Work Text:
The cobbled stones felt slippery beneath her feet, but she could not slow her pace. No, Elain Archeron was late, and that just would not do. On nights as dreary and cold as this, one should wrap up, wearing cotton shirts that fasten all the way up to the neck, wool scarves that keep the chill out. But on nights like tonight, that would be impractical to say the least.
She had wasted time arguing with her sisters, so sure that it was Nesta’s turn to see the Viper and not her own, she almost believed her own lie. Her fingers were covered in flour, the dough would be over-proofed. Grayson’s lunch tomorrow would now be ruined. Maybe a bakery would still be open by the time he’d finished with her.
The fineries of society fell away, the street lamps, shop signs, everything that made her feel normal. She would bake, garden, spend time with her family, and her fiancé, but as her turn grew closer, she felt a strange burning that only intensified as every hour ticked on. The cobbles changed to a dirt track. Some time ago, she had asked her sisters if the Viper had the same effect on them, this strange feeling that for a short few moments he made her feel like someone different, someone without expectations or, even more worryingly, inhibitions.
She had tried to ask if the venom made them feel equally aroused or was it just him. Not quite in those terms, but thereabouts. She was met with blinking, wide eyes and open mouths. Obvious disgust that they did not try to hide.
No, being with the Viper was nothing more than a duty to be done.
Ravens called in mocking tones as brambles and mist tangled against her boots. She came to the wall that surrounded his mansion, every stone saturated with ivy. Long before the village had even been settled on the lower valley, this house had sat here, a solid monument of black stone and sharp angles looming over the woods. Her eyes traced the roof line where crooked, needle-thin spires pierced the night sky. Perched along the stone ledges, carved gargoyles with snarling, sneering faces stared down at her, their frozen grimaces mirroring the exact unease twisting in her gut.
The familiar creak of the hinges squeaked as she opened the iron gate, and that intoxicating sensation that apparently only she experienced washed over her. Nights were drawing in, the Viper had lit the lights along his drive for her. No, not for her, but for any visitors, surely. She felt her cheeks begin to heat. Sticky sweat coated her clammy skin as she reached for the knocker, a circular bronze-cast decoration of a snake devouring its own tail. Her throat bobbed. Her hand squeezed the glass beaker in her grasp, though she had forgotten it was even there, even though this was the sole purpose of the arrangement.
She banged loudly, as there were no other houses for miles. The door creaked open instantly, like he was waiting, ready. This arrangement suited him too, she reminded herself, one last moment of clarity before he came into view. She felt hot breath against her wet lips as her eyes dragged up, and up, to the Viper’s face. He had a real name, the folk of the township called him lord Azriel. But she never uttered it.
If he had servants she never saw them. His face stole the air from her lungs. He possessed a terrifying, predatory beauty, his sharp jaw and high cheekbones framed by a messy tumble of ink-black hair.
His shirt was unbuttoned to the middle of his chest, revealing his smooth, tanned skin. He did not conform to township fashion or convention.
The cords of his neck looked tight, and she wondered if her own looked the same, as it certainly felt it. She realised as she looked at his full lips that she was biting her own. He blinked, and she swore his pupils moved from slits to circles.
She looked down at her hands. With her knuckles now white against the glass beaker, she would surely crack it if she held it any tighter.
“Here,” she thrust it at him. His dark hair fell over his eyes as he eyed the familiar object.
“Hello?”
“Hello.” She shouldered past him and into his disgustingly huge home. Elain brushed his arm with her own, and even with the layers of clothes between bare skin, she still felt that familiar chill. Like he was dead, or shouldn't be alive.
She tried not to think about it as she struggled her damp coat off, placing it over the armchair next to the enormous fire that did little to warm the beast. Why he bothered at all was beyond her.
“Drink?” He walked to his cabinet and began pouring two large glasses of red wine. She shouldn’t, since she and Grayson would be trying for a child soon, and her physician had given her a long list of instructions to improve her chances, alcohol not being one of them.
But his cool fingers brushed her own as he placed the stem between her waiting fingers. “Thank you,” she whispered. He never offered Feyre or Nesta a drink. No, by all accounts, they were out of his home within fifteen minutes of arriving, their necks bruised darker, taking longer to heal. Perhaps Elain relaxed somewhat, and didn't tense up. Maybe he was more gentle with her.
“How was your day?” His eyes flicked down to hers. She looked up, blinking.
“Fine. Yourself?”
“I have not long woken up, but so far...”
“Do you mind?” She pointed at the container. Always get the venom first, as he could not, should not be trusted to produce it once he’d got his end of the bargain.
He sighed, lifting it to the low light of the sconces. “Pig skin?”
“You said it would work better than parchment.”
It had been easy enough to get, though securing the dry hide over the glass had been a little trickier.
He licked his lips. If he wasn't a monster, he could be attractive. Even with those strange qualities of his.
“Is it helping your father?” His voice was dry, deep.
She frowned. “He's much better now that we are able to make the ointments consistently." Why was she telling him? Why was he asking?
His throat bobbed as he brought the glass to his lips, his hazel eyes unnaturally still as he stared into her own.
Her breath hitched in response, traitorous. She had never made that noise with Grayson, and the Viper wasn't even touching her… yet. She felt her own eyes soften as his lips stretched over his teeth, revealing his porcelain white pointed fangs. She saw his tongue flatten against the side of the glass, saw the soft muscle part to reveal his true self. When she'd first seen it, it had made her nauseous, but now she wondered how difficult it must be to eat if he even ate at all, and how useful it could be to have a tongue that parted.
She pushed the thought away just as heat threatened to pool low in her stomach. He stilled, his fangs just about to puncture the skin of the cup.
Did he know? Could he sense her strange arousal? No.
She looked to the floor, heard the crisp sound of teeth piercing the new lid, knowing the sensation well enough by now. She heard the squirt of his venom hitting the glass, heard the low clicking noise his throat made when he was doing this, or just about to bite her. Whether it was merely a sound he released or something more telling, she didn't know.
“Here,” he held out the glass. She blinked, looking up as she took it from him, setting it down next to her purse.
“Where do you want me?”
“You can finish your wine at least.” He wiped the stray pearlescent juice from his lips before crossing the room and sitting on the armchair closest to the fire.
“I have to get back to my fiancé.” She drained her glass and crossed the room. His legs were open wide, like no gentleman in town ever sat.
“Ah, yes.” He drawled, “I remember you saying you had one of those.”
Elain pulled her chestnut hair over her left shoulder. He always bit the right side.
“Yes, I do.” Her voice was clipped. She didn't want to think of Grayson really, or of what he would think of all this. He wouldn't understand the strange bargain Feyre had made with the monster on the outskirts of town, that once a week, one of the sisters would visit in exchange for his venom. The healing properties were the only thing that helped her father walk, allowing him to return to his job. And in exchange... She didn't want to think about it, because when she did, parts of her body began to clench.
“What would he think of his precious bride-to-be crossing the woods in the dead of night to sit on my lap?”
“Yes, and why do you make me do that? I've asked my sisters, and apparently they are not required to sit on your lap.”
He blinked, his eyes turning to slits before disappearing again. He sucked in a long breath. “Your sisters are bony.” He was smiling. The bastard was actually smiling.
“Shut up.”
“I would give you more, if only you came.”
She rolled her eyes, he was always trying to make new bargains. Elain pulled her skirts higher. Gods, no one in town had even seen her ankles, yet with him, the clasps of her stockings were on full display. Maybe she'd had a little too much wine. It wasn't necessary to hitch her dress this high.
His cold hands settled on her thighs, his thumb brushing against her soft skin. He let out that same clicking noise.
“Stop that.” She seethed.
"It's involuntary." He dropped his gaze, looking down at his hands.
She paused, was he ashamed? Did monsters feel shame?
“What does it mean?” Her voice trembled. “Why do you make that sound?”
“You don't want to know,” he said, his thumbs still taking liberties she was pointedly ignoring. She knew he only touched her like that. Feyre and Nesta just stood at the threshold.
“I do.” She whispered a little softer than she'd intended.
“Believe me, you don’t.”
His hand trailed up her back, fingers tangling in her hair. He didn't pull her closer, no. That was her willingly bringing herself flush against his chest. She felt the familiar press of his tongue licking the tender skin at her neck, felt it flatten and spit. Her fingers gripped the armrests, anything to not touch him back. His saliva, he had once explained, numbed the skin before piercing. The venom numbed the flesh before...
“Ready?”
“Yes.” Gods, she hated how breathy her voice sounded.
“What are the rules?” He made her repeat it every time.
Elain smiled sweetly. "Once you pierce me, I'm not to jerk away, or you’ll tear my throat out."
"Accidentally," he added. “I'll try not to leave a mark for your darling husband to find.” She felt the cold curl of his smile against her collarbone. Felt her own mouth water in response.
“Fiancé,” she seethed, but the correction was lost as his fangs pierced her skin. Her head fell forward as a low moan escaped her. He shifted automatically, bringing his shoulder up for her to rest against. Her thighs clenched against his own and she heard the clicking intensify. His hand gripped her hair tighter and she groaned by accident again. There was only a second of delicious pain before the numbing sensation of his venom took hold, she felt a tug at her navel. It was too late. She didn't care how pathetic she sounded, how she whimpered. Her head emptied of all thoughts as he sucked, as she bit her lips to avoid saying his name. Cool fingers pushed into her soft curves. Her skin burned as he drew, the deep scent of him, like mountain mist, filled every sense.
He made her feel like an animal, and she didn't hate it.
His fangs slid free with agonising reluctance, she gagged from the sudden loss of contact, sharp points grazing her skin before his tongue soothed the sting away. She stayed exactly where she was, her cheek against his solid shoulder, eyes fluttering closed, waiting for him to tell her to move. He didn't. The room had gone impossibly quiet. The clicking rumbled from somewhere deep in his throat, softer now. Then she noticed it. They were moving. A slow, absent sway. His forehead rested briefly against the curve of her neck, his hand remained spread across the small of her back, cool and impossibly steady, his thumb resting in the curve of her waist a heartbeat longer than it needed to before it slipped away. “You're done,” he finally declared, his breath tickling the now tender skin. She hadn't realised her arms were around his neck until her grip tightened. He lifted a hand, reaching out to keep her steady. This ache in her lower stomach felt too good, so wrong. Something in his venom must sedate that part of her that went to Sunday school as a child, the endless sermons she and Grayson would sit through speaking of sins of the flesh, desire, and snakes that would tempt maidens into nests. She swallowed around the lump in her throat.
He was watching, his pupils more reptile than human, his lips and teeth coated in her blood. Utterly still, not even his chest rose or fell as though breathing were merely a prop.
She pushed the creases of her skirts down. Was every part of him this strange? Or were some parts more man?
“Thank you,” she whispered, picking the glass of venom off the floor, pulling her soft waves over the puncture mark that was still tender to any touch.
“Thank you.” He rested a finger against his temple.
Elain lifted her now dry coat off the chair.
He nodded once from where he sat. “See you in three weeks.”
Three weeks, she would hear that clicking in her mind for the next three weeks. Three weeks. An impossible length of time.
Feyre had looked tired this week... Nesta had been coughing yesterday…
A good sister would offer to take their turn should they fall ill.