiving book. Elain’s head moved to the side, instinctually, the skin of her neck folding into the unpracticed movement.

 A deception not even attempting to remain cloaked. What a disagreeable structure.

 No balance, no harmonious restraint.

 11 words in the name, what indisputable distaste. 

 70 letters made tiny to fit into its obnoxious shelf back. 

  Elain wanted it gone.

(6)

  The guest room was soft, like the lingering feel of worn leather. 

 There was light everywhere, reflecting from mirrors and vanity vials, bleaching the dark wood floors. It created the most delightful shapes under her eyelids if she gazed out the window just right.

 Incandescent.

 Perfectly blinding.

 Elain could stay inside all day, motionless above uncreased bed linens. 

 Frozen in the armchair with a book resting in peace on her lap.

 Unless, of course, it was night.

 There was nothing uncovered beneath revealing starlight.

 No cave, no shelter, only the stoic awareness of a seasick mind.

Melting snow; ethereal crestfallen swans; the breakage of a woman who would have never begged; a lake so deep it is bottomless.

Bottomless black eyes, all-seeing, swirling, a current so strong it is the hands that push you down, down into the whispering voice that loves you while killing you.

 The shards of porcelain on the floor were still beautiful, if only someone mended them.

 Elain grabbed each one and placed them delicately on a tray, using a finely made doily to sweep the warm tea spilled on the floor

 She padded slowly down the stairs, nightgown dragging around her feet.

 Broken china rested on the kitchen countertop, Nuala would take care of it, see to it with the loving touch of an artisan who was ageless and immortal.

 Elain reached for the multicolored leaves inside a mason jar under the window, setting them inside the copper pan with boiling water over the stovetop.

 Only her hands, if she blinked, started to wither with age, and a black box of fury appeared between them-

 The coolness of the counter beneath her young, translucent fingers.

 Her mind stalled for half a second, hesitating, unsure, then searched until it found it.

 Anger for the unpalatable book.

 Elain had something to do.

  ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ 

  Libraries are known for their solitude. A place for reflection, for diving deep between words, for biting into a book and spitting out a seed-shaped thought.

  Elain walked barefoot on the soft expensive carpet beneath her feet. Sangravah patterns, she noted, not quite sure of how she had known so.

 The book still stood where it always had, after Navigation for Beginners (3 words, 23 letters). It was just… there. Like its existence wasn’t a disrespect to the Mother herself.

 Her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared, clumsy and irritated hands grabbed the dark blue cover and, unprepared for its weight, let it fall with a muted thud.

 The pages fell open, a warm invitation, into the carefully drawn figure of a lacerated spleen. ( when the pages fell open, her eyes couldn’t help but see)

 Mindful of the spleen’s vascularization, a Concentric Mending Spell (page 278) must be placed using the middle, ring and little finger, pinpointing the magic into the gash and closing it quickly thus avoiding fatal hemorrhagic shock. The healer’s pointer finger and thumb must only locate the laceration, while the palm concentrates the spell, and the latter three fingers expel it. Previous use of whole-hand magic in repairing interior cuts has led to unwanted tissue adherence and is advised against when in treatment of internal organ damage (see Index for Whole-Hand Magic).

 Elain blinked once, then twice. 

 Smoothness replaced the furrow in her brows and with a short tilt of her head, Elain brushed back her golden curtain of hair with an absent hand as she ran the pad of a curious finger along the lines, her knees completely pressed down on the rug.

 Those instructions sounded nothing like the healing she had experienced from Madja.

 The ancient fae had only felt her, placing her palms on either side of her head or using unfamiliar copper tools to measure some information she deemed important but escaped Elain’s logic. Madja had moved her hands over Elain’s body as she had once seen a Child of the Blessed do over a clear glass orb during a town square fair.

 A quiet, expanding bubble of pressure grew from the pit of Elain’s belly until it lay underneath her skin, soft light shimmering behind once dulled, wooden eyes.

 The intricate directives from the book were precise and sure, based on wisely curated knowledge and the pure need to guide those who could be good to others. Save them, even.

 Elain held the book kindly in her hands, resting it on her arms as she skittered over to her room in fastened steps so as not to attract unwanted attention.

 Under the shy rising sun of the following morning, a side lamp - a friend to a sleepless, captivated woman in a sunlit room – rested with its oil completely burnt.

(7)

The townhouse was empty when Elain woke up.

 It wasn’t an unusual occurrence, most of the house’s occupants were busy, political figures with a multitude of urgent daily tasks.

 Not that Elain was particularly aware. 

 She had been furtively reading every healing book she could get her hands on, and the more fascinated she became, the less she seemed to register the comings and goings of the routine around her.

She could barely help it, could she? It was an entire world she was becoming privy to. It had never occurred to her as a human to be curious about such things. In fact, she doubted anyone in the Human Lands had any notion of the delicacy and potency of Healing. The healers back home had to rely on herbs, cold or warm wet cloths, and wishful thinking to cure someone, if they were even able to achieve such a feat.

 Not home anymore, she would think, instinctually, and remember the towering walls she longed to be housed within, of luxurious balls, of blue eyes so bright they were sapphires, of a simple band of iron on a delicate finger.

 Elain turned to her books.

 Mending charms, diagnostic spells, potions. Instruments with the most varied, peculiar purposes. Special needles could be used to draw blood, and expertly assembled lenses could reveal what lay within it. Armbands imbued with magic could indicate the strength of a patient’s blood pressure.

 The body was made of such intricate systems, which worked together magnificently to perform delightful, orchestrated functions. She was mesmerized by all of it.

 Elain had also taken to helping in the kitchens as well. Nesta and Feyre tended to worry and watch Elain much more closely whenever she stayed in her room too long, and it was exponentially harder to read what she wanted when they were around.

 You shouldn’t concern yourself with these things, she feared they would say, the shadow of a winged male behind them. Maybe you should try reading something else, something with nicer pictures, or lighter stories to ease your mind.

 Those kind words, seemingly thoughtful advice, and concern would dwindle her precious books one by one, and then she would have nothing again.

 Elain hated it too, how they were always looking at her with disheartened gazes. Not only her sisters but of all the Inner Circle. They never understood anything of what she had to say, would never credit any of her thoughts. Even the fox twitched its nose and bent his head to the side with confusion - on the occasion his face wasn’t drenched in pain and longing. 

 But she had tried. She had told them of the changed woman with feathers set aflame. Warned them of the tempestuous owner of the onyx box, only for it to fall on seemingly deafened ears, her speech only another line added to Feyre’s forehead, another bolt of iron in Nesta’s spine, another worry for someone else had to deal with.

 Only Elain could see, and for that, she remained invisible.

 The dough flattened smoothly under the roller; Elain’s arms loosened into the motion. The floured surface of the worktable was crammed with little jars of sugar and jams, multipurpose cloths, and an open cookbook. She would finish her pastries, leave them resting on the windowsill then hurry upstairs. Hopefully, her sisters would see them and take much longer to search for her, allowing Elain to have the afternoon she was carefully crafting for herself.

 With the soft ding of an egg-shaped time counter, Elain took out a tray of perfectly golden crusted squares and placed them on the cleared table.

 There was, if she was honest, a soothing quality to baking. The gentleness of each step lulled her mind and made it easier for her to tune out external and internal frictions, focusing only on the motion of her body.

 As she dried her hands in her apron, pastries gleaming with homemade poisonberry jam, Elain heard the soft padding of boots down the hallway, a slithering shadow curling around the doorframe and disappearing as quickly as it came.

 With haste, she fled the kitchen and went to her room to find the singularity of calmness.

⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ 

 Dinner was a loud affair, as it always was, so Elain waited until they were all overtly satisfied and tipsy to approach her sister in the drawing room. The looming threat of war had yet to diminish the utter happiness Feyre’s return had on Rhysand and his friends.

 Feyre was sprawled on the couch, the spot next to her newly vacated by a stumbling Mor, who had claimed the need for beauty sleep. 

 “How are you feeling today?” her sister asked, her long fingers dragging lovingly over Elain’s arm. A caress she is sure her sister would have never allowed herself to even try, if it weren’t for the drink-induced fog on her mind.

 “Just fine,” Elain said, and then with the planned drop of her chin and the openness of seemingly unsure eyes, she continued “I was wondering if you could call for Madja again,”

 Fey sat up in alarm, which could attract Nesta’s piercing, preoccupied gaze, so Elain hurried to add “She mentioned some sort of sleeping draught the last time, I believe I could make good use of it,”, watching the other side of the room with the corner of her eye to make sure Nesta was still in her hushed conversation with Amren. 

 “Oh,” Feyre visibly relaxed, and some of the tension harbored between Elain’s shoulder blades loosened. “Of course, I can send for her,” her youngest sister confirmed, and the tight fist of anxiety in Elain’s gut released its tight grip, replaced by tentative anticipation. 

 “I’m so glad you’re taking care of yourself.”

⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ ⠀ ོ 

The calendar on the wall indicated the start of the weekend.

  I believed it Monday still, Elain thought to herself.

  She was sitting in the living room, having a late breakfast by the window.

  An odd sight, the antonym of the barely acknowledged empty chair below early sunlight, collecting the friendly conversation around. There was no one else to notice so.

  Feyre had told Elain the previous afternoon – while hurriedly moving down the hallway, rushing outside for some appointment she didn’t even consider explaining - that Madja would come to the townhouse at ten o’clock in the morning, and that she would try to join the appointment, but was unsure if she would be able to.

  Nesta was, as she so often was those days, in Amren’s apartment, strengthening her magic. Elain thought she’d heard why that was but couldn’t remember.

Maybe a dream, then.

  Distantly, something in Elain longed to also have that privilege. A tutor, someone to guide her in learning this well of uncharted territory inside, but that consideration was swiftly swept under a sodden rug.

  A knock on the front door had Elain on her feet, shaking her head as if staving off an unseen fog.

  It had been considerably hard, trying to maintain herself awake. She had reached and held so strongly to the absence of her mind that it had become nearly impossible to keep herself lucid on the rare occasions she had wanted to. There was a particularly interesting book on the history of Healing Magic, thankfully written in the common tongue – unlike a large part of the Medicinal Section in the library – that had Elain repeatedly dozing off, either proverbially or literally, in the same way, she had gladly done numerous times.   Before it had been a welcoming state, the static of nothingness, but it was consuming her now in a way she hadn’t understood, glad as she had been for the reprieve from her life. 

 These epiphanies often came and went like waves. Sometimes she would allow the ships to go in with the high tide and return with small storytelling orbs of white light.  Sometimes the boats would be swallowed whole by the tyrannical sea, drowned to the bottom until only a clear empty surface stretched on, the reflective glow of crystal spheres crushed in the sand below.

 Now, she wanted something more.

 There were things she wanted to know.

 Madja stood on the front steps in her healer robes. The magic surrounding her was cool and soothing, the relaxing breeze on a perspired forehead. Elain wondered if the old fae is the type to enlighten a room simply by standing in it.

 Elain ushered her into the already prepped sitting room, an open notebook, its pages organized in scribbles, sat on the arm of the host’s armchair.

  “You seem to be in better spirits,” Madja began once they were both comfortable sitting, pleasantries exchanged. “But I was called in to see the need to prescribe sleep medication.”

  “I asked my sister for your presence, yes” Elain stammered. “I have questions, and was hopeful you could aid me in finding the answers,”

  Madja sipped her tea with steady hands and eyed Elain with a look she had seldomly encountered directed at her.

  Interest.

  “My time is yours, Lady Elain.”

  The leather-bound notebook was humid from the sweat in her hands, some ingrained sense in her mind making the back on her neck pinprick and her knuckles curl as if afraid of a straight ruler.

  “Well,” she breathed in once, then blinked. “In most medical texts, there are numerous examples and experiments on healing fae bodies. I found in one of Joseph Norton’s books many references to the need for quick healing, done with moderate care, and modest effectiveness rates yet high survival chances. Practices are much more rudimentary than the ones from Annabelle Rite’s manuals. She maintains through all her works the extreme need for balanced, methodical, time-consuming procedures, which allows her to utilize whole-hand magic with minimal side effects, and it seems so curious to me that she would even attempt to do so with so many predecessors discouraging it so deeply...”

 She shook her head again, blushing – truthfully! - in a fashion she hadn’t for years, 

  “But I am unsure of why would fae people even need healing practices, if there are entire collections dedicated to explaining the varied ways in which the body heals itself, at higher rates than any other known species. Wouldn’t the spells muddle the body’s own magic? It sounds unnecessary, why isn’t it enough?”

  Madja settled her teacup down and laid back further in her armchair, eyes crystalline and lips tugging at the side for an aged smile.

  “It would depend on what sort of injury we’d be discussing. Internal bleeding, for instance, if small enough will be dealt with by the body’s own magic. It is noticeable in the evolution of hematomas, as they change colors as the blood is reabsorbed and the blood vessels are restored. Now, when internal bleeding comes from blunt trauma – falling from a high distance, for example - the body would not be effective in healing itself quickly enough. The simplest reason for that is, as much as some try to state otherwise, faeries aren’t perfect. The healer’s job, in this case, would be to work with the patient’s own natural healing magic, potentialize and organize it to ensure they would be able to regain all their functions. It can often, in presentation, be much more complicated. Norton’s protocols would be a particularly safe choice, seeing as they prioritize promptness, and in high-risk situations, those are inevitably what a healer with a multitude of variables to solve will likely tend towards.”

  “A stab wound, on the other hand, is much more critical, and with hemorrhage comes the diminishing of the natural magic. Then, suturing charms or manual stitching might be required with the danger of losing the patient completely if not done in proper haste.

Rite’s protocols, I’ve found, are much more appropriate for long-term care. You seem to have read her book, so perhaps you may remember that most of her case studies and examples center around lasting injuries or chronic illnesses. I’ve seen impressive improvements in previously immobile limbs, once from almost permanently dormant to near full range motion from her Wavelength Spells.”

  “Mind Injuries, which differ greatly from both, are perhaps the most elusive sort of healing. It tends to be intuitive, and it takes considerable skill to allow the healer’s magic to run unbound in the patient’s body without any harm, and an even greater amount to ensure recovery.”

  “I would add that Faeries, High Fae or otherwise, tend to see themselves as infallible due to their perception of immortality, but healing magic and healers came from the tested and true knowledge that there is much frailty in being fae, to the utmost displeasure of the others of our kind. A healer’s job, as I’ve discovered, lies in giving them a second chance.”

  “Oh,” Elain said still flushed, and resisted the urge to press her palms to her cheeks. 

   She could barely believe she had dragged this female from her prior, likely much more important engagements to come and explain to her the seemingly most logical and obvious concepts she had ever heard.

  No wonder no one took her seriously if even with the amount of literature she had consumed in the past days (weeks? or months?) she couldn’t make sense of the most common of concepts.

  How could she think— How delusional she must have been to even consider herself able to understand such a complex subject – 

  “Thank you, sorry for taking up so much of your time.” She made herself say, prying her stiff knuckles from her notebook, five crescent moon shapes on the once plain black leather cover. Her teacup clattered mortifyingly on its plate as she moved to pick it up, brown eyes irreflective.

  “That was quite refreshing, Lady Elain. I haven’t had a chance to mull over healing in such a long time… Most of my protocols are so inherent to me, I find myself doing them instinctually.”

  Elain wouldn’t learn this about herself for many years, but her ears twitched most daintily, disturbing some strands of her golden-brown hair.

 “That is very kind.”

 “There is a Healing Program here in Velaris if you find yourself with time. It is mostly lectures and debates. There is a selection process, but from what I gathered, you’ll have no problem enrolling.”

 “I want,” she whispered, half dazed, teacup clutched tightly in her hands. 

 “If you believe I could… Yes, Ms. Madja, I want it.”

✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿✿

Thank you for reading! I would LOVE to know what you feel about it ;)

I'm working on part two, if you want to be tagged to find out what sort of crazy shit imma put my baby Elain through, let me know.

Witch Elain🕯️

~🌹Elain had always been gentle and sweet-and I had considered it a different sort of strength. A better strength. To look at the hardness of the world and choose, over and over, to love, to be kind. She had been always so full of light.🌹~

|Art by me🫶|

|Character: Sarah J Mass|

@elainarcheronweek 🌷

“What does he look like again?” Suddenly Feyre’s voice popped on the line and Elain groaned, having not noticed that Nesta got their younger sister on the three-way call. 

“Apparently, he is an Armani-model-biker-gang-leader-mafia-pornstar,” Nesta reported unhelpfully.

“He is not a pornstar!” Elain objected nervously.

“He talks like one,” Feyre argued reasonably.

“He told her he is gonna fuck her ass,” Nesta piped in, and Elain begged, “ohmagod, please stop!”

“Wow, first convo butt sex…the gentleman does not believe in wasting time,” Feyre laughed obnoxiously, adding a low whistle to the mix.

“Oh and he told her he was gonna finger her too,” Nesta added, while Elain was glad that she wasn’t facetiming with them, because her face was burning up.

“Is that before or after the butt stuff?” Feyre inquired.

“That was a whole separate conversation,”

“Ellie, you sure you are still a virgin?” Feyre teased. “After this much dirty talk, you might have naturally de-virginised yourself! Or he,”

“Screw you both!” Elain hissed. “I am not a virgin. I got a kid!”

“Still kind of a virgin,” Nesta said decisively. “And imagine his skills in the bedroom if he can dirty talk you up like that? He can probably hammer your pussy to the point where you don’t know which way is up or down,”

“Are you kidding me now?” 

“Not at all. This is one confident man!”

“So,” Feyre interrupted, “do we have a pic of this studly dirty-mouthed baby daddy?”

Elain sighed dramatically and then said prissily,

“Okay. I took a pic. Before the party started.”

“Ahhh you did!”

“I want it. I need it!” Feyre begged like a needy teenager.

“Oh god. I’ll send it, but I don’t want you to make a fuss,” Elain warned, but Nesta immediately shot that down.

“If he is worth making a fuss over, we’ll make a fuss!”

Wincing, Elain sent the photo to her nutty sisters.

It was a really cute photo–seven girls, all dressed up as princesses and holding plaques with their names on them–Isabella, Tay, Karo, Nell, Tee, Caroline, Cassie and then, there was Darius, who held a sign that said ‘Dari’ because when Elain made it, she didn’t know he was a boy. She and Azriel stood in the background. 

“Sweet baby Moses,” Feyre gushed breathlessly.

“Let him do the butt stuff with you!” Nesta encouraged immediately.

“I knew this was gonna happen,” Elain moaned.

“And Oh. My. God. His kid!” Feyre’s voice became screechy on the other side. 

“He looks like a cartoon character,” Nesta laughed. “This is the cutest darn kid in history. He looks like a little paperboy from ‘Peaky Blinders’,”

“He is wearing suspenders,” Feyre cooed softly. “I wanna pinch him and his fat cheeks!!!”

“But look at this prime piece of male real estate,” Nesta commented. “Oh-la-la. I’d ride him up and down the highway of all this very black, and very expensive clothing,”

“You are sick,” Elain muttered.

“No sweetheart,” Nesta interrupted, “this is a hella hot man.”

“He looks like a Pinterest model,” Feyre agreed. “All broody and tattoo-ty.”

There was a pause, and Nesta added, her tone more serious than before, “As I look at this, I can say that you two honestly look really good together.”

“What?” Elain wasn’t sure if her sister was joking, but it didn’t sound like it.

“Yes, I agree,” Feyre said. “You look like you…belong. Even though it’s obviously ridiculous because he is this tattooed hunk of burnin’ love and you are a fairy tale princess,”

“I am not!”

“You are. And yet, you two look really good together.”

After her sisters were done ogling the photo, Elain asked,

“What do I do with him?”

“You go for it!” Feyre said immediately.

“Surprisingly, I agree with her,” Nesta added. “This is a not-to-be missed experience. Besides, he is hot for you. You don’t need to work for it. I mean, you could be sitting on Tinder, swiping up and down, right and left, but you got this gorgeous man primed and ready for you–pop quiz, what do you do?”

“I take it I should go for it?” Elain asked quietly.

“That’s a resounding ‘yes!’,” Feyre boomed. 

“But like…he is so big…”

“That’s your excuse? He is ‘big’?” Nesta challenged.

“But he is! He is like 9 feet tall!”

“Okay, well then, you know he is hung. At least you’ve got that going for you,”

“I don’t want hung,” Elain muttered feebly.

“No, you definitely do want hung. Trust me,” Feyre assured her. “You don’t want a guy like that rocking a decapitated mushroom down there. You pray he is hung.”

Groaning loudly, Elain didn’t answer.

“Pray tell, what does the young gent do for a living?” Nesta asked. “Considering the state of his wardrobe and the fact that he puts his son in Burberry pants, I’d say he is pretty well off.”

“I think he is a photographer,” Elain answered lamely.

“A photographer?!” Feyre was laughing. “I think he is a drug dealer,”

“What does he drive?” Nesta piped in.

“He is not a drug dealer,” Elain snapped. “A Maybach.”

“I am sorry. WHAT? A Maybach??”

“Yeah, I was surprised as well.”

“Where does he live?”

“I don’t know, but they brought cookies from the Cherry Creek Whole Foods and they walk around Wash park, so I guess somewhere around there?”

“Shit,” Feyre whistled again. “The dude is loaded! Forget what I said about the decapitated mushroom for a penis. Even if he has that, that’s okay. At least you can cry about it in your Maybach.”

“You are so gross,” Elain was shaking her head. 

“Practical, babe, I am practical. Not gross,” Feyre insisted. “Also, I vote for ‘drug dealer’. Or, or–maybe he is in the mafia?!?! That would be cool!”

“Yeah. So cool.”

“Final question,” Nesta interrupted them.

“Thank the lord,” Elain muttered.

“Does he have a brother?”

“In fact he does. His name is Cass.”

“Feel free to hook me up with this Cass character,” Nesta suggested.

“What happened to Tomas?” Elain asked in confusion, though her older sister wasn’t exactly known for high rates of fidelity. She went from man to man like it was her god-given right.

“Keeping my options open,” Nesta said breezily.

“Well, y’all have fun with your hookups. I am 20,” Feyre announced. “I am going to Barcelona. That’s what I care about.”

“Oh, Ellie,” Nesta cooed. “Make sure to wax everything. Most guys are not into…forestation.”

“I don’t have any forestation!” Elain screamed. 

“Good for you, girl. Keep it that way.”

-

Azriel and Darius Night

When Darius was in the bathtub, it resembled a baby elephant splashing in a kiddie pool. Messy, wet and hilarious. 

Azriel was absolutely drenched by now, as he tried to wrestle Darius into the towel and dry him. 

“Go potty before bed,” Azriel ordered him, while he went to get Darius’s PJs, which he’d have to lasso onto him the moment his son was off the toilet. 

Darius didn’t know how to pee standing up yet, so he sat on the toilet, kicking his legs, pontificating.

“Dada.”

“Yeah,” Azriel returned to the bathroom and pulled off his soaking wet t-shirt, before putting Darius’s pyjama top on him. 

“Why you don’t talk to me today, da?” 

“What do you mean? Of course I am talking to you,”

“No,” Darius shook his head. “We talk a lot. Today after party, we don’t talk so much.”

Azriel couldn't argue. He was surprised that Darius noticed it, but his boy was correct.

Azriel’s head was filled with something else–namely, Elain Archeron. 

That woman took him completely by surprise–it’s not that he even had a type, but he certainly didn’t think that she would be his type. And yet, here he was. He found her blindingly beautiful, but there was more to it than just basic sexual attraction. There was a warmth about her, and something so genuine that she seemed tailor made for him, for his needs and wants. The fact that she seemed to really like his son didn’t hurt either. She was inviting, and had an incredible combination of steely strength and delicate fragility in her, which made the inner Neanderthal in him roar with protective urges, and the man in him wanted to dominate and take her as his. He equally hated and liked that Elain kind of blew him off. That she was innocent was obvious, but she also stood her ground, despite the onslaught of him. Normally, he wasn’t that pushy and mouthy, but fuck if she didn’t make him lose his cool. The need in him for her was rabid. Yet his girl was all ‘nope. You ain’t getting a piece of this any time soon’. And as frustrating as that was, he respected her and her wishes. Though he also very much hoped that she’d change her mind.

“Sorry, Dari,” Azriel helped him into his pyjama pants and then Darius climbed into his bed. 

He yawned and admitted, “I tired, dada. This party was fun, but I tired.”

“It was a fun party,” Azriel agreed. “You don’t want me to read you a book?”

Darius shook his head and said, “no, no book today. I wanna sleep.”

He clutched his stuffed bat Brute to his chest–Brute the Bat was Cassian’s present, obviously, because it was totally normal to give babies toy bats–and reached to turn off the light on his nightstand.

Azriel stooped and kissed his son’s forehead. 

“Good night then, Dar. Sleep well.”

Just before Azriel exited the bedroom, Darius said quietly,

“Dada, you know I don’t have mama.”

At that, Azriel turned abruptly and stared at the tiny mound under the blanket. Darius had never mentioned not having a mother before. He always just kind of accepted that it was him and his dad. And now, it was he, his dad and his uncle. But he never complained about not having a mother, or even acknowledged the fact.

“You have me,” Azriel said firmly.

“Yes. I know. I love you, da,” Darius nodded calmly. “But if Lain wanna be mama, then I am happy.”

“What?” Azriel murmured, his palms suddenly feeling clammy. This wasn't what he was expecting his son to tell him.

“Yeah, I like Lain,” Darius decided. “She is pretty and nice. And if she wanna be family with me, then this is good and I want it.”

“Okay,” was all Azriel managed. It wasn’t much, but he was literally lost for words.

“If you want to ask her, dada, you do it. I can ask too. And then Isa is gonna be family too.”

“I’ll try, Dari. I promise. But I don’t know…”

Darius yawned again and muttered, “she like me, dada. And she like you too much.”

At that, Azriel gawked at his strange child and asked, feeling both foolish and hopeful, “why do you think so?”

“She wanted to give you hugs and kisses,” Darius told him with utmost confidence. 

Azriel chuckled, “nah, big guy, I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, she did,” Darius nodded. “You just don’t know it.”

Sunday.

Monday.

Tuesday.

Wednesday.

On Wednesday, at 5:30pm Azriel perked up, when he saw a woman in shorts and with a ponytail appear near the start of the trail at the pond. She was holding a little girl’s hand too. 

But it wasn’t Elain.

And that realisation smacked him in the chest like a ton of bricks.

He wanted it to be Elain.

Thursday.

Friday.

He didn’t have her phone number.

He considered accosting her at the preschool, but he also promised her that he wouldn’t bother her. That the next steps would be up to her. And he wanted to keep his promise. But he was also desperately depressed by now. A whole week passed and Azriel still thought of Elain. Craved Elain. Wanted Elain. Fantasised about Elain. Spoke to Elain in his head. He relieved all the small details of their afternoon together. The jokes. The confessions. The stories. He recalled her sweet blushes and how she got so flustered with his come-ons. He just loved the way that she was–her beautiful golden skin, her freckles which clung stubbornly only to her cute nose, her absolutely lush brown hair and the dark brown eyes the colour of chocolate. Those soft rosy lips that resembled a tulip and her small, scarred hands, with neat square nails, which he dreamt of and wished to feel on his skin. She wore simple leather sandals with her white dress, and she had the prettiest toes, her nails varnished with the same pale pearl colour as is on her hands. He loved everything–he loved her thick lashes, her toes, the birthmark on her neck, the tiny tattoo on her wrist with an ‘I’ and a marigold flower wrapped around the letter, the simple gold chain around her throat, the way her plump breasts created the most tempting cleavage in the cut of her dress. 

He imagined what it would be like to wake next to her in the morning–to watch her sleepy and satiated and not on her guard, because she was comfortable with him and trusted him. He imagined her padding barefoot to wake the kids and then he’d make breakfast for everyone and she’d kiss his neck when she finally came to the kitchen, wearing only his t-shirt. 

He imagined many things. 

Only none would come to pass. Because it was Friday. 

And Elain certainly hasn’t been thinking about him.

Until…

This wasn’t his proudest moment, but he’d spent hours searching for Elain’s Instagram page. Who knew that there were like 300 million cooking pages out there? But he was determined to find hers, so he spent hours every evening typing everything from ‘Elain Archeron’ to ‘healthy cooking’ to ‘salad recipe’ to ‘Denver cooking’ and on and on. Nothing. Yes, he’s gotten a 1000 more salad recipes, but no Elain.

That was the frustrating failure on his part, until last night, when something struck him–the marigold flower on her wrist. So he typed ‘Marigold Catering Denver’ and lo and behold, there she was. He found her cooking blog page, and there, a link to her Insta. And then he proceeded to watch videos of her cooking, moving, smiling, dicing, slicing, expertly flipping pancakes and steaks and omelettes and looking luscious and gorgeous in the manner of Nigella Lawson. She had a similar aura–unpretentious, unfussy, attractive, effortlessly trustworthy and watchable. It was a bit of a con, of course–no one was that polished, while looking beguiling, yet adorably inept. It was a front that seduced the audience into thinking that they could also do this–look like a slightly dishevelled model with a messy braid, sumptuous breasts and a tiny waist, preparing healthy, yet delicious looking dishes, while assuring everyone that it was ‘simple and easy’. 

The last two videos were recent–one from last week, the other, from Tuesday.

He clicked on the one from last week which was called…The Princess Tea Party. There, Elain was giving the blow-by-blow of how to make a ‘healthy’ afternoon tea. All those cakes and pastries that the toddlers were gorging on were apparently sugarless, mostly gluten free and full of healthy ingredients. Could’ve fooled him!

And then finally, he clicked on the most recent video.

It felt voyeuristic. He was observing something private, which was of course ridiculous, but at the same time, this was the only video where they’d already been acquainted. He already knew her and wanted her. She shot it after he’d touched her and for whatever reason, it felt intimate. He held those small delicate fingers in his hand, and the pearly nail polish was the same as at the tea party. 

I made a new friend over the weekend, Elain was saying into the camera. She was smiling, her hair artfully tossed over her shoulder, her voluptuous figure cinched into a silk cobalt-blue blouse with fluttering sleeves. And on her wrist, a silver bracelet. Azriel’s heart jolted in his chest when he saw it–she didn’t take it off and it dangled over her wrist like his own personal brand. She continued saying and he made us this incredible salad! I should’ve been paying more attention to what he was doing and what he put into it, but we were having a good time and there was white wine involved…

A cute, but sexy giggle escaped her pink lips, while she began listing out the ingredients.

He was a miracle worker with this salad. So I hope that I can recreate it and do him justice.

So…maybe she was thinking about him after all?

He watched the video four times, back to back. 

He studied every smile, every flirtatious movement of her shoulders, the innocent expression of her big brown doe eyes. He watched her chomp on lettuce, pop tomatoes into her mouth, crunch on a cucumber slice. It was perfect.

“You forgot the radishes, baby,” he whispered in the end. Smiling at last.

-

“Dada, let’s go already!” Darius demanded, loitering by the door, being super dramatic about waiting for five minutes.

“The park is not going to go anywhere,” Azriel told him, looking at his phone.

Darius pouted and muttered, “you be mean, dada.”

“I am not being mean,” Azriel argued. He wasn’t. But he was in a foul mood. 

He couldn’t believe that a week later, Elain didn’t show up, and he was still absolutely desperate for her. He was not a desperate guy. He could probably have most if not all women that he wanted. The problem was that he didn’t want any women. Not until he’d met Elain. For the past year, back in NYC, he hardly even got laid, mostly because he didn’t want to leave Darius with a sitter and because it all just seemed like a tedious production. He couldn't take a woman to his house, not with his baby son there, so it either had to be her place or a hotel, and then it all seemed too complicated somehow, and he just lost interest. 

Elain was different though. She already saw him with Darius, she knew who he was and what mattered to him. Nothing with her would be a production. It would be natural and organic.

“Alright, let’s go,” Azriel took Darius’s puffy hand in his and they left the penthouse. 

“Is Lain and Isa gonna come?” Darius asked hopefully.

It came harsher than he intended to, but Azriel all but barked ‘no’.

Darius gave him an accusing look, pursing his lips. 

In the elevator, he pressed the button and then said, “I think maybe they gonna come, da.”

“I doubt it. They have their own lives, Darius. They are busy.”

“Hmmm,” Darius only offered a doubtful hum and didn’t say anything further. 

In the vast lobby of the building, the three concierge guys waved to them. 

“Hey Darius!” they greeted him.

He was a popular staple around here, and he immediately veered off and went to the reception desk.

“Hi!” he said. “You have good day?”

“We are having a pretty good day. You going on your daily walk, buddy?”

“Yeah, with dada,” he nodded.

“You want a sticker?” one of them offered.

“Your shoes are cool!” said another. 

“When I die and come back in another life, I want to be Darius,” muttered the third.

“Can I have two stickers?” Darius requested.

“Dari, you don't need two,” Azriel scolded him lightly, nodding to the guys in greeting.

“Yeah I need it, dada,” Darius insisted. “If Isa come, I have to give her one.”

“She is not coming,” Azriel said abruptly, but Darius ignored him and extended his hand for the stickers.

“Who is Isa, Dari? Your girlfriend?” the concierge asked, as he gave up two stickers.

“Yeah, she is my good friend,” Darius confirmed, taking the stickers and then politely thanking everyone. 

“Whatever you did with this kid, man, you did it right,” one of the guys said to Azriel.

And Azriel smiled. Because if nothing else, he had an amazing son.

It was a decent half a mile walk to the park, so Azriel usually carried Darius, so he didn’t get too tired and could still run in the park. Darius was clutching his two stickers in his hand, loudly contemplating which one he wanted more. 

Suddenly, he yelled ‘dada, see! Lain and Isa! Lain! And Isa!’

And then he nearly fell out of Azriel’s arms, startling him to a near heart attack.

“Darius!”

But Darius was running at full speed, waving and yelling ‘Isa! Lain! I come!’

That’s when Azriel saw them.

His girls.

Elain glowed like the sun at dawn, her hair lit up with streaks of bronze and gold. She was wearing a maxi skirt, flat sandals and a form fitting white shirt which reminded Azriel of a corset or something. Whatever it was, it did wonders to her breasts. 

Darius and Isabella were hugging like they hadn’t seen each other in months, when it’s only been a few hours since they parted in school.

Azriel approached slowly, taking his time and taking in Elain’s beauty.

At last, he reached her and said, keeping his voice oh-so-casual, “Well, took you long enough.”

She huffed a shy laugh, and he watched her blush prettily under his scrutiny.

“Maybe I missed you,” she said at last.

“Maybe you did.”

“Did you miss me?” she asked softly.

“Desperately,” he confessed heatedly, all teasing and joking leaving his tone.

There was a moment when they stood there, looking at each other. And then Azriel asked, his voice quiet, and somehow broken,

“Why did you come, Elain?”

“You told me to come…” she reminded him breathlessly.

He put his heavy hands on her shoulders and then threaded his fingers behind her neck, keeping her in place.

“What if I didn’t tell you? Would you have come otherwise?”

She licked her lips and murmured in response,

“I’ve been dreaming of you every night since we’ve met. And last night, I dreamt that I was happy. With you. You made me so happy. So I figured, why not try it outside of the dreams? I want to try to be happy with you, Azriel.”

“Okay then. You will come to my home and I will feed you and your daughter.”

She smirked.

“That’s a thing with you. Feeding.”

“What can I say,” he shrugged. 

“Also, I missed Darius,” she admitted. “A lot. He is someone who leaves an impression.”

“He certainly does.”

Releasing her neck, Azriel took her hand firmly in his, and tugged her alongside him.

The sun was barely beginning to set and the park was full of joggers, people with their dogs and with their babies, families and couples. 

“How do we do this?” Elain asked, her voice timid and uncertain.

“Together,” he answered. “We do it together. I make you fall in love with me and then you are mine.”

She barked a laugh.

“Is that the plan then?”

“That’s it.”

-

Elain Archeron

The building where Azriel lived was one of the best in Denver. Elain had passed by it a few times before, but it was exclusive and tucked back behind a vast courtyard. She never really paid attention to it, seeing as that she was never going to step foot into it. How wrong she was. 

The lobby was huge, with plush couches, a grand piano!, armchairs, two reception desks, lots of glass and steel and wood and artwork. There was even a coffee station that made all kinds of drinks, and Darius demanded ‘I want hot chocolate!’ to which Azriel told him that he’d get it after dinner. Unsurprisingly, Isabella also asked for hot chocolate immediately after.

“Is that Captain Sandy from ‘Below Deck Mediterranean’?” Elain whisper-shouted and Azriel smiled at her and nodded. 

“Yeah, she lives here. A bunch of football and basketball players too. From the Broncos and the Nuggets.”

“That’s wild! I’ve never even seen a celebrity,” she confessed. 

“You are in the right place to spot them.”

They took the elevator to the top floor, while Darius pressed the button with one finger, and grabbed Elain’s hand with his other hand, holding onto her. Azriel noticed it, but didn’t comment. 

To get inside Azriel’s apartment, you needed fobs and codes and passes of all kinds and when they entered, Elain understood why.

It was massive. A glass cube, perched on top of the building, with a wrap around terrace and 365 degree views from every side.

She just stood there, gawking, while Darius grabbed Isa’s hand and said, ‘wanna see my room?’

They disappeared at once, talking loudly, laughing and saying stuff only they understood, while Elain just stood there and took it all in. One side of the apartment overlooked downtown Denver, the other, Wash Park, the third looked out at the mountains in the distance, and the fourth had a sprawling view of the city.

“Are you a drug dealer?” she asked quietly.

At that, Azriel burst out laughing, as he shook his head, and moved towards the incredible kitchen which was far beyond anything seen on HGTV or Insta. This was something else–with expensive appliances, stunning cabinetry, designer lighting, chrome and marble–this was an Architectural Digest kind of a kitchen.

“No. Not a drug dealer. I am a photographer,” he reminded her.

“Yeah, it’s like saying that Martha Stewart is a ‘caterer’. What do you photograph, exactly?”

She did notice really impressive black and white photos scattered strategically on the walls. They were artsy and sharp, some completely abstract, others of cityscapes, and even faceless people. 

“I used to be a fashion photographer,” he explained, as he tied an apron around his slim waist. It only emphasised the breadth of her massive shoulders and Elain swallowed discreetly, very taken with the very presence of him. She was reminded yet again of how truly devastatingly handsome he was.

“Like models?” Elain inquired, as she made a slow circle around the vast open space that was the apartment. Azriel watched her, while he washed his hands, before nodding.

“Yes. Editorials for various magazines–Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Marie Claire. It was a fluke really. When I was in the Marines, I liked to take photos of just random things.”

“You are a Marine?” she whirled and looked at him in shock.

“I am. So is my brother Cassian. But we are retired. Anyway, I took some nice photos, and my buddies put on a little exhibition. From there, word spread and the next thing I know, I am being invited to photograph barely dressed girls. It was a strange transition, but I spent about 7 years doing shoots all over the world. Not a bad job.”

“Apparently,” Elain frowned at him, and then asked, “and Darius’s mother? Was she one of the models?”

“She was,” he confirmed, as he began pulling things out of the refrigerator. “You probably know her,”

“She is famous?”

“She is. She goes by The Morrigan. I always told her that the ‘the’ is dumb,” he rolled his eyes, but Elain was gawking at him. The Morrigan was one of the biggest models in the world–even those who didn’t know anything about fashion, knew who she was. She was equally famous for her unruly behaviour, as she was for her bombshell beauty. And Azriel was in a relationship with her. 

Elain didn’t respond, but only continued her slow perusal of the apartment. The bedrooms were in the back, and she heard the kids’ voices coming from a corridor.

She didn’t want to think about the fucking Morrigan, or was it the fucking The Morrigan? She wasn’t sure, but she didn't want to imagine Azriel with her. Didn’t want to imagine him with any models, frankly.

Suddenly, while her brain was working in overdrive, conjuring wild images of passionate embraces between Azriel and faceless naked models,  Azriel’s muscular arm slipped around her shoulders from behind, and he rested his chin on top of her head, whispering ‘come here’. Elain wrapped her hands over his thick forearm and he kissed her temple.

“Don’t think about them, beautiful. I am not a player like that, and truthfully, that part of my life is over. Seven years was enough. I am not a drug dealer or a coke head. I’ve made a name for myself and a shit ton of money and that’s all that matters.”

“And now?” 

“And now, I still photograph, but I specialise in celebs now–their private photos, or their editorials. That’s what pays the bills–the money is very good.”

“I can see that,” she noted dryly and he laughed.

“I like action photography–sports, nature, cities. That’s what I do for myself and for sales. That’s where my heart is at. Not celebrities and their weirdly named babies like Lucky Charms, and Huggie Lovie, or Baby Mr. T, and Antarctica.”

Elain was shaking in his arms with laughter. 

“Rich coming from a man who named his son Darius!”

Pretending outrage, he cried out, “Excuse me?! What the hell is wrong with Darius?”

“It’s a hella name for a baby.”

“He is fine. He carries it well.”

“I love Darius, actually,” she admitted.

He said nothing, but only nosed into her head, holding her against his massive chest, the steel bands of his arms wrapped tightly around her chest.

“I am scared, Azriel,” Elain breathed.

“Of what, baby?”

“Of not doing this right. Of losing you before I even got you,”

“You got me, beautiful,” he insisted. “Don't worry.”

“But what if I am just not good enough? You dated The Morrigan,”

“You mean the chick who got pregnant, dumped her newborn with a guy who fucked her a couple of times, and then walked away never to even inquire about her son again? Yeah, she is a real prize!”

Elain chewed on her lower lip, thinking.

When he put it like that…

-

…”Stay with me,” Azriel murmured, his voice pleading, verging on desperate. 

“I have to go home,” Elain argued feebly.

It was just the two of them.

They had dinner, and it felt like a family, the four of them seated around the table, not at the counter, like usual, but a proper table. They ate amazing lobster ravioli, which Azriel had admitted he didn’t make, but got freshly made from his favourite Italian place. He did cook an incredible fresh tomato and light cream sauce, which was truly mouthwatering. Elain had helped him, by making a simple salad, dressed with lemon juice and olive oil–he had the good, expensive Italian stuff, which wasn’t exactly a surprise. The kids drank mineral water and Azriel had opened a bottle of Chablis, which went surprisingly well with the ravioli. He had cloth napkins and nice, white dishes. And as she ate, Elain thought that truly, they were a different kind of pair. They were not…usual. Neither she nor Azriel liked to rush. They enjoyed the nicer things in life. She had less money than he did, but it didn’t mean that she didn’t strive for the best for herself and for her daughter. They liked conversation. They liked involving their children in everything, and they treated them with respect and understanding. There were no phones at the table, nothing to disturb the connection. And not for the first time this week, Elain thought that perhaps she could build something with this strange man. They matched. Maybe too much, which was both a little scary, but also extremely exciting. 

“No, you don’t,” he insisted. 

His big palms cupped her face and he looked down at her.

“You don’t have to go,” he repeated. “It’s Friday night. There is no school or work tomorrow. I am sure both Isa and Darius would love to have a sleepover.”

Elain’s throat bobbed. 

He smelled good. He felt even better. His massive hands felt heavenly on her skin. His eyes were warm and his voice urgent.

“I would say that I’d be a gentleman and not try anything,” he continued, “but that would be a lie. Because all I want is to make love to you. Let me. Let me make love to you and be your first.”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” she whispered, her heart beating wildly in her chest and she was considering whether he should call 911, because she might be suffering from some kind of cardiac emergency. Was it normal to be so hot? Was 25 too early for hot flashes? Because that’s how it felt–she was engulfed in heat.

He huffed an indignant huff.

“Come on, we both know that that one time was just to make Isa. He was just a sperm donor, nothing else. The only reason for him to have existed in your life is to make your gorgeous daughter, and she eventually brought us together. You and I, beautiful, were written in the stars. There is no denying it. You know this in your gut. Everything led us here, and it’s up to you to take the bull by the horns.

“It’s all pipes,” he concluded.

“All pipes?” she laughed a nervous laugh.

“Yeah, the universe is working really hard to bring the two of us together.  All pipes.”

“What happens after?” she managed to ask, doubt still rearing its ugly head inside of her.

“After? After we live,” he pressed his lips to her brow. “We do our best, the way we always have. Only we do it together.”

“You are relentless.”

“You have no idea.”

She nervously fingered the hem of her shirt and then whispered, “will you stop…if I don’t want it?”

“Well, I am not going to rape you, if that’s what you are asking.”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” she argued instantly, blushing profusely. 

He didn’t answer, but instead, called ‘Darius, Isa! Come here!”

They ran into the room a few minutes later and stopped, watching him expectantly. 

“Mama and I wanted to see if you guys wanted to have a sleepover?” Azriel asked, his arm casually draped over Elain’s shoulders. When he said ‘mama and I’ it did something to her–something warm and amazing and needy in her belly. 

“Yes!” Darius declared immediately. Then asked, “what this be sleepover?”

Elain attempted to hide her smile, and buried her face in Azriel’s shoulder.

Azriel handled it perfectly, simply explaining, “you and Isa are going to sleep in your room.”

“Oh, that’s fun!” Isa exclaimed. 

“Yes, I want it so much!” Darius agreed, bouncing on his toes.

And just like that, it was all decided and settled. 

Isa was dressed in Darius’s PJs which were in fact big on her. There was a convertible armchair in Darius’s bedroom, which they made into Isa’s bed, and she was thrilled to be sleeping in a new place. 

“I love sleepover!” Darius concluded, as soon as he was in bed and tucked in, Brute the Bat next to him. As any good host he offered Brute to Isa, who politely declined, and instead, opted for a stuffed rabbit. 

“Good night you two,” Elain told them and then went to kiss them both.

“Night, ma! You gonna have a sleepover too?” Isa asked.

“I think that I will,” Elain admitted. 

“You have fun Lain!” Darius recommended and kissed her on the cheek.

“I’ll take care of her,” Azriel wrapped his arm possessively around Elain’s waist and tugged her to him. 

“Dada is nice,” Darius informed Elain seriously. “You can have sleepover with him, Lain.”

The moment the door was closed behind them and they took two steps into the hallway, Azriel turned to face Elain. His face was beautiful, but intense. He watched her without blinking, and then stated, ‘you are nervous'.

“I am,” she confirmed, her voice hoarse and weird.

God, she was sweating again. Her back was dripping with nervous sweat and she felt like she was about to faint.

“Don’t be,” he whispered. 

Suddenly, his big hand threaded into her bun and he wrapped her hair around his hand, pulling her face back for a moment and looking down at her from his massive height.

“Tell me to kiss you,” he urged her, his voice even rougher than hers.

She loved the gesture of dominance, him holding her like that, but she also loved that he was asking her so politely. 

“Kiss me then,” she said at last and without missing a beat, he crushed his lips to hers.

His was a hungry, needy kiss, the kind Elain always wanted to experience, but never had the chance. The kiss no one ever offered her before.

Azriel’s lips were soft, and there was gentleness about them, about how he enveloped her mouth with his, but at the same time, he took what he wanted from her. Her lips parted for his tongue without any prompting and she leaned into him, momentarily forgetting her nervousness. It didn’t matter somehow–it felt too good. The nearness of him, the hold of his warm hands on her body, the way he clasped the back of her head so he could keep her the way he wanted her–it felt incredible. 

“So beautiful,” he whispered into her mouth, holding her close, while she wrapped her arms around his torso, unwilling to let him go. Now, if he wanted to stop this, she probably wouldn’t let him.

“Ahhh, now you want it, my beautiful girl,” he teased, his hot, wet tongue swiping over her lips, her teeth, learning of her and her taste. “But if you want me to stop,”

“Okay, don’t stop,” she panted, kissing him endlessly, feverishly. Azriel barked a laugh at her words and returned to kissing her. 

Good god it felt good. So good to be wanted, to be genuinely liked. Under her shirt, Elain’s breasts felt achy, swollen, and her nipples were so hard, they’d probably rip right through her bra. However, she and Azriel haven't even made it to the bedroom yet!

As if reading her mind, Azriel’s hand fell down the small of her back and he grabbed a handful of her ass, squeezing it appreciatively. 

“God I can’t wait to be inside of you,” he moaned. “You are so incredibly delicious…Every bit of you is just so fine.”

Half-dragging her next to him, they stumbled down the corridor, ambling towards the bedroom. Thankfully, it was at the end of the hallway, quite removed from Darius’s room. 

If she were being entirely honest with herself, Elain didn’t care right now. He could probably fuck her right on the floor here, and she wouldn’t bat an eye. They bumped into walls as they pawed at each other, kissing and biting and licking. He kissed her neck hungirly, tasting her skin, his warm lips gliding up and down, from her clavicle to her jaw. Elain whimpered when he dragged his tongue over the pulsating vein of her neck and he chuckled, “My eager girl,” as he returned to her mouth, kissing her savagely and deeply.

Shouldering the bedroom door he opened it swiftly, and then kicked it back to close it behind them. 

He dropped Elain on the bed and then stepped back. 

“On your knees, sweetheart. Hands on your lap,” he instructed, and Elain followed his command at once. She could barely even understand what he was telling her, and moved to the sound of his voice instinctively, as opposed to actually listening to his commands. But she liked it–innately, she liked it when he told her what to do and she didn’t know why.

“Beautiful,” he approved, as he stroked her cheek and moved surprisingly slowly towards her, watching her with endless fascination. No one’s ever looked at her like that and saw her. She wasn’t just a pretty girl, or someone he wanted to fuck–she was desirable to him. The emotional connection was unsettling, crossing into intimacy, but perhaps that’s what Elain craved deep down. Her hands were shaking on her lap. But she wanted him to continue looking at her like that. It was a combination of possessiveness, need, curiosity, and some strange protectiveness, as if in the end, he wanted to keep her safe and whole. 

“Do you trust me, baby?” he asked, his tone soft.

Elain nodded. She did. Again, instinctively. She trusted him to do right by her–whatever that looked like for the two of them.

With one hand, he pulled his shirt over his head, throwing it on the floor without ever taking his eyes off Elain. Seeing his body made her jaw go slack. His muscles were lean and perfectly defined, his skin decorated with tattoos, his arms scarred to the elbow, the V leading into his jeans so prominent, it was almost indecent. Elain’s never seen such definition on any actual human (Olympic athletes notwithstanding). 

“Lie down, pretty girl,” he told her and she did, her heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings. She couldn’t concentrate on anything, other than Azriel’s stunning body and his face, and she was only vaguely aware that his bed was huge and that the city was twinkling with lights somewhere outside the enormous windows. “Spread your legs for me, baby,” he requested and Elain slowly did as she was told, her long silk skirt falling down her thighs and pooling on her stomach. She was barefoot already, having taken her sandals off after dinner, when they played with the kids. 

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he said, and sat on the edge of the bed, placing his hand on her belly and quickly unbuttoning the two buttons at the waist. He pulled the skirt off her hips then, and flung it on the floor, where it joined his shirt. Elain could feel herself soaking through her cotton panties–she didn’t have the fancy kind, so she went with her usual plain cotton and lace ones. Now, she was getting so hot and bothered that she felt herself leaking for him. And he saw it. He looked right between her thighs and smiled, running her thumb straight down the centre of her. Elain jerked on the bed, a jittery, pathetic moan escaping her parted lips. Azriel leaned over her, and kissed her again, his tongue gently sweeping inside her mouth, sucking her own, making her delirious with his kisses, while he gingerly worked her panties down her legs. 

“That’s my pretty girl,” he murmured, once she was laying half naked in front of him. “So gorgeous and all mine,” he added, lightly, but firmly pushing her thighs further apart, spreading her widely. 

“Az,” she groaned loudly,

“Yeah, beautiful?”

“I need more.”

“And you will get more,” he kissed her bare knees, “I just want to look at your pretty pink pussy right now…Remember what I told you I wanted to do to you?”

She licked her lips, feeling exposed, but also so, so sexy, lying like that in front of him. No man’s ever seen her like this, certainly not in such explicit detail, but she liked it. So she opened her thighs even wider, eliciting a muffled groan of appreciation from him.

“Finger me,” she recalled, blushing from the words, which made it real somehow. The words were crude, but her position didn’t bother her–she was tense as fuck, but from arousal, and not fear or discomfort.

“What else?” he pressed, and then carefully pinched her folds and pulled them apart, while she moaned and arched her back for him, grabbing the bed covers violently and wrenching them in her hands.

“You wanted to eat my pussy,” she choked out, closing her eyes and feeling like she was losing her mind. 

“Is your pussy sweet?” he asked rhetorically, kissing the inside of her thigh.

“I don’t know,”

“Well, let’s find out, shall we?” With that, he dropped to his knees in front of her by the bed and pulled her roughly forward, pressing her feet into his shoulders. He leaned forward, pushing her legs to her chest, his massive shoulders immobilising her, while he picked up her ass in his large palms and brought her closer to his mouth.

Elain stilled. She really hoped that she wouldn’t have a massive coronary right then and there. This was a man she hardly knew, who was not just staring at her bare pussy, but who was…oh lordy lord…yep, he licked it.

Her pained inhale was so loud, it sounded like a moan.

“Azriel…” she wept. He kissed her. Kissed her slit, the way he kissed her mouth. He kissed her opening. He kissed her folds. He kissed her firmly, deeply over her clit, making her buckle and wail, while he held her down and close to his mouth. He was unperturbed by how she strained against him, but only stroked her legs up from her feet all the way to her upper thighs, as he gently, but insistently sucked on her swollen bud. 

“Az, Az,” she whimpered desperately, but he only swirled his tongue around the clit, and sucked on it insistently, his mouth so warm, and so wonderful that it was turning her inside out. He licked and he sucked, steadily, with rhythmic slurping around her dripping slit, caressing her body as he went at it with a blissed out expression on his face. 

She hardly dared to look down between her legs, for seeing his hazel eyes watching her and her reactions was almost painfully intimate. But the noises of satisfaction, and his grunts of pleasure told her everything that she needed to know–Azriel was enjoying tasting her just as much as she enjoyed being sucked and licked. It was wet and sensual and she loved it when his tongue swirled inside her hole, but she never ever imagined that this could feel as good as he was making it. 

Her legs were shaking, but he kept stroking them soothingly, as if knew that she was experiencing things that she’d never felt before, and she needed extra support from him. But he wasn’t gentle. He bit the wet folds of her pussy with little nips, before clamping his teeth over her clit and holding it hostage, while he licked on it fervently with the flat pad of his tongue. Her toes curled on his shoulders and she tried to hold back the scream that was building inside her chest from the delicious, sublime pleasure-pain that he was offering her so willingly. 

“Ohmygod, ohmygod,” she chanted brokenly and he gave her a stern look over her heaving belly, though he didn’t interrupt his sucking of her clit, and shook his head. 

“Azriel,” she corrected herself, and he smiled into her pussy, nodding his approval.

Pressing his teeth tighter over her swollen, painfully engorged clit, which felt like it was buzzing from the inside, he slowly eased one finger into her, pushing bluntly inside her hole. 

“Oh fuuuuck,” she cried pitifully, because he slipped a second finger, and then a third, in quick succession. It hurt. She was sloppily wet, but she was tight and his long, thick fingers stretched her to a painful point. But a cry of ‘more, more, please,’ tore from her, as she pushed her slit into his face. What if she killed him? Suffocated him with her pussy? But considering how hard his hand was working inside of her, fingering her with brutal, stunning determination, she figured that he was far from death. His hand battered into her, merciless and wonderful, and she moaned loudly and endlessly. 

It was too much. All of it was too much.

She should’ve taken him on his offer a week ago and let him finger her in the kitchen. Because this…

This was insane. Astounding. 

His hot, harsh-skinned hand snaked up her stomach and he pulled her bra cup down without any preliminaries, baring her aching tit to the cool air. He squeezed it roughly, and Elain loved it–how he was able to hold her whole breast in his hand, and how he pinched her nipple in his fingers. This man was like a damn octopus–he had 40 hands and 20 suction cups in his mouth, because he managed to overstimulate every part of her body. 

And the fingering…oh god…the fingering was beyond fantastic. It was beyond anything Elain ever dreamed of. The feeling of that massive penetrating hand, how he pushed the walls of her pussy apart, how he stretched and moulded her over his hand was so pornographically erotic that she’d lost all inhibitions. There were no inhibitions for her to even think about. He’d stripped her down to her core and forced her to let go and enjoy every moment of this. 

When he removed his hand from her breast, she whined from the loss, but also watched him unbutton the top two buttons of his jeans, exposing the most delicious-looking trail of hair, which she yearned to lick. She could see the huge bulge in his jeans and the size of him made her feverishly excited, and nervous. She understood why he was fingering her so hard–he needed to prepare her for his massive-looking dick. 

“More…” she begged desperately, her body arcing so hard off the bed, she was almost sitting up by now. And then he bit her. He bit her clit hard, and rammed his fingers deeper, which made her lose her mind and she screamed a loud, trembling cry, which filled the space between them. Hot and sweaty and shaking uncontrollably, Elain came and came and came. She orgasmed so hard, her ears popped. 

Azriel tore his face from her pussy, giving her clit one parting lick and then she watched him, almost in slow motion, release his cock from his jeans. 

The moment of clarity made her gasp and hiss ‘Jesus fuck’ at the sight of him. 

That’s what happened when you dated a guy who was over 6”5. He had an ‘over 6”5’ dick. 

He looked at her and then cupped her flushed cheek in his hand.

“You want me inside, baby?” he asked hoarsely, and Elain reared upwards and licked his wet face, tasting herself on his skin.

“Yes,” she breathed. “More than anything,”

He gave himself a few hearty rugs, which Elain found mesmerising.

“Funny how this happened,” he chuckled.

“What?”

“Well, I wanted to taste you, finger you and watch you come–and just like that, I’ve accomplished it all!”

Before she could respond, he grunted, 

“Take that dick then, beautiful,” hefting her back up on the bed and then propping himself on his hands and knees above her. Elain knew that she looked a mess, with her shirt still on, falling off one shoulder and hastily unbuttoned, her breast bare, her bra askew, but he also looked dishevelled, still wearing his jeans, his thick, perfect cock bobbing at his navel. Yes, his cock was perfect–straight, thick, long, smooth. He propped her legs on his forearms and then slowly, but steadily eased the thick head of his dick inside of her.

The push of his shaft was unwaveringly firm, solid and the thickness of him made Elain’s eyes roll back in her head. She didn’t even know if it was pleasure or pain–some unholy combination of both–but she convulsed wildly around him and the heft of his burning hot dick. 

“Laney, my baby, you feel like melted butter,” he smiled at her, while the progression of his shaft continued inside of her. “How does it feel?”

“Please never stop,” she begged, as tears slipped from her eyes. She wasn’t even sure why she was crying. Because it felt incredibly good? Because he cared about her? Because she was falling in love? She didn’t know, but she was being honest–she never wanted it to stop.

And then he was thrusting into her, deep and hard, his hips steady and powerful, as he filled and emptied her again and again. Elain couldn’t keep her eyes open, and she panted heavily, unconcerned about the crazed sounds that she emitted. She was just feeling him. She felt overstuffed, wet, hot, exhausted, pumped up, desperately horny, and massively overstimulated. Her clit rubbed into that fabulous patch of hair and against his stomach, and with every pump of his hips, Elain rose higher and higher, crying like a madwoman, shaking and thrashing beneath him. His rough hands roamed about her body, feeling her, stroking her, squeezing her, while he pounded into her savagely, building her up with every shove of his dick. 

“Azriel, it’s…how…what is…what is this?” she babbled mindlessly.

“That’s your dick, beautiful. Use it and come all over it.” he ordered her, and increased the speed of his thrusts.

“It feels too good,” she whispered weakly. “I can’t…”

“It feels just right,” he insisted, kissing her voraciously, and licking her tongue with impatient swipes of his tongue.

She ran her hands over his tattooed skin, burning with warmth and misted with sweat beneath her palms. And then she was orgasming again, over and over, all around his relentless cock. He watched her from his position, smiling at her and whispering words of encouragement and praise, while she screamed his name into his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips. In some feat of astonishing athleticism, he held her up, as she hung onto him like a needy koala, his cock still firmly buried in her, moving rapidly inside.

Elain was so beyond understanding what was going on, she didn’t even comprehend their ridiculous position. But Azriel held her up, as she clenched around him, her ankles wrapped tightly around his back, her mouth starved for his tongue.

“Come for me,” he murmured, “let me have this perfect pussy…”

“It’s yours,” she wept breathlessly.

She was floating somewhere in her head, her body still rocked by the aftershocks of the earth shattering orgasms that he offered her so easily and freely. Her core was stretch to the limit, and yet he still rode her, his arms tense, his powerful body coiled from strain of fucking her and holding her up. 

“Let me come in you, my beautiful girl,” he muttered, kissing her head, her face, her lips.

“I want it, Az. It’s yours,” she panted, her pussy pulsing and milking him, “it’s for you.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he kissed her and gently laid her back on the mattress, holding her knees apart, as he pumped hard and fast into her. 

He came deeply and voluptuously, the hot seed painting her womb, a guttural moan of pure pleasure tearing from his throat. 

It felt…magical. Everything about him was raw and hard and passionate, and Elain took all of it. Everything that he gave her. 

He tweaked her nipple in his fingers, and then stroked her face with his knuckles, looking down at her with complete adoration. 

“You are perfect,” he whispered. “And mine.”

“I think that I am,” she nodded, chasing his fingertips with her lips. He let her kiss them and pushed hard into her, keeping his cock and his cum deep inside of her. 

“Do you want to taste me, baby?” 

Elain licked her lips, looking him up and down, his stunning torso and his pleasure-tinted expression.

Before she could answer, he pulled her up and said, “open up” as he withdrew his cock from her and then thrust it firmly in her mouth, easing between her lips.

“Good girl,” he approved and patted her head, while she looked at him, trying to acquaint herself with the girth and heaviness of him in her mouth. He was covered in her wetness and his cum, but for some reason, it didn’t bother her. 

“Have you ever sucked dick before?” he asked, massaging the back of her neck slowly, wiping her sweaty brow with his knuckles.

She was barely able to move her head, but she shook it ‘no’.

He smiled and ordered, “you’ll suck me off, pretty girl.”

Elain was nervous because she’s never done this before, but it didn’t mean that she didn’t want to. He placed his hand on her head, keeping her in place and his cock nudged forward, sliding in carefully, but firmly. The head of him bumped into the back of her throat and she gasped, but seeing the tremble that her involuntary suck caused, she held onto him, opening wider. His eyes closed and he began slowly, pushing in and out of her wet mouth, allowing her to acclimate to the feel of him. But he was firm as always, holding her head motionless and thrusting slightly deeper with each push. 

“That’s my good girl,” he approved. “Take me deeper, sweetheart.”

He gained speed and set a brisk pace, using her for his pleasure, just like she used him before. 

She cleaned him completely with her tongue and now just used it to swirl over the head and the underside of his shaft, sucking noisily, breathing through her nose. He gagged her a few times, but she didn’t mind it and he didn’t change his rhythm.

“I want to come in your mouth,” he grunted, his breathing heavier, and his movements becoming jerkier. “Shake your head if you don’t want me to.”

Elain looked up at him with her tear-stained eyes, and didn’t move her head.

“Oh thank god,” he panted, holding her head between his palms and pushing his cock harder into her mouth. “Choke on it,” he muttered, when she did. “You are so beautiful.”

Elain dug her fingers into his iron-hard ass, slipping them beneath his jeans, while he fucked her mouth hard. Maybe she was beautiful to him? By the look of his deeply pleased expression, it seemed like he was thoroughly enjoying himself. 

“Swallow everything, baby,” he trembled with exertion and exploded in her throat. Elain swallowed greedily, wanting every drop of him. He was hot and salty and heady, and maybe it was strange, but she found him absolutely delicious. 

He came long and hard, and she swallowed everything, stroking his thighs, his hands, watching him. His breathing was shallow, and when he finally took his cock out of her mouth, he dipped down and kissed her.

“You are everything I’ve ever wanted, Ellie,” he admitted, finally pulling his jeans off and sliding next to her on the bed. Elain rolled on her side and watched him, while he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. Maybe he was everything that she wanted as well.

…It was later in the night, when she was sleeping in his arms, both of them naked and comfortable, that she wondered if history was about to repeat itself.

Epilogue

9 months later

Azriel opened the door and entered the lounge. It was like the Sleeping Kingdom from Sleeping Beauty.

Darius and Isabella were asleep next to each other on the love seat, a pink blanket draped over them. In an armchair opposite of them, Feyre was curled into a ball, dead to the world, snoring lightly. Finally, on the larger couch, Cassian sat with his head thrown back, his posture relaxed, his legs spread comfortably. Nesta’s head rested on his thigh, which she was using as a pillow. It didn’t escape Azriel that even in their sleep, their hands were clasped and fingers threaded together. 

Gone was his brother the Mountain Man. Cassian Night cleaned up his act for his woman.

On the floor, there was an array of toys–dragons, princesses, finger puppets, books and whatever else Cassian chose to entertain his niece and nephew with. He always went overboard and the kids loved it.

Cassian’s eyes fluttered and then opened, as he straightened immediately and peered at Azriel.

“You were supposed to be babysitting,” Azriel chuckled, shaking his head.

“We technically are!”

“Yeah, three adults in the room and everyone is asleep.”

‘I am not asleep. I am just resting my eyes.”

Then, Cassian paused and finally asked, a smile on his face.

“So, what do I owe you, brother? A bottle of Glenfiddich or a bottle of Cristal?”

“Glenfiddich,” Azriel whispered, smiling broadly, his eyes moist with tears. And then he clapped his hands and announced, “we have a boy! My gorgeous stunner of a wife just gave us a son. Our baby Lance was born at 3:14 am. He is 10 lb 4 oz. and 23 inches.”

“A boy?” they heard Nesta’s awed whisper, as she raised her head from Cassian’s lap.

“Congrats to us, Nessie. We are an aunt and an uncle. AGAIN. Which means we are next, Nes!” Cassian announced jovially.

She gave him ‘the look’ and muttered, “Excuse me?”

“Yep. We should have a little girl. We’ll name her Sutton,”

“EXCUSE ME?”

“Yeah, Sutton Night.”

“I am not having Sutton!” Nesta protested.

Cassian cupped the back of her head in his enormous hand and planted a hearty kiss on her lips.

“Yeah, you are,” he insisted. “They,” he jerked his shoulder at Azriel, “have three! We have none. It’s time, sweetheart.”

“Okay, but we are not naming her Sutton,”

He kissed her again and said,

“Whatever my lady prefers is fine by me.”

“Let’s go look at that baby,” Nesta decided. 

-

That light is Hope. It is a living thread of iridescent light like the healing light that flows from Nesta:

Iridescent light began flowing from Nesta's body. Into Feyre. [...] Tendrils of light drifted between the sisters. And one, delicate and loving, floated toward Mor. (acosf)

I’ve always wondered if the tendrils of iridescent light between the sisters is a hint of what lies between them: raw magic.

“Once, the High Fae were more elemental, more given to reading the stars and crafting masterpieces of art and jewelry and weaponry. Their gifts were rawer, more connected to nature, and they could imbue objects with that power.” (acosf)

We hear about the raw magic of High Fae when the inner circle learns about Nesta’s Made swords. And Sarah just happens to drop art, jewelry, and weaponry as objects that can be imbued with raw magic. Objects that make us think of the sisters: Feyre creates art, Nesta is compared to and actually forges swords, and Elain is gifted art and jewelry that embody nature. She is a blooming flower compared to Nesta’s freshly forged sword (acowar). And the two sisters who have had their stories told have used raw magic to heal (Cauldron; Feyre, Nyx), to create, like the High Fae once did. We will likely see the third sister exhibit rawer magic as well.

We're led to believe that the Mother shows Nesta how to heal Feyre with iridescent light when she agrees to return her magic. We also see a luminous hand (presumably the Mother's) prevent the Cauldron from taking all of Nesta's power, which may be connected to the hand on the mural in Spring that pours the contents of the Cauldron into the void to create Prythian's world. In Herbs she planted, I discussed Elain’s connections to witches and healers (and these categories often overlap, like witches and seers; since the sisters may all possess raw magic, it is not far fetched that Elain could weave sight and healing together as a mystical forest witch would). In that post, I also review how the being we call the Mother behaves a lot like the Other who appears to Yrene in Tower of Dawn. This Other is believed to be Silba, the goddess of healing and gentle deaths. Like the Mother, Silba is also associated with a dark womb, and her healing magic is referred to as world-making power, which brings to mind the hands of creation in Spring.

Yrene, the healer Silba appears to, possesses raw healing magic and it manifests as white light. She uses it to battle Valg magic, which is compared to darkness, void, and hell.

He’d roared around it. His bellowing had been almost as bad as the magic itself. It was a void. It was a new, dark hell. […] She’d hurled her magic against the wall, letting its swarm of burning white lights attack in wave after wave, but—nothing. (tod)

Like water, it seeps into Chaol's legs, and acts like a swarm of fireflies (similar to Thesan's healing power as he inspects Nesta in acowar).

Closing her eyes, Yrene let her power seep into his legs like a swarm of white fireflies, finding those damaged pathways and congregating, surrounding the frayed bits that went silent during these exercises, when they should have been lit up like the rest of him. (tod)

Healers' lights are also compared to blooms, and together, they are a field of white flowers.

Blooming lights, along that broken interior. And where they shone... Flesh knitted. Bone smoothed. Light after light after light. [...] Yrene brushed herself along them, waded through them like a field of white flowers, the lights bobbing and swaying in this quiet place of pain. Not lights...but healers. She knew their lights, their essences. (tod)

Her power can also cut through the dark like a weapon, like Hope.

No way to stop Yrene as she plunged into his body, her magic a white swarming light around them, inside them. […] Yrene did not hesitate. She soared through him, down the ladder of his spine, down the corridors of his bones and blood. She was a spear of light, fired straight into the dark, aiming for that hovering shadow that had stretched out once more. That had tried to reclaim him. Yrene slammed into the darkness and screamed. (tod)

Healing magic is repeatedly compared to living things, and we often see Yrene’s raw gift swarm when it attacks the darkness. The term swarm is associated with flying insects, and in particular, honeybees. They swarm protectively when they leave the hive with new life.

“Fire is cleansing. Purifying. But amongst the healing arts, it’s not often used. Too unwieldy. Water is better-tuned to the healing. But then there are raw healing gifts. Like mine.”

“Light,” Chaol said. “It looked like swarming lights, against their darkness.” (tod)

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Elain rose early to accompany Feyre and asked the weaver about the living thread of Hope, especially since this thread resembles the way raw healing magic—living light—behaves in the darkness. We learn that life, in the form of living light, not only pierces the void, but travels through it. Elain is consistently linked to rebirth and the dawn through imagery and her daily routine, rising with the dawn to tend to gardens or help the twins in the kitchen. Dawn is connected to healing magic, and ahappyhermit theorized that Elain may have even healed Cassian’s wounds as Nesta beheaded Hybern in acowar. @silverlinedeyes also theorized that Elain might be a Lifesinger, calling to living things around her as she creates. She is often (if not constantly) creating. Whatever happens in canon, it’s clear Elain is the epitome of living light, of Hope:

Beautiful - she'd always been the most beautiful of us. Soft and lovely, like a summer dawn. (acomaf)

She was a rose bloom in a mud field.(acowar)

Even in the middle of winter, she was a bloom of color and sunshine. (acofas)

Her sister's delicate scent of jasmine and honey lingered in the red-stoned hall like a promise of spring, a sparkling river that she followed to the open doors of the chamber. [...] Her sister turned toward her, glowing with health. Elain's smile was as bright as the setting sun beyond the windows. (acosf)

Her brown eyes were bright with tears, but she kept her chin high. (acosf)

Even on the longest night of the year, she glows like the dawn, when light pierces the darkness.

But even the silence weighed too heavily, and though the shadows kept him company, as they always had, as they always would, he found himself leaving the room. Entering the foyer. Soft steps padded from under the stair archway, and there she was. The Fanlights gilded Elain's unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn. She halted, her breath catching in her throat. (Azriel's bonus chapter)

Nesta placed her symbol, a bloom made in the icy darkness of winter, next to the Mother's figurine on the mantle. The Mother who showed Nesta how to use her raw magic to heal. We learn in tod that healers sense Death nearby when they are called upon to heal someone’s wounds or ease their passing (hence the reference to gentle deaths). And as @psychologynerd reminded me, Elain uses her hands to bring joy and beauty to others, even in death.

Elain quietly washed his face. Combed out his hair and beard. Straightened his clothes.

She found flowers—somewhere. She laid them at his head, on his chest.

We stared down at him in silence. “I love you,” Elain whispered, voice breaking.

Nesta said nothing, face unreadable. There were such shadows in her eyes. I had not told her what I’d seen—had let them tell me what they wanted.

Elain breathed, “Should we—say a prayer?”

We did not have such things in the human world, I remembered. My sisters had no prayers to offer him. But in Prythian …

“Mother hold you,” I whispered, reciting words I had not heard since that day Under the Mountain. “May you pass through the gates; may you smell that immortal land of milk and honey.” Flame ignited at my fingertips. All I could muster. All that was left. “Fear no evil. Feel no pain.” My mouth trembled as I breathed, “May you enter eternity.”

Tears slid down Elain’s pallid cheeks as she adjusted an errant flower on our father’s chest, white-petaled and delicate, and then backed away to my side with a nod. (acowar)

I can’t help but wonder where she might’ve found those white flowers on a blood-stained battlefield. Did she actually find them, or did she will them from the soil with her own magic? I love that she does not balk from death and finds a way to nurture life amid bloodshed.

And like a moth to a flame, Azriel—Death incarnate—is repeatedly drawn to Elain, whose light seems to be able to cut through his shadows. A match in power for the darkness.

Elain looked up at Azriel, their eyes meeting, his hands still lingering on the hilt of the blade. I saw the painting in my mind: the lovely fawn, blooming spring vibrant behind her. Standing before Death, shadows and terrors lurking over his shoulder. Light and dark, the space between their bodies a blend of the two. The only bridge of connection...that knife. (acowar)

Truth-Teller, a Starborn heirloom, is the bridge between them. It is a bridge of power, where dark and light blend together, creating the harmonious contrast of dawn and dusk. Dark light. @offtorivendell wrote beautifully about how this scene hints at their future, and @psychologynerd suggested it represents an alchemical marriage. I have also wondered what might happen if their powers are joined like their hands in this scene. In one hand, Elain creates joy and life, and in the other hand, Azriel inflicts pain and death. They have also traded roles when called upon, usually in response to the other. This might explain why Azriel’s power also behaves like a dark counterpart to Elain’s, shadows gathering information as her Sight does, twining like her prophetic vine of flowers. They also swarm like the living light of healing when Azriel—or someone he cares about—is threatened.

"Because of the shit with Elain?" Azriel stilled. "What happened to Elain?" Cassian waved a hand. "A fight with Nesta. Don't bring it up," he warned when Azriel's eyes darkened. Cassian blew out a breath. "I take that as a no regarding the meeting topic, then." "It's about what I discovered. Rhys said he requires you both there." "It's bad, then." Cassian surveyed the shadows gathered around Az. "You all right?" His brother nodded. "Fine." But the shadows still swarmed him. Cassian knew it was a lie, but didn't push it. Az would speak when he was ready, and Cassian would have better success convincing a mountain to move than getting Az to open up. (acosf)

Exhaustion wasn’t even a strong enough word to describe how Elain currently felt.

She was just getting back from a work trip—who knew marketing for a financial institution needed twelve, multi-day conferences a year? As the executive of the department, it was her responsibility to attend these events and bring back new and fresh ideas, which she did. But seeing as she was sitting at just the end of her first trimester, Elain was feeling the toll of her fatigue from the week-long event. 

Azriel had texted her before her flight landed, stating he had gotten called back in for an IT-related emergency and that dinner was waiting for her when she got home. It wasn’t uncommon for him to work odd hours. As the Chief of IT for Velaris Medical Center, he often had to go in and put out fires when things arose.

She was disappointed, however, that he wouldn’t be there to welcome her home. Elain had missed her husband dearly over the last few days and wanted to feel his warm embrace. But that’s what you get when both of them were considered the big-wigs of their respective departments. Unlocking the front door, Elain dropped her keys in the ceramic bowl on their foyer table, kicked off her shoes, and padded her way to the kitchen, leaving her luggage by the front door. That was a tomorrow problem. Right now, she just needed sleep.

Read More

~~~~~

Remember, sharing is caring! Please reblog if you liked the fic. It helps spread my work and I truly appreciate it. 💕

While I have moved these fics to AO3 only, I am still going to utilize a tag list here on Tumblr. This as a permanent solution and may change in the future. For notifications, you can follow and subscribe to my fanfic account where I will be reblogging updates and snippets only. You can also find me on ao3. If you would like to be added to my tag list, please leave a comment on this post.

My fanfic account: @tswaney17fics​

My ao3 account: tswaney17

Taglist: 

@nikethestatue

@reverie-tales

@123moiaussi

@duskwhisperer

@zdenkah

@nyxreads

@shedoessoshedoes

@athena-85

@jasmineandshadows

@nightcourtseer

@nivem565

@debramclaren

@illyrianvalkyriecarynthian

@secretpuppyflower

@justreallybored

@ultadverb

@the-regal-warrior

@roseandshadows

@tcursebreaker

@kingravinger

@mis-lil-red

@eloeloeheheh

@fawnandshadows

@swankii-art-teacher

@miss-bee-cat

@bookhhrelaz

@impossiblescissorspeachpaper

@elrielbaby

@lesolehabitantdelalune

@thoughtsaboutshows

@britishwings

@aelin21galathynius

@saz-griffin

@azrielslight

@bookstaninthesoul

@curiositywoman

@karsyn-b2

@elainsweetcobalt

@emilyondemand