ackermansundercut

[ackermansundercut]

uh hey guys do i post a fic even though i haven’t posted in like. a year

[ackermansundercut]

Gasoline

dark biker!Ari Levinson x female reader x dark biker!Curtis Everett

summary: They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. It sure was true for you. An attempt at saving someone led to you being taken into the pits of darkness. And the devils own you now.

warnings: dub-con; power imbalance; possessiveness; threats; sex in public; unprotected sex; cockwarming; oral (m receiving); mention of oral (f receiving); fingering; pussy spanking; spit kink; forced tattoo; dark!Ari; dark!Curtis;

word count: 4.5k

Author's Note: So this is a result of a few factors ruining me - @buckets-and-trees tattoo artists Curtis and Ari story making me think of those two combining forces; musings about masked dark biker Curtis with @stargazingfangirl18 ; as well my horny brain creating a very naughty dream 🫣 It's not a story I've been working on for long. I wrote it all today, because I needed to get it out of my head.

Be ready at 9PM. Max will drive you.

The message is blunt and direct. Like most of their commands. 

The upside is that at least you don’t have to figure out what they want, there are no games to be played. Still, you love when they turn a bit more playful - marginally so. When there’s a whisper of softness and fondness in their eyes as they let you tease and poke a bit.

You think it’s because you’ve learned when to do that and how to keep it just a small, acceptable dose. 

You’ve learned quickly that acting a full on brat wouldn’t be tolerated. 

Well, at the very beginning they shouldn’t have been surprised you lashed out. After all, they’ve taken you without your consent, stealing you away from your steady life as a punishment for daring to defend someone who crossed them.

With your fierce, empathetic heart you couldn’t just stand down and watch as they flayed someone open. But that act of humanity cost you your freedom. 

Swept away on a beast of a motorbike, its roar barely covering the thudding of your panicked heart; taken into the depths of the city’s darkness and into the tower that became your new life. 

Because nobody crossed Ari Levinson and Curtis Everett, without facing severe punishment.

It was your luck, or perhaps doom, they sanctioned you with life instead of death. But that life was now theirs. 

You were all theirs. 

So of course you fought at the beginning, which didn’t seem to surprise or faze them much. Your screams and throwing things against the beautiful walls of the two story penthouse were ignored for the most part. So were your tears. They merely wiped them away in an almost tender gesture, then coldly told you to accept that this was your life now. 

“You can make yourself miserable living it, or you can let yourself accept it and find enjoyment in it.” 

The way Ari's thumb brushed along your bottom lip told you exactly what kind of enjoyment they were offering you. Your traitorous body reacted, despite your mind detesting it.

They took away your clothes and when you asked for some Ari simply told you no. So you ripped down the gauzy window curtains and draped them over yourself in a makeshift dress. 

You were very smug about that little victory.

Until Ari ripped them off of you and fucked the rebellion out of you. 

Fucked you hard and long, ‘till you sobbed and begged for mercy. Which was granted only after you promised to follow the rules. 

You were still sore and oversensitive when Curtis slipped into your bed the next morning, waking you up with his mouth devouring you. Pinning you down after wrecking two orgasms out of you, he fed you the mixture of your cum and his spit, ordering you to swallow. 

“Good girls get rewarded,” he left you with that direction. And with a pile of new clothes on the chair. 

Over the next weeks, through trials and tribulations, you’ve learned that as long as you followed the rules and expectations, most of your requests were met. Often they went beyond and before you even asked for something. 

The only thing you would never be granted was your freedom. 

You weren’t allowed outside, unless you were with them. The steel and glass tower they owned was swarmed with guards and all sorts of alarms and traps. The only time you were out without either Ari or Curtis at your side (usually the both of them) was when an appointed guard was taking you to them. 

Just like now. 

You stare at the message on your phone. Which isn’t your connection to the outside world at all. The only contacts in it are to Ari, Curtis and two most trusted men from their inner circle. It’s tracked at all times and you’re sure they are monitoring your browsing history, as well. 

Clubbing is not my thing. You dare to type back.

The fact they told you where they were going when they left the penthouse isn’t much comforting, because it’s a way to force you to have information for which they could easily kill you, if you used it in any way. It’s also a manipulation to make it feel like what the three of you have is some sort of a relationship. 

But isn’t it?

Fucking aside, they spend time with you. If they aren’t away doing bloody business, they always eat breakfast with you. Other meals depending on their workload. They aren’t very talkative, but they engage in conversations with you. Curtis taught you how to properly use the few machines at the home gym, when you were restless and searching for something to do while locked in. Ari will keep you in his lap, playing with your hair and watching movies on the ridiculously huge screen. 

Glimpses of softness, really. You never fool yourself to think of them as truly soft, because even as they provide a certain tenderness, there’s always that brutal darkness lurking behind. 

It shows in the way they fuck you. As well in the way Ari’s gaze glints a murderous warning when you come close to crossing the line, or how Curtis doesn’t bother wiping away enemy’s blood from his face before coming to you. 

Wear a red dress - comes the reply and you know tonight they’re not in the mood to give you room for some brattiness. 

You huff in annoyance, but still get up and go into the bathroom to take a shower and shave. 

Sometimes, when they’re more relaxed and content, they entertain your pushing. Usually it leads to a sinfully hot chuckle, a few spanks and a lot of orgasms. But if they’re in one of their darker moods, you don’t dare to rebel. It doesn’t end well. 

Yes, there’s merciless fucking that leaves you shattered into pieces, but there’s always a higher price to pay too. Like having your childhood friend and her family threatened with death, when you reached out to her via social media. 

Hair and makeup done, clad in a tight, short red dress, you’re ready five minutes before 9PM. Max waits for you in the elevator, greeting you curtly, but not looking up at you. 

No one ever looks directly at you. No one beside Curtis or Ari. 

As you’re being driven through the city, you wistfully watch streets buzzing with life - people freely walking around, friends meeting and going out for drinks, workaholics leaving companies and trailing home. You were never a partying girl and you know you’re being summoned to the club only for Curtis and Ari’s entertainment, but at least you will be out of your beautiful prison for a few hours. 

The club is pulsing with a sensual, enticing beat. There’s enough people filling the space to make it obvious how popular this place is, but there’s also a street long line at the front, because getting in isn’t that easy. 

You don’t know if Ari and Curtis own this place, but you doubt they’d take you anywhere that wasn’t under their strict command. 

Besides, they have their fingers wrapped tightly around so many establishments and people in this city, that it may belong to them whole. 

Many would never assume that their power extended so greatly. They’re nothing like the polished, suit-wearing mafia men, or politicians that people imagine to be at the top. Not with their less classy attire of jeans and leather, their heavy biker boots, tattoos covering their bodies. And yet it’s them who hold the reins and carve up anyone daring to step out of line. 

Max points toward the staircase, leading to the upper floor. VIP section undoubtedly, considering two heavily tatted bouncers guarding the entrance. 

They nod their heads in greeting, but drop their gazes. One of them unhooks the red rope and lets you onto the stairs.

There's a middle floor, filled with velvet couches and chrome accessories, shiny tables set with buckets filled with ice and champagne bottles in each. You notice a few faces you know from the tv screen and social media. 

Ah, so it's a floor for the celebrity kind of VIPs. 

But the real important people are on the top floor. Guarded by another set of bouncers. 

Unlike the lower levels, this one is instantly recognizable as belonging to bikers. Chrome details are kept in darker tones, velvet replaced by leather, a tattoo-style painted skull takes most of the black wall. 

Members of the gang mingle around. Not many of them, just the inner circle, or closest to it. Brutal enforcers, sneaky assassins, remorseless bunch. 

You pass them without glancing at anyone, your gaze searching and settling on the only people you're allowed to give your attention to.

Ari and Curtis are sprawled on the central, U-shaped sofa. Arms braced on the back of it, legs spread wide. Masters of the dark universe. Of your universe, too. 

There's no one beside them, but in front of them, separated by the steel chrome coffee table, is a man. A battered, bleeding man. On his knees. 

Everyone around acts as if there was nothing there to see. As if the man didn't exist at all. You feel that compassionate sadness squeeze your heart. The same instinct that made you act that fatal night and sealed your fate. Now you know not to show it, not to act on it, or it would lead to the man's immediate death. 

Instead, you stand before them. Just a few steps away from the trembling man. 

Ari and Curtis’ eyes instantly move to you. Both slowly drag their gazes up your form.

One thing that you gained from their attention is the huge boost in body confidence. Each pound, each curve, each roll - they desire you all the same.

You made sure to wear a dress that's short enough to leave your thighs exposed. They always like when their marks of ownership are visible. 

Getting them was painful. Also against your will. But you stayed in place, gritting your teeth and clenching your fingers into fists. Ari held you down to prevent any squirming as Curtis personally tattooed your skin. 

One thigh presents a scary black&white skull, shrouded in darkness. With a bleeding red rose crunched between its teeth. Drops of blood are painted as dripping into scratched out letters below, forming his name - Curtis.

On your other thigh is a female's head - your portrait. All dark stencil, no color. Two skeleton hands gripping you. One is wrapped around your throat, letters of Ari's name written on each bony knuckle. Two fingers of the other hand are pushed in your tattooed version's mouth.

Ari bounces one of his legs and you know that it's a sign for you. You slip between the table and the couch and sit down in Ari's lap. 

His arm moves from the backrest to curl around your back. You lean into him, resting your side against his chest. With your fingers you play with the chain around his neck, distracting yourself from the scene unfolding.

They ask the man something. Their voices are steady, but deadly serious. The man sounds pitched, stuttering. Others would laugh at him for such “unmanly” reaction, but you understand that core-deep terror and how the scrutiny of the two bikers turns you into a pathetic mess.

You tune out whatever they're saying. You don't want to hear the begging for mercy, because you know it won't come. 

Ari and Curtis share a look. A silent agreement passing between them. 

Some people make the mistake of assuming that Ari is the leader and Curtis his main enforcer. That couldn't be farther from the truth. 

They both rule. Equally. Each decision is unanimous. 

It just so happens that Ari often takes the talking part and Curtis the executioner’s. 

It’s Curtis who moves now, too. Extremely fast for his massive body. His hand curls around the man's throat, squeezing it hard. Not just in warning. He drags the flailing man away, just by holding him by the neck.  

You don't watch where he's being taken, nor who takes over. You don't want to see. Besides, Ari commands your attention.

He grips your hips and in a swift move has you straddling him. One hand moves up, to cup your chin, while he slides the other hand over his tattoo of ownership and under your dress.

He brings your face closer, with a swipe of his tongue coaxing your lips to part wider. When he kisses you, you melt into him all pliant. Your own tongue gives a little kitten lick, which you know Ari really likes. 

He probes further between your thighs, tattooed fingers touching your bare folds.

“No panties, little lamb?” Ari’s breath tickles your lips. His voice is sweet and tempting like molasses, but also deceptive and suffocating like a tar. 

“Is it because you’re a good girl, or a bad girl?” he chuckles, spreading you at the seam.

A moan rolls out on your tongue as his fingers expertly draw out your wetness. It was your doom from the very beginning, how easily both of them played your body, despite your emotional state being far from turned on. But they taught you to crave it. Got you addicted to their touch, to the teasing, as well to the merciless fucking. 

“Both,” you roll your hips against Ari’s hand. 

“Duality of a woman,” he chuckles, nipping your chin. The hand cupping your face drifts lower, his tattooed fingers curling around the front of your neck. “But you’re going to take the good girl route, lamb,” Ari hisses, clenching his fingers tighter.

With his grip around your throat, he pushes you backwards. Your back rests on his legs, head bowed backwards, almost touching the coffee table. 

His fingers keep circling your clit, then dipping lower to gather your slick and rub it all over your folds. When he pushes a single digit in, your walls resist at first. But Ari’s an unyielding beast, forcing you open and making you keen. 

There are people around, you’re aware of them. No protests, however, would stop either Ari or Curtis from taking what they want. When they want. Wherever they want. Humiliation simmers beneath your skin, but it’s buried deeper than arousal that Ari ignites. 

There’s also a certain comfort, because while he displays your body publicly, it’s for his and Curtis’ eyes only. Nobody would dare watch you.  

Your back arches as Ari thrusts a second finger along with his middle one. You stretch your arms above your head, fingers gripping the edge of the coffee table. His hand slides from your throat across your chest and down your belly, until it settles on your hip to help hold you in place. 

He fucks you with his fingers long enough to have you dripping onto his lap, your core clenching as he rubs your swollen nub with his thumb. 

But then he withdraws with an obscene squelch, which thankfully gets lots in the sexy beat filling the club. 

Ari unzips his jeans, giving his thick cock a few strokes, smearing your slick all over. Both hands gripping your hips, he yanks you closer and spears your cunt in one stroke. 

Your scream of his name makes him grin. Lips curling in a triumphant, sinister smirk, Ari moves your body to meet his thrusts. He loves the way your body just gives in to whatever he wants to do to you. And the remnants of resistance taste so delicious when he breaks through them. 

“That’s it, lamb.” He taunts when your pussy tightens around him. 

With you bowed back, your hips arched, his cock gets to ram into that sweet spot that turns you into a messy slut. Over and over again. 

Your nipples poke through the fabric of your dress, your mouth falls open, spluttering incoherent sounds and mewls. You make a beautiful, ruined view. Though no, not yet ruined enough. But they will work on that. 

Ari’s gaze travels from your bouncing breasts, nearly spilling out of your dress, down to where your puffy folds hug his cock. Glistening, pink tightness that stretches around his intrusion. 

Their perfect pussy.

“Go on. Come all over my cock, like a good girl,” he speeds up his pace slightly, thumbs rubbing back and forth along the junctures of your thighs. 

You fall over the edge with a helpless cry, pleasure rolling through you in heated waves. And it goes on as Ari continues to fuck you through it. He starts pulling you to him harder. Hungrier. Burying his cock to the hilt, your wetness smearing over his jeans. Rough edge of the zipper bites into your skin each time your buttocks press into his pelvis.

A silhouette appears above you. A dark, threatening shape against the strobe lights.

Curtis’ head tilts to the side as he looks down at you. He holds a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, which he brings to his lips. He takes a sip, watching you writhe in pleasure. 

He dips two of his fingers in the amber liquid before bending down to slide them between your parted lips. Spicy flavor trickles down your throat. Your tongue struggles against the pressure of digits, which Curtis keeps pressing against it. 

He feels your saliva pooling around his fingers. Though the music in the club drowns out the sound, he feels your gurgling as you’re kept on that edge between choking and freedom. 

After a beat he pulls back and sits on the sofa beside Ari. A part of you wants to look his way and assess what torment he’s brewing for you, but you fear to know. Also the pleasure Ari keeps stoking is too distracting to focus on anything else. 

Until calloused fingers circle your swollen clit with purpose. 

You’re not so out of it yet to not know it’s Curtis' hand. Ari’s are clamped on your hips, moving you like a ragdoll. 

He draws tight circles. Slow ones, then a few faster, then slow again. You whine, jerking in Ari’s iron grip. His low laugh indicates he won’t be coming to your aid; not when your sensitive nub being played with provides him so much pleasure, because your cunt tightens anew. 

Curtis’ touch disappears for a second. Only to come back with heavy torment.

His palm lands a smack on your clit, causing you to cry out. 

Your thighs tremble, muscles tensing as instinct urges you to close them and protect yourself from the torment. But you’re spread open, Ari’s body nestled between your thighs and holding them open. 

Curtis slaps your clit again and your body bows. One of your arms reaches down, trying to shield yourself. Strong fingers cage your wrist. 

“Don’t even try it, lamb.” Curtis leans forward and growls; he clenches his fingers on your wrist. “Keep your hands away from our pussy.” 

With a whine, you stretch your arm above your head. Your wrist pulses with pain. 

Curtis’ palm pats your mound. His fingers dive back to your clit, drawing wicked eights that contrast with the steady, rough pounding Ari continues. 

“You may squirm and cry, lamb,” Curtis teases, “but you’re going to cum from having your clit spanked. And you’re going to cream all over Ari’s cock, like a good little slut.”

Five more swats deliver his prediction. 

Your whole body seems to lock in a spasm, your very fingertips turn numb. Ari groans a curse as your pussy tightens like a vise, your silky walls clinging to him desperately. Despite the tightness, there’s so much wetness leaking around his cock and onto his lap. 

Your temples are wet, too; tears streaming along with your smudged mascara. 

As your orgasm continues to roll, your cunt finally eases some of the tension. But the aftershocks have your walls rhythmically pulsing, which turns out to be enough to stimulate Ari’s cock. 

It twitches inside of you and your pussy clenches in response. Ari moans, digging his fingers into your skin and jerking his hips. Hot, thick ropes of cum fill you. 

They keep you tipped back until the last drop of his spend pours into you. When they finally pull you up and Ari’s cock slips out, you know to clench as hard as you can, to spill as little of his cum as possible. 

Ari swallows your ragged breath, taking your mouth in gentler possession than he’s taken your body. Your clasped hands rest against his chest and you lean in sweetly, with a little needy mewl. He gives you that softer kiss you’re pleading for. 

They arrange you, spreading you on both of their laps. Your lower half rests on Ari’s thighs, his big hands slowly rubbing warmth into your calves and up your thighs. Your upper body rests in Curtis’ lap, head tipped on his thigh. 

You look up at him; his cold, blue eyes holding your gaze.

Once again he dips his fingers into whiskey and brings them to your lips. You suckle obediently. 

On the third pass, Curtis presses his fingers deeper and holds them. On the fourth, he not only pushes them against your tongue, but hooks down so that your jaw opens wider. 

He spits into your mouth. 

When he withdraws his fingers, you swallow without prompting. Some responses they have conditioned into you. 

Ari’s hand slides between your thighs and up. His fingers dip into the sticky mess pooling between your folds, despite your attempts at holding it in. You can’t stifle the moan that spills as he pushes two fingers into your aching hole. But that sound cuts short when Curtis’ whiskey-soaked fingers fill your mouth again. 

Three this time. Forced to the back of your throat, making you gag. 

Curtis holds them in, until your eyes tear up. Then starts fucking your mouth slowly, but always deep, always making you choke. 

Ari curls his fingers, but doesn’t move. Just wiggles them slightly, driving you mad with the teasing so close to your g-spot. 

Your saliva coats Curtis’ fingers, strings of spit smearing on your chin each time he withdraws before forcing his hand back in. He pries your mouth open, tugging your tongue out. Rubbing the pads of his fingers against your tongue, he spits into your mouth again. 

You keep your mouth open, tongue sticking out, when Curtis moves his hand away. He didn’t tell you to close your lips and the jangle of the belt buckle suggests he’d be ordering to open it again, anyway. Tip of his cock brushes your cheek when Curtis takes it out. He grips the base in one hand; his other slips to the back of your head. 

You turn your head as he guides you, tongue flicking against the veiny underside of cock that fills your mouth. 

It’s more difficult to take a lot of him in this position, on your side, with your cheek pressed against the harsh fabric of his black jeans. Curtis forces it anyway, careless of the choking sounds you make. 

Using his hold on your hair, he starts moving your head. Steady, but always uncomfortably far; causing your body to tense as gag reflex kicks in too hard.

“Want her to come, while she’s sucking you?” Ari asks, wiggling his fingers in your tight channel. They both laugh when you moan at the stimulation. 

“Not yet.” Curtis shakes his head. His gaze drifts down to you as he holds your head in place. “She’s going to warm my cock while I make some calls. And wait for her reward like a good girl. Right lamb?” He strokes your cheek with the back of his hand.

Everything is pulsing - from the changing beat reverberating through the walls of the club; the buzz of the gang members going across the VIP floor this and that way; the throbbing of Curtis cock in your mouth; to your clit demanding attention. 

Like he said, Curtis holds two phone calls. Each long and detailed, though you’re sure it’s not because he needed all that information. He wanted you to suffer. Ari’s fingers keep moving. Constantly. But too light, too slow, not deep enough. Yet he has you dripping all over his hand; which he keeps angled in a way that deprives your clit of any stimulation. 

Your whole body rouses to attention, almost giddy, when Curtis finally ends the call and tosses his phone to the side. 

He looks down at you and grins; as beautiful as sinister looking. 

He traces his fingers along your cheek, with deceiving tenderness. It’s gone in a blink of an eye. He fists your hair and pulls you down on him, at the same time thrusting his hips up. 

Along with him, Ari starts fucking you with his fingers. 

You’re gagging each time Curtis makes your nose press against the fabric of his jeans. Sloppy, gurgling noises of your mouth moving along dick match the lewd sound of squelching as Ari’s fingers push in and out of your pussy. 

Though there’s relentless build-up, your orgasm hits unexpectedly, as if forced by one particular thrust. Your body tensens like a string, toes curling. You twist to the side as much as they’ll allow you, digging your fingers into Curtis’ ribs. Your moans vibrate around his cock, making his hips jerk into you sharply. 

He slides even deeper and your lungs constrict from lack of air. Tears stream down your cheeks. Your throat closes around intrusion, causing Curtis to grunt in peak pleasure. 

When salty warmth spills suddenly down your throat, your vision goes black for a few seconds. 

Your breath returns in a sharp intake, a small coughing fit following when Curtis mercifully rolls your head away. His cock is still throbbing, spurting ropes of cum into your mouth and across your face. 

He slides the tip into your mouth again and you close your lips around it, hollow your cheeks and suck the last drops. 

Ari’s hand retreats from between your thighs. He licks his fingers clean, savoring the flavor of your combined spend. When he reaches for his own glass of whiskey it’s not to chase away the taste. 

Curtis downs the rest of his drink, too, before tucking himself back into his pants. He unties the skull-printed bandana from around his neck and uses it to clean your face. 

They help you up into a sitting position, keeping you between them. Ari brings his glass to your lips, giving you a sip. You grimace. You were never a fan of whiskey, but what’s worse is that spicy booze doesn’t help the burning in your mouth and throat. But then Ari’s scooping a half-melted ice cube from the tumbler and slips it between your lips. You hum appreciatively as the cold water soothes your used throat. 

You stay curled between them for a few more minutes. They’re not touchy, definitely not cuddlers; but they remain close to you. Their warmth keeps you anchored. When they put you on your feet some time later, you stumble slightly. It wasn’t the hardest fucking they ever subjected you to, but you’re tired nonetheless. 

You slide your arms into the sleeves of Curtis’ black leather jacket when he offers it to you. It’s soaked in his scent and so warm. 

You bury your nose in the collar of the jacket as you sit in the backseat of the car when Max takes you back to the penthouse. The city may be shiny with lights and neons, but the darkness holding it in its grasp is undeniable. And the grim reapers behind that darkness are gliding the streets with a roar. 

On their motorcycles, Ari and Curtis flank the car you’re in. Escorting you back to your forever prison. 

[ackermansundercut]

The Ties That Bind 3

Pairing: Ari Levinson x Fem!Reader; past brief Fem!Reader Mike Weiss Word Count: 9,209 Summary: As you navigate an unexpected tragedy, you thankfully don’t need to do so alone. Warnings: Biker AU. Explicit language. Explicit sexual content. Undercover detective!Ari. Mike is a bad friend (all the DAs kind of are). Reader is on the periphery of the DAs and kind of just…forgotten 🥺 Mentions of post stroke medical complications, being on life support, and end of life decision making. Death of a minor character. Dealing with grief & loss. Mentions of drug addiction. Oral sex (f receiving). Unprotected sex. Mentions of a size difference. Praise kink. Mild violence (punching). Angst (with a happy ending, I think lol).

A/N: My sweet friends!! I am very excited to share the next part of The Ties That Bind with you! If you haven’t done so already, be sure to read Part 1 and Part 2 first, or you’ll be lost. After this, we have one more part left! Thank you so much for joining me on this journey! ❤️

“Hey.”

You pulled your exhausted gaze from where you’d been gently cradling your father’s hand between your own. You winced as you sat up straight, your body screaming in protest from the way you’d been hunched over in the uncomfortable hospital chair all night, your head resting on the edge of your father’s bed as sleep evaded you and the multitude of medical devices beeped and whirred, keeping the peace of silence at bay.

Blinking the dryness from your gritty eyes, you glanced across the bed to see a nurse checking your father’s vitals. She looked familiar, but your tired brain couldn’t immediately place her.

She met your gaze, sympathy shining in her eyes as she rounded the foot of your father’s bed to stand beside you. You could see her hesitate for a moment before she asked, “Do you want me to let Andy know?"

Ah, that’s why she looked familiar, she was dating Andy. You had met her that night at Jo’s. She’d been kind to you then, too, before she’d been swept away by the group to play pool and have a few drinks, leaving you behind.

“Andy?” you echoed, your voice raspy and colored with confusion. 

She glanced from your father’s sickly, unmoving form, to the ventilator that was keeping him alive.

Despite the desperate prayers you had chanted over and over again all night, he hadn’t woken up.

They said he wouldn’t, that the stroke had been too severe, and they were right.

“Yeah,” she moved closer, again hesitating before her hand touched your shoulder, giving a squeeze of comfort. “I know you have a difficult decision to make, but you don’t have to do it alone.”

It was instant, the swell of tears that blurred your vision, because she was so wrong. 

You did everything alone, even this.

You stuffed that thought down deep, taking a shaky breath as you shook your head and sniffed back your tears. “No, thank you. I've already texted Mike.” You glanced over at your phone that was resting on the small side table, tapping the screen to reveal no notifications awaiting you. Swallowing around the lump in your throat, you mustered a brittle smile as you glanced up at her, “I…I'm sure he'll let everyone know."

"Okay,” she murmured, sounding unsure. She gave your shoulder another squeeze before stepping back. “Let me know if you need anything, okay? I'm working a double, so I'll be running around but I'll be sure to come back and check on you whenever I can."

"Thank you, you're so nice."

She gave you a sad smile, her eyes flickering to your father once more before returning to you. You could tell how genuine she was being as she told you, “I’m so sorry.”

You nodded at her, resuming your gentle hold on your father’s hand. Avoiding her gaze as you blinked back another wave of tears, you instead leaned into that familiar numbness–your constant and only companion as of late–and just a moment later, you were once again alone with the unresponsive shell of your father.

The hours stretched on, blurring together, the small hospital room becoming more and more suffocating the longer you were there.

But you refused to leave. 

Even when Andy’s girlfriend promised she would sit with your dad while you went home to shower and get some rest, you just shook your head, holding your father’s hand tighter as you avoided her gaze.

You weren’t even sure how long you’d been there at this point. Two days at least? All you knew for sure was that you had signed off on the end of life paperwork a little bit ago, and the decision had been made.

They’d take your father off of life support soon, and then…

Then it would be over.

He’d be gone.

You tugged the scratchy blanket Andy’s girlfriend had brought you higher, resting your head on the edge of your father’s bed. You were so tired, your body was heavy with it, weighed down by your exhaustion, by your grief.

Still, you couldn’t fall asleep.

You wouldn’t.

You had to spend every second that you could with your father before he was gone. Even if he didn’t know you were there, your time with him was limited now–so very precious–because once it was all said and done, you wouldn’t get any more.

Sniffling, you reached for your phone, noting the battery only had about 13% left. You double checked that you had a signal, and you did, a strong one, and you couldn’t help the devastation that rose up within you when you clicked into your text thread with Mike. He had seen the text you had sent hours and hours ago–yesterday–about your father, about being at the hospital and probably missing work, and he hadn’t responded.

He hadn’t called, he hadn’t texted you back, he hadn’t stopped by, and neither had anyone else.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true - Amelia had called you to check in, but she had already done so much for you and your dad, you couldn’t accept her offer to come sit with you for a while. You knew her agency would be assigning her a new client to fill your father’s place soon. That’s just how this stuff worked. You weren’t her priority anymore, and you shouldn’t be.

But it really hurt that Mike couldn’t even spare a minute to check in on you. To simply text you back. And after what had happened between the two of you at the office? Your stomach flipped at the memory, and you shuddered, trying your best to shake it off.

There was no denying the truth now, the hard reality that you had spent your whole life trying to ignore, trying to overcome. 

You were nothing to Mike, to the Devil’s Advocates. 

You had always done everything for Mike, anything he had ever requested, at the drop of a dime, no questions asked, and the one time you needed him, really needed him, needed anyone, he couldn’t even be bothered.

Your entire life, you had struggled with loneliness, with always being on the outside looking in, always being the tagalong, the afterthought, forgotten entirely. 

In that moment, muddling through an unthinkable tragedy and impending loss all by yourself–truly alone–it was a kind of desolation you had never felt before. It was like your insides had been carved out until hollow, and all you had to fill the emptiness was the agony of your solitary, unloved existence.

You took a shaky breath to try to quell all the feelings roiling within you, and just as you went to take another, the door to your father’s hospital room opened, and Ari stepped inside. 

Dread shoved its way to the forefront of your emotional turmoil, and you jolted up in your seat, alarmed as you watched Ari’s concerned gaze land on your father. 

“Please, not here, not now. I told you, I’m not one of them–” you started but he shook his head. 

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then…what are you doing here?” you asked warily, your fingers twisting in the blanket as he moved closer. 

“I came as soon as I heard,” Ari murmured, edging around the foot of your father’s bed as he hesitantly closed the distance between you.

You blinked, more affected by his confession than you cared to admit as he crouched before your chair. His blue eyes were warm and so sad as they met yours. Sad for your father, sad for you. 

As much as you had tried to tell yourself–over and over again–that he didn’t care about you, that he was a liar, that he had been using you…

He was here.

Ari was here, and you weren’t alone anymore. 

Something about that realization–along with the gravity of the situation–hit you like a ton of bricks, and it was like everything inside of you crumpled in on itself. The weak, shoddy defenses you had built up to try to get through this, the tiny scraps of strength you had mustered so you wouldn’t fall apart entirely, it all crumbled away in an instant.

The sound that spilled from your lips wasn’t a sob, it didn’t even sound human, the pained wail of despair that escaped you. It was quickly followed by another, and then another, until you were crying uncontrollably, so hard that it hurt, that you couldn’t breathe, as you finally let yourself fall apart, and right into Ari’s arms.

He welcomed you without hesitation, pulling you as close as possible as he held you tight. He smoothed a big hand over your crown, cradling the back of your head as you wept against his shoulder, his words like a soothing balm to your soul as he murmured over and over again, “Shhh, I’ve got you, sweetheart, I’ve got you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

It didn’t feel real when you stepped inside your childhood home–your father’s home–knowing that he would never dwell within these walls again.

The living room TV would never blair with his favorite shows again.

His old, trusty recliner would never again squeak with his weight.

The rickety dining table in the kitchen would never again host your quiet, two-person meals.

Your father had been the heartbeat of this home–even when his mind and memories began to falter–and now that he was gone, it was as lifeless as his body had been the last time you saw him.

You hadn’t realized you’d been frozen in the entryway, tearful gaze fixed on your father’s recliner in the living room, until Ari’s hand landed on your shoulder.

He closed the front door behind you both, setting your purse and car keys on the nearby side table. 

“Why don’t you go shower and change into fresh clothes?” he suggested. 

You nodded, suddenly hyper aware of the fact that you hadn’t been home or showered or changed in nearly three days. You felt so grimy, so gross, your skin crawling with it.

You were on autopilot as you made your way to your room, then through to the connected ensuite. You didn’t even see yourself in the mirror as you brushed your teeth. You didn’t feel the soapy loofah against your skin as you washed yourself. 

You didn’t have any recollection of drying off and picking out the oversized t-shirt and sweatpants you now wore as you once again found yourself standing in the entryway of your father’s home, staring at his empty recliner.

Ari appeared in the kitchen doorway, his brow furrowed in worry as he watched you. “I can cook you something to eat, or order out, whatever you want.”

You shook your head quickly, your stomach churning at the mere mention of food. “Not hungry.”

You didn’t think you’d ever be hungry again. You couldn’t imagine ever feeling anything other than the heavy weight of grief sitting in the pit of your stomach, the sharp knot of dread that blocked your throat and made it hard to swallow or breathe, and the jarring hollowness that rang through the rest of you. 

Ari moved closer, until he loomed before you. His big hands gently cupped your upper arms, his head ducking so his gaze could meet yours as he asked, “What do you need?”

You blinked at him, your foggy brain turning over his words. 

What did you need right now?

To not feel like this, the answer came quickly and without hesitation or much thought at all. 

You didn’t want to feel this way anymore.

The loss, the grief, the devastation, the uncertainty. Just a few of the layers to the blanket of emotions and pain that consumed you. 

Suffocated you.

You just wanted to feel good, even if it was short-lived. Anything to escape the current waking nightmare you found yourself trapped in.

For some reason, Mike popped into your mind. You thought of him that day in the motel room, how he’d been vibrating with excitement, high out of his mind but he had felt good in that moment. 

He had been the embodiment of euphoria, and that’s what you needed right now. 

“Pills or..or that white powder, if that’s all you have, I don’t care! Just a little of what you gave Mike,” you babbled, your lashes fluttering as you focused your gaze on Ari.

His eyebrows shot up, his head already shaking his descent, but he didn’t even get a chance to respond before you were grabbing the front of his shirt.

“Please,” you trembled, squeezing your eyes shut so no more tears could escape. Your fingers curled into the front of Ari’s button up as you pressed close to him, resting your forehead against his chest as you begged, “I won’t tell, I promise. Just…I just want to feel good, please. I just want to forget. I just want to forget about,” your voice broke and you swallowed. “I just want to forget about my dad, and about Mike, and how none of them care, they didn’t even care that he was dying, that I was all alone, please.”

“Honey, that’s not what you need right now,” Ari said gently, his hand rubbing your back as you whined at his resistance to your one request.

Maybe that’s why your brain so stubbornly fixated on this idea, this one request, because you never asked anyone for anything, ever. And this one time–just this once–you needed to be taken care of!

Why wouldn’t he help you? 

How come no one ever helped you? 

“Just this once, please!” you were crying again as you tipped your face back so Ari could see the look of pleading in your eyes. 

When he started to shake his head again, looking dead set on his answer, your brain grew desperate, going into barter mode.

“I’ll tell you about the DAs, the only real thing I know!”

Intrigue flashed in Ari’s gaze, but he still shook his head, his jaw set as he said, “I’m not giving you anything like that, that’s not what you need.”

“It is! Come on! This is why you’re here, this is the whole reason why you’re here!” Your voice was high-pitched now, tinged with a hysterical kind of frustration as you snatched Ari’s phone from his shirt pocket and held it out to him. “Unlock it, record me, I want to tell you! I’ll tell you this and then you can just give me a couple of pills, and it will be good. Everything will be good! I’ll be good!” 

When Ari didn’t move, just stared down at you sadly, you huffed, tapping on his phone screen and aiming it at his face until it unlocked. You scrolled through his apps until you found the voice recording one and tapped into it, starting a new recording as you quickly began to babble. 

“All I know is a few days before they found the bodies of those two gangsters you keep asking me about, Mike got a call at the end of the work day. It was from Andy, and he was talking so loud that I could hear the entire conversation. He told Mike to meet him somewhere just outside of city limits, and to come packing, and that he needed to come now! And then a few days later the remains were discovered, and and Andy’s girl, it had something to do with her, they tried to hurt her, I think, and she didn’t come around for a while, but she seems okay now. She was at the hospital when my father…” your voice faltered, tears streaking down your cheeks as you began to lose steam. “And she’s so nice, so…so she needed their help, okay? And, and that’s all I know.”

Your finger trembled as you clicked off the audio recording and shoved Ari’s phone back into his pocket. 

“So, please, now it’s your turn! Just a little, and I promise I won’t tell, I won’t get you in trouble, I wouldn’t–”

“I’m not giving you any of that poison!” Ari snapped. “You’re too good for that.”

“Please!” you quavered, shaking him, or at least trying to, but he was so much bigger than you that he didn’t move an inch. “I…I hurt. I just need to not feel like this, please! I don’t have anything left. I don’t have anyone. I don’t have anyone.”

“You have me,” Ari whispered, gently cradling your face between his hands.

“You don’t want me,” you wailed, trying to recoil from his soft touch. “No one wants me. No one ever wants me, and the only person who ever truly loved me is gone! “

“I want you,” Ari said vehemently. He tugged you closer, pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes burning into your own as he said, “I’ve wanted you since that first night at Jo’s. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t, because of who I am and why I’m here and how we met. Because of everything I’ve done to you, the way I’ve treated you, the way I’ve hurt you. I don’t deserve you, but fuck, sweetheart, I want you. I want you.”

Your breath caught in your chest at Ari’s words, at the way he was watching you, with such an intent desire and yearning that it had something warm and welcomed blooming to life in your chest.

A spark of what could be your own euphoria. 

“Show me,” you whispered, leaning into him, clutching him tighter. “Please, Ari. Please, make it go away. I don’t want to feel this way. I just want to feel good. Please make me feel good?”

You saw the internal battle wage in Ari’s eyes. They really were the windows to his soul, and they always had been. When you tipped your face up and just barely touched your lips to his, begging him with another soft, trembling, “Please, Ari, I need you,” you saw the surrender flash in his gaze just a beat before he was kissing you.

You gasped as he kissed you with the kind of frenzied passion that had your body coming to life one nerve ending at a time. A second later, Ari had you backed into the nearest wall, his tongue sweeping past your lips to touch your own, as you pawed at him just as desperately, his addictive flavor bursting all along your tastebuds.

When your hands fell to fumble with the front of his jeans, Ari tore his mouth from yours, his forehead resting against your own as he panted, “Wait.”

You whined at the thought of him changing his mind, at being left unsatisfied and feeling unwanted–yet again–but then Ari gently caressed your warm cheek and pressed a much more innocent kiss against your pouting lips. 

“Where’s your bedroom?” he husked. “I really wanna take my time with you, sweetheart, make you feel as good as you deserve.”

Your vision blurred with relieved tears as you leaned into him, your hands holding onto Ari’s back for dear life. You just took a moment to breathe him in and drown in his presence, his proximity, his care. 

Then you murmured an answer to his question, and soon you were tucked away in your bedroom together. 

You were delightfully dizzy as Ari pressed you back against your closed bedroom door, his big hands so careful as he cradled your face and kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered to him in the world.

There was a franticness to his passion for you, which belied the gentleness of his touch, and you wanted to get lost in this feeling forever, being so swept up by someone else’s desire, for you.

Ari finally dragged his mouth from yours, humming in carnal satisfaction when you turned your face away to catch your breath. His lips touched the curve of your jaw, traversing a slow, careful path down your skin. When his mouth reached the side of your throat, he lingered, his lips pressing soft kisses wherever he could reach, his tongue sneaking out to taste the flavor of you, and his beard prickling your skin in a way that had your cunt throbbing and your thighs pressing together. 

When he sucked a bruise against your throat, you moaned, your fingers curling into the worn denim of his button up as you yanked him closer. Tipping your head back to give him more room to work, your eyes fluttered shut on the airy sigh of his name, and you could feel Ari’s groan against your neck in response.

“Can I take this off?” he husked, tugging on the hem of your oversized t-shirt.

You nodded so quickly your vision swam, and Ari grinned at you, his look so boyish and pleased–so playful and wanting–that it had your stomach swooping and tears burning at the back of your eyes. 

Because this was what you had always craved when it came to intimacy and sex.

No ulterior motives, no emotional blocks, no feeling used then discarded.

Just another person captivated by you, lost to you, wanting you just as badly as you wanted them.

A new wave of desperate desire washed over you as Ari lifted your t-shirt. You raised your arms to help him draw it from your body, your insides clenching at the way his eyes were so dark with lust, so hungry, as he eyed your bare breasts. You didn’t even have a chance to feel shy or vulnerable or get into your own head before he descended on you.

You gasped as Ari’s mouth zeroed in on your breasts, his lips tugging one of your sensitive nipples into his mouth to lave with his tongue as his big hand gently palmed the other side of your chest. You whined soft and sweet for him, your hand flying to his head, fingers gripping his hair as your back arched as you offered more of yourself for him to worship, begged for it wordlessly as you writhed against him, never wanting this feeling to end.

Ari took a moment to pay some attention to your other breast before he sank to his knees before you so his mouth could continue its descent down your trembling body. You watched through half-lidded eyes as he pressed gentle kisses along your belly, his fingers curling into the waistband of your sweats.

His smoldering gaze lifted then, realigning with yours, and he didn’t even need to speak before you were answering the question shining in his smokey gaze with an eager nod of your head. 

A beat later, both your pants and panties were tossed aside, and you were completely naked now as Ari guided your leg over his shoulder, spreading you open with a throaty groan of admiration as he gazed at the warm, wanting place between your thighs.

“Sweetheart,” he was as breathless as you felt as his hands smoothed up your inner thighs. “You’re so pretty, so soft…” Ari’s hands mirrored the reverence in his voice as he framed your cunt before tugging your folds apart with his thumbs and leaning in. “Fuck, you smell so good.”

Moaning, your hips tilted, your face burning like the sun as you dropped your head back against your bedroom door and waited with bated breath for that first touch of Ari’s mouth to your pussy.

He didn’t make you wait long, the humid warmth of his breath fanning over your core a split second before his tongue dragged up the cut of you and tore a wordless keen of delight from the back of your throat. 

You could feel him groan against your cunt as his tongue did another lap, his voice all grit and gravel as he told you,  “You taste so good, honey, I’ve been dying to have your flavor on my tongue again.”

It felt like something inside of you was soaring to new heights of bliss as Ari dove in, worshiping your pussy with his mouth, taking his time to tease you with slow, heavy drags of his tongue before he was circling your throbbing clit with his lips and sucking until you were rutting against his face, egging him on.

You didn’t even realize that you were chanting his name until your words were interrupted by a throaty moan when Ari’s tongue focused on your drippy, clenching hole. Your breath caught in your chest as he worked his tongue inside of you, teasing–sin incarnate–as his chest rumbled with his own delight as a litany of breathy, high pitched keens fell from your lips without relent. 

“Let go for me,” Ari husked once he pulled away. 

He kissed your cunt just as tenderly as he would kiss your mouth before he sank two thick fingers into your pussy, curled them, and started to work that spongy spot inside of you that had sparks of ecstasy crackling all along your body as your thighs began to shake.

“That’s it, honey, lose yourself to it, let it feel good,” Ari encouraged, his tongue lapping at your clit for a beat, kitten licks that had you crying out, mindless and just on the edge. “You deserve it sweetheart, you deserve to feel good.”

You sobbed as your orgasm finally broke over you, the utter carnal delight of it igniting deep in your core before rushing through the rest of you like a raging wildfire far beyond your control. 

Everything else around you melted away, your mind going blissfully silent and hazy as your body trembled and tensed with each new wave of pleasure that washed over you. As the last dregs of your ecstasy faded away, your knees buckled, your body loose and pliant as Ari caught you against him easily and arranged you in his lap as he sat back on your floor and held you against him.

Still trying to catch your breath, you laid your cheek on his shoulder, loosely hugging him as his big hands gently stroked your back, his nose snuffling along the side of your throat and earning a giggle for his silliness. 

You could feel the curl of Ari’s lips against your neck as he pressed a kiss there, before you straightened so you could see his handsome face. 

He just watched you for a long, quiet moment, his eyes so warm that your belly was fluttering all over again. Your innate shyness finally creeped up on you as you remembered you were naked as you sat in his lap, and he was still fully dressed, much to your chagrin. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Ari said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “So sweet.” Another kiss on the tip of your nose. His lips found your warm cheek next, kissing there, too, his voice pitched low as his next words washed over you, “You drive me so crazy, the way you’ve taken me over.”

You were pleasantly overwhelmed by his words, his praise and compliments, your hopeful mind latching on to one thing in particular. “You think I’m beautiful?”

He smiled at you, smoothing a hand over your head. “I think you’re gorgeous, sweetheart, inside and out.”

Shy gaze falling away, you leaned in close, hands finding purchase on Ari’s broad shoulders as you whispered, “I think you’re beautiful too. I thought so since the first time I saw you.”

“Ditto.” He tipped your face up with a lone finger beneath your chin, his lips finding yours for another sweet kiss. 

Something about the way he kept his eyes open for this kiss had you doing the same, and it just struck you again in that moment, for what had to be the millionth time since you met Ari, that he was so painfully handsome.

And now you got to bask in it up close. 

You touched your hands to his face, carefully framing his beardy cheeks as you allowed your gaze to flicker all over his perfect features. His warm eyes, his perfectly straight nose, the light dusting of freckles on his cheeks that you only now noticed, so close to him for the very first time. Your thumbs caressed along the edges of his beard, and you felt your pussy flutter at the rough scrape of it against your skin, at the memory of how it had felt against your cunt.

“I remember now, that first night at Jo’s,” you said suddenly as the recollection came to you. “As soon as you walked into the bar, you looked right at me, caught me staring at you, and winked. You saw me before anyone else.”

A lump of emotion swelled in your throat, and you stubbornly blinked back your tears, wanting to continue to get lost in this moment, in Ari. 

So you did.

This time, you initiated a kiss, leaning in as your hands maintained their station on his bearded cheeks, tilting your face and touching your lips to his. It was the hitch of his breath in response that had your tongue boldly pushing past the seam of his mouth to touch his own.

You were rewarded by a deep purr rumbling in Ari’s chest, and your cunt throbbed in response. Squirming closer to him, you twined your arms around Ari’s neck, kissing him more desperately now as you felt his hard cock bulging at the front of his jeans and nudging at your center.

By the time you were more gasping against each other’s lips than kissing, Ari was rutting up against you, moaning as his hands fell to grip your hips and guide the rock of your body over his.

When your hand dropped to cup his erection through his jeans, Ari grunted, his nostrils flaring as he met your dazed gaze and rocked up into your touch. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, I need to be inside you so bad.”

As he worked on undoing his jeans and digging his cock free, you made quick work of his shirt, unbuttoning it and then pushing it off of his shoulders and flinging it aside as your hands returned to his warm, smooth skin.

“God,” you breathed, your eyes eagerly drinking in the expanse of his bronze skin, the flex of his muscles, the dark, coarse hair littering his chest and stomach.

When your gazes next met, you saw your own frantic need mirrored in Ari’s dark eyes, so the two of you worked together seamlessly–wordlessly–lips parted and panting against each other’s as you gripped his cock and guided it to your entrance as his hands held your hips and tilted your body just right. 

The sound you made as you slowly sank down on Ari’s hard cock was the love child of a moan and a keen. Your forehead touched his and your lashes fluttered as your body greedily gripped every rock hard inch of him that it could. Ari gave a rut that had you both gasping as he bottomed out, and he moaned as your pussy fluttered and clenched around him hard in welcome.

“You feel so good, honey, so fucking perfect,” Ari breathed. 

He kissed you hard, with enthusiasm, a thorough tasting of you that had his tongue tanging with your mewl of pleasure as his hands slid up your back, cupped your shoulders, and held you in place as he started to drive up into you slow and deep.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, clinging to him as you grinded in his lap, circling your hips and whining your delight each and every time your clit got even just a lick of friction. “Ari!”

“I’m right here, honey,” he groaned, thrusting up into you faster now. “Just for you. All for you.”

One of his hands fell between your bodies, and when his thumb found your clit and began to rub, you keened. Your head fell back, your eyes squeezing shut as pleasure ricocheted all throughout your body. That coil inside of you twined tighter and tighter with every drive of Ari’s cock, every swipe of his thumb against your swollen clit.

When his lips found the pulse point in your neck and sucked, you were gone. You came with a cry of pure bliss, your hips rocking hard and fast as you rode Ari through your orgasm, your clit throbbing every time he grunted against the crook of your neck.

Your pussy fluttered with another small orgasm when Ari reached his own peak, your brain going floaty as he groaned your name against your neck and pumped you full of his hot, sticky cum.

You clung to each other for a long moment, both of you panting and shuddering with the aftermath of your ecstasy. 

You were already well on your way to total exhaustion, your body so thoroughly wrung out in the most amazing way, that you couldn’t help but be impressed when Ari managed to stand with you still clinging to him, full of him, and moved you both toward your bed.

He set you down gently, stealing another kiss before he stepped away to finish undressing. Once he was as naked as you, Ari grinned at the way your eyes widened to find his cock still hard and standing tall and proud against his stomach. 

“You didn’t think I was done with you yet, did you?” he winked, joining you in bed and stretching out over your boneless body.

He rained more kisses down on you, the embodiment of patient passion as he took his time to drink from your mouth until you were gasping for breath and squirming all over again. 

“My insatiable little sweetheart,” he teased, eyes sparkling at you. He huffed a laugh when you whined and buried your face against his chest to hide. 

Pressing a kiss to your crown, he eased away from you. You didn’t resist as his big hands guided you over onto your belly, shooting him another wide-eyed look over your shoulder that had him aiming another boyish grin and wink your way. 

Tension from the unknown slowly melted away as Ari took a moment to kiss a path down your spine. Starting to learn what you liked now, what made you desperate, Ari’s mouth found its way back up to your shoulder, his lips teasing the soft curve for a moment before he was kissing and sucking along the side of your neck, making you gasp and mewl as you writhed against the blankets.

When Ari’s big, heavy body blanketed your own, his front pressing flush to your back–his full weight settled against you–it was like a switch flipped in your brain, and you just went absolutely pliant for him. 

“Yeah, there you go, sweetheart, just relax for me. Let me take care of you,” Ari cooed against your ear, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. 

Your fingers curled into the blankets at either side of you as Ari rutted against your ass. When you spread your thighs for him, he hummed, kissing your temple as he breathed, “Good girl,” against your skin.

You shuddered, your pussy fluttering at his praise, and a second later, the mushroom tip of his cock was catching on your entrance, and then he was slowly sliding into you. 

Moaning as he split you open, your lips parted, your mouth hanging open at the exquisite stretch and burn, especially in this position. Ari’s cock felt even bigger than before, and you swore it hit every sensitive spot inside of you before he was finally settled to the hilt.

“Christ,” Ari hissed. His forehead dipped to the back of your head, his weight rested on his forearms at either side of you. “You’re so fucking tight, I don’t think I’m gonna last long this way, honey.”

“I don’t care,” you wisped, whining as you fisted the blankets beneath you and squirmed. “Please, just make me cum again.”

Ari wasted no time in doing just that. He kept his nose tucked against your neck as he fucked you with hard, deep strokes. Your bed creaked with each one of his thrusts, adding to the symphony or ruin that filled your room, the slap of flesh against flesh, Ari’s guttural groans and grunts, your own throaty keens and gasps.

When he dug one of his hands beneath you, pressing against your low belly, the tips of his fingers just teasing your clit, you made such a sweet, startled sound of visceral delight that you could feel Ari’s cock twitch and throb inside of you in response.

“God, honey, you keep making all those sweet, sexy sounds, I’m gonna lose it.”

“Please don’t stop,” you begged, rocking beneath him, desperate for more friction and on the edge of another orgasm. “Feels so good.”

Groaning at the way you slurred your words, how blissed out you sounded, Ari doubled down, his fingers swirling against your clit as he rutted into you over and over again.

Before you knew it, you were keening another glorious orgasm, your muscles tensing and releasing, tensing and releasing as bliss danced all along your body, fully invaded your mind.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Ari panted, his voice tinged with desperation now as he drove into you with enthusiasm, his hips pounding against your ass over and over again until you were crying out for him one final time as your body shook with one last wave of delightful pleasure.

Shouting his own release, Ari drove into you hard and lingered. Distantly, you felt his cock swell and twitch inside of you, felt the hot flood of his spend–of his pleasure, from you–as he groaned in ecstasy and pumped into you a final few times.

You were so beyond floaty as his big body sagged against you, your lashes fluttering as your eyes closed and stayed that way. You didn’t think you could move even if you tried, feeling like an actual puddle of post orgasmic bliss as you sank heavily against the mattress and felt the call of sleep more than you ever had before.

So out of it, you weren’t fully aware of the way Ari rained soft kisses along your shoulders before finally moving away from you. The way he lingered at your side for a moment, petting your head and watching you with the softest gaze imaginable. How he so gently cleaned you up and disappeared only long enough to get you a glass of water before returning. 

You were half asleep when he sat you up and made you drink a few mouthfuls, smiling at how you couldn’t even keep your eyes open as you snuggled into his side after.

“Please, don’t leave me,” you mumbled as your fingers curled in his chest hair and you went lax against him. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ari promised, smoothing a hand over your head. 

By the time he leaned over to return the glass of water to your nightstand, then turned back to you, you were completely passed out against his chest, your breathing slow and deep.

Carefully, Ari settled back in bed, arranging you against his chest before tugging the blankets up around you both. 

He stared down at you for a good, long while, his eyes drinking in your features. Zeroing in on the furrow between your brow, Ari couldn’t help it as he drew his knuckles up your cheek before his thumb was smoothing the furrow away, and you looked truly peaceful for the first time since he had met you.

Even in sleep, you radiated sweetness, a type of kindness and goodness that was so rare, especially in his world. 

It both snuck up on him and didn’t, the moment of clarity. The firm knowing that he couldn’t do it, what he had set out to do. He couldn’t use you to solve this case, he wouldn’t.

You didn’t deserve it, any of it - what Ari had already done to you and what he had planned to do up until now.  

You were an innocent. You were the kind of person that Ari should actually be protecting, not sacrificing in a bid for vengeance for violent offenders like Neal Logiudice and Robert Pronge and to take down the Devil’s Advocates to boot.

Ari’s stomach churned violently when he thought of what he had done to you, what he had put you through. 

It was that burn of self-loathing deep in his gut that sparked his fierce determination to protect you at all costs moving forward.

He would never be able to undo what had already been done, but maybe, just maybe he could make it just a little bit right. He could be there for you now, no strings attached, when you needed him most. 

Ari would find another way to help his cousin, to support her in her time of grief, but it wouldn’t come at the expense of you, your well-being, or your safety.

Mind made up, Ari carefully reached for his phone that he had set on the bedside table earlier after cleaning you up. Keeping one hand pressed to your back, feeling your warmth and softness beneath his touch, he used the other to scroll through his phone apps until he found the voice recorder.

Clicking into it, he didn’t hesitate to swipe at the recording you had made just a few hours ago, his one real piece of evidence that could take down the DAs. Tapping on the red “delete” option that popped up, Ari watched as the recording of your confession disappeared for good.

He felt a sense of peace wash over him as some of the tightness in his chest that had been residing there for months finally started to ease up. Setting his phone down, Ari tucked his nose to your crown, breathing in your soft, soothing scent as he closed his eyes and finally welcomed sleep.

The living room was dark and still–quiet–save for your muffled sobs. 

You were curled up in your father’s recliner, wearing his leather Devil’s Advocates jacket over your nightgown, drowning in his faded scent and lost to your grief as the first peeks of the sun’s rays began to slowly fill the room.

It was a new day, and your father would never see it. 

The simple thought had you crying even harder.

That’s how Ari found you when he emerged from your bedroom, his chest bare and his jeans hastily pulled on once he realized you weren’t beside him in bed.

He paused in the doorway, frowning as he watched you, and it wasn’t until he was crouched just before the recliner and touching a hand to your shoulder as he murmured your name that you realized he was there at all.

“I’m a terrible person, an a-awful daughter,” you hiccuped as Ari gently smoothed a hand over your head.

“Sweetheart, I can assure you, you’re anything but.”

“No!” you recoiled from Ari’s gentle touch, feeling undeserving of it as you curled in on yourself. “You don’t understand - I wasn’t with him when it happened! I didn’t get to say goodbye! I was being horrible and stupid and pathetic with Mike, because he said he wanted me, and I…I was so stupid. I ignored Amelia’s calls, and…” your voice quavered, sounding incredibly small as you finished, “I didn’t get to tell him how much I love him.”

Your own devastation was mirrored in Ari’s eyes as he watched you. His hand touched your knee, giving it a squeeze as he said, “I promise you - he knew. Anyone who spends five minutes with you can tell how much you love your father. He knew and he loved you so much in return, I know he did. You’re the kind of person who’s made to be loved.”

Your face crumpled at Ari’s words and you cried into your hands, feeling both hollow inside and somehow still overflowing with hurt as he reached for you.

This time you didn’t resist Ari’s touch, inching closer and resting your tear-stained cheek on the recliner arm, mourning your father and everything you’d never get to tell him as Ari gently rubbed your back and dutifully stayed with you until this wave of tears ran dry. 

Ari was literally buzzing with fury as he stepped into Jo’s bar.

He couldn’t get the image of you curled up on the recliner, weeping for your loss and the guilt that went along with it, out of his head. 

He couldn’t shake how small and fragile you had looked as you got ready to go to the funeral home to make arrangements—all by yourself—insisting it was what you wanted despite Ari’s offer to go with you.

Ari had done you wrong, he knew that, but these people, the Devil’s Advocates, who touted family and taking care of one another but didn’t show a lick of care for you or what you were going through, they made him fucking sick. 

Which is why as soon as Ari’s angry gaze landed on Mike, Curtis, and Andy at the back of the bar, playing a game of pool and laughing and joking like they didn’t have a care in the world, he stalked over without a second thought.

Mike was the first to see him, eyes lighting up and grin tugging up the corner of his lips as he greeted, “Hey, man–” but he didn’t get much further than that before Ari was cocking his fist back and punching Mike square in the face.

As Mike fell to the floor, Andy and Curtis converged on him as one, and Ari just went on instinct, kicking Curtis away with a harsh boot to the stomach before he turned and threw a punch so hard to Andy’s face, it had the DA leader on his hands and knees on the floor, spitting out a wad of blood a moment later.

“You should be protecting the most vulnerable in your circle,” Ari snarled at him, itching to yank him up by his collar and hit him all over again. “Not fucking leaving them to fend for themselves. Some fucking leader you are.”

“Hold on,” Curtis’ words had a wheeze to them as he grabbed Andy, who had scrambled to his feet and tried to launch himself at Ari. His concerned yet wary gaze met Ari’s as he asked, “What are you talking about?”

Ari snapped your name, sneering at Andy who was shooting him a death glare as he wiped blood from his split lip. 

Curtis shook his head, confused. “What about her? Is she okay?”

“No, she’s not fucking okay,” Ari snapped. “Her father had a stroke and then died yesterday, and none of you assholes could be bothered to even check on her.”

Curtis and Andy whirled on Mike as one, since he was the one who spent the most time with you, and Mike visibly cringed, his face paling and his shoulders hiking up to his ears as he shook his head, "I didn't know it was that serious! She just texted to say he was in the hospital, and we, yanno, fucked a few days ago, and I didn't want to deal with her being weird or clingy or whatever and–"

Ari actually growled as he took a step toward Mike, but Andy beat him to the other man, fists curling in the front of Mike’s shirt as he gave him a rough shake then a hard shove away. "You fucking prick! This isn't how we roll, Mike. And ghosting her, when she needed us? That's fucking cold."

"I-I'm sorry,” Mike stuttered. “I didn’t realize how serious it was.”

“You should have told us,” Curtis spat at him, shaking his head in disgust. “Even if you didn’t want to be around her, I would have checked on her. Jesus, Mike.”

“I’m sorry,” Mike whispered again. He sniffed hard, his fingers twitching at his sides before he shoved them in his pants pockets. “I can go check on her now–”

“Don’t you fucking go near her!” Ari pointed a finger in his face. “You’ve done enough damage.”

Glaring, Mike swatted Ari’s hand away. “Like you’re one to talk?” he scoffed. “You may wanna get off of your high horse, man, because from where I’m standing, you haven’t treated her much better than me.”

Jaw clenching, Ari stared at Mike for a long moment, hating the truth to his words and how they made his stomach churn. Hands curled into fists at his sides, he took a deep breath before shaking his head, because Mike wasn’t worth it.

He wasn’t worth more drama. 

He wasn’t worth blowing Ari’s cover. 

And he certainly wasn’t worth your sweet admiration. 

Mike Weiss wasn’t worth shit. 

Ari turned on his heel and took a step forward before pausing and glancing back. His eyes found Andy then Curtis as he spoke, "All she ever wanted was to be a part of your little clique, but the truth is, you don't deserve her, not a single fucking one of you…”

Turning away from them, Ari murmured to himself, “And neither do I,” as he stalked across the bar, shoved through the exit, and stepped out of sight.

When Mike arrived at the office a few days later, it was to find you standing at your desk, packing up your personal belongings. 

You didn’t perk up at his arrival, or greet him with a smile of welcome. You didn’t even look at him as he set down his bag and coffee in the small waiting area. You just continued to methodically place your things into the box atop your desk as he hesitantly moved closer. 

“What’s all this?” he asked, sounding so unsure that your gaze finally lifted to meet his.

The first thing you noticed was Mike’s black eye, and if you had to guess who gave it to him, the list was fairly short, just one person really. 

The thought of Ari laying into Mike on your behalf made your tummy flutter, not because you condoned violence, or because Mike deserved it–which he did–but because you weren’t used to having others stick up for you.

And it felt good.

There was something else that felt good, too - the decision you had made.

Perhaps it was a knee-jerk reaction to your father’s death, to everything that had happened over the past few weeks, but the thought wouldn’t leave your mind as you had laid awake in bed each of the past few nights, unable to sleep.

And honestly? You had never felt so confident and sure of anything as you did in that moment, when you plucked up your resignation letter from the corner of your desk and held it out to Mike.

Brows furrowing, he gently took it from your grip, his eyes widening and his lips turning down into a frown as he read through your letter to the end. 

For your part, you had it memorized, not because it was an exceptionally well written piece, or because it was short and sweet with zero fluff–because Mike didn’t deserve any kind words or copious amounts of gratitude–but because of what it symbolized. 

You were finally done with being the Devil’s Advocates’ tagalong.

The loss of your father hadn’t just turned your world upside down, it had infused you with a sense of unshakeable clarity. It made you realize that life was so short, so very precious, and you had to stop wasting it on people and places that didn’t even acknowledge your existence.

“I know two weeks' notice is usually the standard,” you told Mike as you placed another item in your box. “But I was hoping you could be flexible with me since I have so much on my plate with arranging my dad’s funeral and everything.”

"Yeah, of course!” Mike murmured, swallowing hard as he placed your letter on the edge of the desk. “Don’t even worry about it.” He shifted his weight, the air between you heavy with awkward tension as the silence drew on for a long beat, and then he spoke again, “Look, pip, I'm sorry about…everything," he started.

"Just, don't, Mike,” you cut him off with a shake of your head, placing the last of your things in the box before looking at him. 

He looked stunned that you were being so short with him, so used to your sweet, eager-to-please nature by now, the way you had always hung off of his every word.

Just another thing about you that he had always taken for granted.

That reminder had your spine straightening as you said, “It just, it is what it is. I don't fit in here, and I never have.” Your voice quavered then, emotion rising up, but you stubbornly swallowed it down. Instead, you mustered a brittle smile as you shrugged, "So now I need to find where I do fit in, and I don't think it's here in Newton."

"You're leaving?" Mike asked, his mouth gaping as he stared at you, stunned yet again.

"Yeah,” you nodded. “I just need a fresh start after everything. I'm going to put my dad’s house on the market, and he had a really good life insurance policy that I didn’t even know about until now. So, he’s still taking care of me in a way and…yeah. I’ll be heading out soon after his funeral.”

Mike rounded your desk, his face as serious as you had ever seen it as he said, "You don't need to go, pip."

"Yes I do,” you replied firmly. “For me.” 

This was the first decision you had ever made that was truly for yourself, for your best interests. 

It wasn’t based on who you thought you should be, for others, but who you wanted to be, for yourself. 

And the person that Newton made you–that Mike and the Devil’s Advocates made you–that wasn’t the person you wanted to be. 

You met Mike’s gaze for a long moment, surprised by the upset straining his features, but strangely satisfied by it too. 

“Thank you,” you murmured earnestly. “For the job and…everything, I guess, even the painful, messy stuff."

“Pip,” Mike trailed off, unsure of what to say, but he moved closer, reaching for you. 

You recoiled instantly, shaking your head as you held out a hand to ward him off. “Don’t touch me, please.”

Mike pulled up short, his cheeks going pink as he shoved his hands down at his sides and whispered, “Sorry.”

Consumed by a feeling you had never felt before, but you had an inkling that it was pride, you turned away from him and picked up your things, rounding the other side of your desk as you strode toward the door. 

When you got to it, you paused, glancing back to find Mike staring at you, his face forlorn. 

“You know, the one good thing that came out of all of this?” you asked. “You helped me realize that I deserve better, to be seen, to be happy.”

Your lips curled at the corners, more of that unfamiliar pride welling up throughout you as you spoke that truth aloud, and then you were turning away, pulling the door open, and leaving the office for the very last time.

Completely unaware of the way Mike stared after you, looking confused and strangely gutted as he spoke a reply that you would never hear, “You do.”

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! WELLLL, WHAT ARE WE THINKING, FEELING, AND HOE SPIRALING ABOUT? DROP YER GIRL A REBLOG/COMMENT/ASK TO SCREECH PUH-LEASE!!!! 🥺🙏🏻

Devil’s Advocates Masterlist

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[ackermansundercut]

Bird On A Wire

Characters/Pairings: Mafia!Bucky x Millennial Female!Reader x Mafia!Steve Word Count: 4.3k Summary: Caught by two dangerous men, you see the skies ahead for you as their little bird. Sequel to Little Lark.

Content/Warnings: dub-con, explicit smut, cockwarming, oral (male receiving), PIV sex, anal fingering (female receiving), use of pet name (little lark), dacryphilia, so much praise kink

Author Notes: Week eight of @buckybarnesevents Hot Bucky Summer - using the COCKWARMING and dialogue prompts (dialogue prompt bold/italicized) - and filling my May box for Build-a-Bucky Bingo with PRAISE KINK.

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

The next morning, you were on a flight to New York City. Private jet. In the clothes you’d worn yesterday, but they’d been laundered overnight. You’d slept naked in the bed of Barnes and Rogers - with what little sleep they allowed you to have.

You’d been allowed a few hours of sleep just before dawn and given a modicum of reprieve as the men woke for the day, ordered room service, and got to business. When your laundered clothes had been delivered, they’d plucked you out of bed, and told you to dress and be ready to leave within a few minutes.

You sat stiffly in the plush leather seat. As the jet soared over the clouds, you stared out the window, your mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. The events of the past 24 hours felt surreal, like a nightmare you couldn't wake up from. Your body ached, a constant reminder of the previous night's activities. The sapphire pendant hung heavy around your neck, its weight a physical manifestation of your new reality.

Bucky and Steve sat across from you. You tried not to look at them, but your eyes kept darting over, drawn by some magnetic pull you couldn't explain.

Steve was typing away on a laptop while Bucky leafed through some papers, both of them seemingly unconcerned with your presence. You tried to steady your breathing, to appear calm, but your mind raced with questions and fears about what awaited you in New York.

You couldn't help but marvel at how normal they seemed in the light of day, dressed in crisp suits, sipping coffee. If you didn't know better, you'd think they were just successful businessmen.

"We'll be landing in about an hour," Steve informed you, breaking into your thoughts. "Once we're home, we'll get you settled in."

Home. The word felt foreign. You wondered what kind of life awaited you in New York.

"I… I don't have any of my things," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky looked up from his papers, a smirk playing on his lips. "Don't worry, little lark. We'll take care of everything you need."

Steve nodded in agreement. "You'll want for nothing. Clothes, toiletries, anything you require - it's all been arranged." His eyes roamed over you appreciatively. "We take care of what's ours."

You shivered at his words, unsure if it was from fear or something else entirely. The way they looked at you made you feel both terrified and oddly… desired.

But the implication was clear: they had planned this, had known exactly how things would unfold. You swallowed hard, trying to process the level of control they already had over your life.

You swallowed hard, trying to find your voice. "And my family? You said... you said you knew about them."

"Safe and sound," Bucky assured you, his tone oddly gentle. "We've already arranged for their debts to be cleared and their protection to be... ongoing."

Steve's eyes narrowed slightly. "As far as they know, you've accepted a lucrative job offer in New York. They’ll believe you’re busy, and you will be.”

"What exactly am I supposed to do?" you asked, voicing another of the many questions swirling in your mind. "You said you don't need an assistant..."

Steve closed his laptop and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "Your job, sweetheart, is to keep us happy.”

“In every way,” Bucky added.

You felt your face flush at their words, memories of the previous night flashing through your mind. You looked down at your hands, fidgeting in your lap.

"What does that mean exactly?"

Steve reached across and took your hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. "It means you'll be by our side, day and night. At home, at social events, in business meetings. You'll learn to anticipate our needs, to be whatever we require in the moment."

Bucky's eyes glinted as he added, "And in private, you'll pleasure us. Satisfy our every desire."

Your breath caught in your throat. The reality of your situation was sinking in deeper with each passing moment.

"But I'm not... I don't have experience with..." you trailed off, embarrassed.

Steve's eyes darkened, a predatory glint appearing. "Oh, you can. And you will."

Bucky set aside his papers and leaned forward, mirroring Steve's posture. "We're not unreasonable men, little lark. Please us, and you'll find life can be very... pleasurable."

The implication in his tone made you shiver. You remembered all too well the sensations they had drawn from your body the night before, against your will and better judgment.

"But disappoint us," Steve continued, his voice low and dangerous, "and there will be consequences.”

You felt every muscle in your body tense.

Steve’s phone buzzed, and he stood abruptly, dropping your hand and walking away to take the call.

“We’ll start with something simple.” Bucky reached for your other hand and guided you to your feet. The jet's cabin suddenly felt smaller, more intimate. You could smell his cologne - a heady mix of sandalwood and something distinctly masculine.

"Let's see how well you can follow instructions," Bucky murmured, his voice low and husky. His steel-blue eyes locked onto yours, intense and unwavering. "Take off your panties."

Your breath caught in your throat, heart pounding. You glanced nervously at Steve, still on his phone call at the other end of the cabin.

"Eyes on me, little lark," Bucky commanded softly, drawing your attention back. "Steve's busy. This is between you and me right now."

With trembling hands, you reached under your skirt. You hesitated for a moment before slowly sliding your panties down your legs, stepping out of them. Bucky's gaze never wavered, patient but unyielding. Bucky held out his hand and you placed the delicate fabric in his palm. He brought them to his nose, inhaling deeply before pocketing them with a smirk.

"Good girl," he praised. "Now, unzip my pants and take my cock out."

Your eyes widened, darting nervously to Steve again. He was still engrossed in his call, pacing at the far end of the cabin.

“Lark,” Bucky growled, and your eyes darted back to him, the warning clear. “I said eyes on me,” he reminded, bringing his hand to your cheek, and tracing along the edge of your jaw. You knew the tender gesture was a signal that he could grip your jaw and force you to do what he wanted.

You knelt before him, and with shaking hands, you reached for his belt buckle. The leather was soft and supple under your fingers as you worked it open. Bucky's breath hitched slightly as your knuckles brushed against his abdomen. You fumbled with the button of his trousers before managing to undo it, then slowly lowered the zipper.

Bucky's eyes never left your face, watching your every reaction. You could feel the heat radiating from Bucky's body, smell his intoxicating scent.

Your fingers trembled as you reached into Bucky's pants, feeling the heat of his skin. You carefully extracted his cock, already half-hard and impressive in size. The weight of it in your hand made your breath catch. You stroked him tentatively, marveling at the contrast of soft skin over rigid flesh.

Bucky's breath hitched, his eyes darkening with desire. "That's it, little lark. Nice and slow," he murmured, voice husky.

You continued your ministrations, feeling him grow fully erect under your touch. Your cheeks burned with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. The cabin suddenly felt too warm, too small. Everything the night before had been the two of them working you while you took what they gave. It was different now with you being the one taking action.

"Enough," Bucky growled softly after a few moments. He grasped your wrist, stilling your movements. "Up in my lap."

Heart pounding, you obeyed as he tugged you up and guided you to straddle his waist. You tentatively braced your hands on his shoulders. He pushed your skirt up and out of the way, before guiding you onto his cock. “You’ll warm my cock the rest of the flight, maybe this’ll help you relax.”

Your trembled and gasped as he pulled your hips down. He found little resistance, as your traitorous body was already growing slick for him, but your cunt was sore from taking their enormous cocks the night before. Quiet tears slipped down your face, but you bit your lip, not wanting to make him unhappy.

He brushed one of your tears away with his thumb and smiled at you, half tender, half patronizing.

Your breath caught as you felt Bucky's cock stretching you, filling you completely. He held you still once you were fully seated, hand gripping your hip firmly.

"There's my good girl," he murmured, brushing his lips against your ear. Then he gently coaxed your head onto his shoulder. "Now, stay nice and still. Don't move unless I tell you to."

You nodded, trying to steady your breathing. The position was intimate, almost unbearably so. You could feel every twitch of Bucky's cock inside you, every slight shift of his body. Your thighs trembled with the effort of staying still.

Steve's voice drifted over from the other end of the cabin as he continued his phone call. The normalcy of his tone, discussing what sounded like business matters, was a stark contrast to your current situation. You felt exposed, vulnerable, even though you were still fully clothed. Your face burned with shame and arousal. You couldn't believe you were doing this, sitting in Bucky's lap with his cock inside you while Steve was just feet away.

When you heard Steve’s footsteps approaching a few minutes later, you tensed.

"Good girl," he praised, one hand moving to stroke your back soothingly. "You're doing so well."

“Isn’t she?” Bucky cooed.

And your body betrayed you again, clenching around Bucky's length over their praise.

Bucky chuckled darkly.

“She like that, Buck?”

"Mmm,” he hummed. “Our little lark is a slut for praise.”

Steve chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. "Is that so?" Steve crouched down beside Bucky’s seat. His hand came to rest on your thigh, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. "Look at me, sweetheart."

Hesitantly, you lifted your head from Bucky's shoulder and met Steve's intense gaze. His blue eyes were dark with desire, a small smirk playing on his lips.

"Such a good girl," Steve murmured, his hand sliding higher up your thigh. "Taking Bucky's cock so well. I bet you're dripping wet, aren't you?"

You whimpered softly, unable to form words. Steve's fingers ghosted over your clit, making you jerk slightly in Bucky's lap. Bucky's grip on your hip tightened in warning.

"Answer him," Bucky’s town was low but sharp.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. "Yes, I'm wet."

Steve's smirk widened. "Of course you are. Your body knows what it needs, even if your mind hasn't caught up yet." His fingers continued their teasing exploration, circling your clit with feather-light touches. "You're going to learn to crave this, sweetheart. To need us."

A soft moan escaped your lips before you could stop it. Your hips twitched involuntarily, seeking more friction. Bucky's grip tightened further, holding you still.

"Ah ah," he chided softly. "I said don't move unless I tell you to."

"S-sorry," you gasped, trying to regain control of your body.

Steve chuckled, his fingers never ceasing their torturous ministrations, tracing where you were stretched around Bucky's cock. The dual sensation of being filled by Bucky and teased by Steve was overwhelming. Your hips twitched involuntarily, seeking more friction.

Bucky gave a warning slap to your ass, and you hissed from the sting.

You froze, trying desperately to stay still despite the sensations overwhelming you. Tears pricked at your eyes from the effort and the conflicting emotions swirling within you.

"Shh, it's okay," Steve soothed, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. "We know it's hard for you. You're doing so well."

His praise sent another surge of arousal through you, making you clench around Bucky's cock. Bucky groaned softly, his fingers digging into your hips.

"Such a responsive little thing," he murmured, nuzzling against your neck. "We're going to have so much fun with you."

Steve's fingers continued their teasing, circling your clit with maddeningly light touches. Your thighs trembled with the effort of staying still, your breath coming in short gasps.

Steve's eyes glinted with amusement. "I think our girl needs a lesson in true self-control, Buck. What do you say?"

Bucky nodded, a wicked smile spreading across his face. "Couldn't agree more."

Your heart raced as you looked between them, uncertain of what they had in mind. Steve stood, towering over you, and began unbuckling his belt. The sound of leather sliding through fabric loops made you shiver.

"Open your mouth, little lark," Steve commanded, his voice low and husky.

You hesitated, glancing at Bucky, who gave you an encouraging nod. Slowly, you parted your lips, your breath coming in short, shallow pants.

Steve guided his cock to your mouth, rubbing the tip against your lips. "You're going to take me in your mouth while staying perfectly still on Bucky's cock.”

You trembled as Steve's thick length slid past your lips. The taste of him, musky and slightly salty, filled your senses. You struggled to relax your jaw, to accommodate his impressive size, fighting against how it ached from taking them both in your mouth in turns last night, too.

"That's it, sweetheart," Steve murmured, one hand tangling in your hair. "Nice and slow. Use your tongue."

You did as instructed, swirling your tongue around the head of his cock as he pushed deeper into your mouth. All the while, you fought to keep your hips still, Bucky's cock a constant, throbbing presence inside you.

Bucky's hands roamed your body, teasing and caressing, kneading the fleshy parts of you everywhere, as ravenous for your hips as your stomach, your chest, your ass, your thighs . He cupped your breasts through your blouse, thumbs brushing over your nipples. The dual sensations - Steve in your mouth, Bucky inside you and touching you - were overwhelming.

"Look at her, Buck," Steve's voice was thick with desire as he slowly thrust into your mouth. "Look at how well she's taking us both. Such a good little cockwarmer."

You whimpered around Steve's length, the praise sending another surge of arousal through you. Your body trembled with the effort of staying still, every muscle taut as you fought against the urge to move.

Bucky's hands continued their exploration, one sliding beneath your blouse to palm your breast directly. His thumb brushed over your nipple, making you gasp around Steve's cock.

"That's it," Steve encouraged, his grip in your hair tightening slightly. "Just relax and let us use you. This is what you're made for."

Tears pricked at your eyes, a mix of shame and arousal overwhelming you. You felt split open, exposed, caught between these two powerful men who seemed determined to consume and control you.

The plane suddenly hit a patch of turbulence, jostling everyone. You gasped and instinctively clenched around Bucky, causing him to groan. Steve's cock slipped from your mouth as you struggled to maintain your balance.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" you began, panic rising in your chest.

"Shh, it's alright," Steve soothed, his hand gentle at the back of your neck. "That wasn't your fault."

Bucky's hands steadied you on his lap. "Deep breaths, little lark. You're doing so well."

Their unexpected gentleness made your eyes sting with unshed tears. You took a shaky breath, trying to calm yourself.

"Now, where were we?" Steve mused, guiding his cock back to your lips. "Open up, sweetheart."

You parted your lips obediently and Steve pushed in again, but even deeper into your mouth, the head of his cock nudging the back of your throat. Your jaw ached, stretched wide around his girth. Bucky's hands continued to roam your body, teasing and tormenting, while his cock remained buried inside you. The dual sensations were overwhelming, pleasure and discomfort blurring together.

"Such a good girl," Steve murmured, his voice husky with desire. "Taking us both so well." You whimpered around his length, tears streaming down your cheeks. “Gorgeous,” he added, letting his other hand play through your tear tracks.

The praise sent another surge of arousal through you, your body betraying you once again as you clenched around Bucky's cock. Bucky chuckled darkly, his lips brushing against your ear. "I can feel how wet you are, little lark. Your body knows what it needs, even if you’re reluctant to accept your new life. But you’re dripping for us, desperate.”

You felt your face burn with shame at Bucky's words, knowing they were true. Despite your fear and uncertainty, your body was responding eagerly to their touch, craving more. Steve continued to thrust slowly into your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat with each movement. You struggled to breathe through your nose, tears streaming down your face.

"Look at me," Steve commanded softly. You raised your eyes to meet his intense gaze. "That's it. I want to see those pretty eyes while I fuck your mouth."

A muffled whimper escaped you, the dual sensations of Steve's cock in your mouth and Bucky's inside you becoming consuming every fiber of your being, every ounce of your existence.

Steve's pace quickened, his thrusts becoming more insistent. You struggled to keep up, your jaw aching as you tried to accommodate his impressive girth. His blue eyes, dark with desire, never left yours as he fucked your mouth with increasing fervor.

"That's it, little lark," he groaned, his voice low and gravelly. "Take it all."

You could feel him swelling, growing impossibly harder on your tongue. The taste of him intensified - salty, musky, undeniably male. Your senses were overwhelmed, filled with nothing but Steve and Bucky.

Steve's breathing grew ragged, his thrusts more erratic. "I'm close," he warned, his grip tightening in your hair. "You're going to swallow every drop, understand?"

You whimpered around his cock, tears streaming down your face.

Bucky's hands continued their torturous exploration of your body, one hand kneading your breast while the other slipped between your legs. His fingers found your clit, circling it with maddening lightness. You moaned around Steve's cock, your hips twitching involuntarily.

"Ah ah," Bucky chided, stilling his movements. You mewled in protest of losing his ministrations to your throbbing clit, but in the next instant, Steve’s hips jerked forward, and he groaned, burying his cock deep in your throat as he began to climax. The first pulse of his release hit the back of your throat, hot and thick. You struggled not to gag, tears streaming down your face as you fought to swallow around his length.

"That's it," Steve growled, his voice strained. "Take it all."

Wave after wave of his seed flooded your mouth, coating your tongue with its salty-sweet flavor. You swallowed frantically, trying to keep up with the copious amount. Some escaped the corners of your lips, trickling down your chin.

Steve's hand tightened at the nape of your neck, holding you in place as he continued to empty himself into your mouth. The taste, the scent, the feeling of being so thoroughly used - it all overwhelmed your senses.

As Steve's release finally subsided, he slowly withdrew from your mouth, a string of saliva and cum connecting your lips to the tip of his cock. You gasped for air, your jaw aching and your throat raw. Steve's thumb brushed over your swollen lips, smearing the mixture of his seed and your saliva.

"Such a good girl," he murmured, his voice low and satisfied. "You took it all so well."

Bucky's fingers resumed their torture of your clit, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You trembled in his lap, fighting against the urge to move, to seek more friction.

"I think our little lark deserves a reward, don't you, Steve?" Bucky's voice was husky in your ear.

Steve nodded, a wicked smile playing on his lips. "I couldn't agree more."

Before you could process what was happening, Bucky's hands gripped your hips, and he fucked up into you, violently, but you welcomed it with a debauched moan, clutching tightly to his shoulders as he drove into your aching, needy cunt.

Bucky's pace was relentless, his cock driving into you with bruising force. Your head fell back, a strangled cry escaping your lips as pleasure coursed through your body. The change from stillness to frenzied movement was jarring, overwhelming your senses.

Each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. Your head fell back, mouth open in a groan of ecstasy as he hit that perfect spot deep inside you. The cabin filled with the obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin and your breathless moans.

"That's it, little lark," Bucky growled, his fingers digging into your hips. "Sing for us. Let us hear your pretty sounds."

Steve's hand came to rest on your throat, not squeezing, just a gentle pressure. A reminder of his presence, of his control. "You're ours now," he murmured, his voice low and intense. "Every sound, every reaction - it all belongs to us."

You whimpered, caught between shame and arousal. Your body responded eagerly to their touches, to their words, even as your mind reeled with the implications of your new reality.

"Look at you," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Taking Bucky's cock so well. You were made for this, weren't you?"

You couldn't form words, could only whimper and nod as Bucky continued his merciless assault on your senses. Your body was on fire, every nerve ending alight with pleasure.

"Tell us," Bucky demanded, his grip on your hips tightening. "Tell us how much you love it."

"I-I love it!” you cried.

Without warning, Steve plunged a finger into your ass, and the shock and overwhelming sensation sent you careening into a blinding orgasm. The clenching and convulsion of your cunt made Bucky jerk and then drill into you even faster, spilling his release in height of your climax.

You didn’t realize you were sobbing until Steve began soothing your back, petting up and down, cooing more soft praises as you struggled to stay coherent.

As the waves of your orgasm subsided, you collapsed against Bucky's chest, trembling and gasping for air. Your mind was a haze of pleasure and confusion, your body wrung out and oversensitive. Bucky's arms wrapped around you, holding you close as he softened inside you.

"Such a good girl," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple. "You did so well."

Steve's hand continued its soothing motion along your back. "Beautiful," he added, his voice low and appreciative.

You felt tears pricking at your eyes again, overwhelmed by the intensity of what had just happened and the conflicting emotions swirling within you. Shame, arousal, fear, and a strange sense of... belonging? It was all too much.

"Shh, it's alright," Steve soothed, sensing your distress. "Let it out.”

After a few more minutes, once your breathing had finally returned to normal, you pushed back from Bucky’s chest, and made to move off his lap.

He tsked at you and frowned.

"Not yet, little lark," Bucky murmured, keeping you firmly seated on his lap. "I want you to feel me inside you a bit longer. Let it sink in who you belong to now."

You shivered at his words, acutely aware of his softening cock still nestled within you, still so big inside you. Your body felt boneless, wrung out from the intensity of your orgasm, and the sticky mix of your combined spend was weeping slightly around his cock, and you could feel it.

Steve's hand came to rest on the back of your neck, a gentle but possessive touch. "We're going to take such good care of you," he reminded, his voice low and soothing. "You'll want for nothing."

You nodded weakly, unable to form words. Your mind was still reeling, trying to process everything that had happened. You felt fresh tears welling up, overwhelmed by the intensity of the situation and your own conflicted emotions. Part of you wanted to fight, to rebel against this new reality they were forcing upon you. But another part - a part that grew stronger with each passing moment - craved their touch, their approval.

"Look at me," Steve commanded softly, finally taking the seat again next to Bucky.

Hesitantly, you raised your eyes to meet his intense gaze. His blue eyes were dark with desire, but there was also a hint of something else - possessiveness, perhaps even tenderness.

"You're ours now," he said, his voice low and firm. "Everything about you belongs to us - your body, your pleasure, your pain. We'll push you to your limits and beyond, but we'll also take care of you in ways you've never imagined."

You shivered at his words, feeling a mix of fear and anticipation. Bucky's hands stroked soothingly along your sides, a stark contrast to the bruising grip he'd had on your hips moments ago.

"We know this is a lot to take in," Bucky murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "You'll learn to love it. To crave it."

As if to emphasize his point, he shifted slightly, and a soft moan left your lips.

Steve leaned in, his breath hot against your cheek. "Remember, little lark. Pleasure or pain - the choice is yours."

A shiver ran down your spine at his words. Bucky drew a finger over your sapphire pendant, and Steve kissed you, licking into your mouth to taste his tang on your tongue. He didn’t relent until you were gasping for air. Then Bucky kissed your cheek, and Steve pushed your head gently down onto Bucky’s shoulder once more.

And the two resumed their business and idle chatter, while you floated away, exhausted, and your body gave way to peace while you could claim it.

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

[ackermansundercut]

SECRET OFFICE RENDEZVOUZ

A/N: wrote this while vibing to some 80s sax music, it was quite the vibe

WORD COUNT: 3.4k

WARNING: sexual content

SUMMARY: You've been having some late night rendezvouz with a guy you know nothing else than that he most likely works for the same company. While it started rather friendly, it soon changes into something hot and passionate, even though you still have no idea who the man is.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

You would have never thought you’d be the late night rendezvous type of person. Especially not at your workplace, but somehow, you ended up here, on the twentieth floor, staying long after everyone is gone from the office building, waiting for on particular person to walk into the lounge not many like to use during the day for some reason, probably because every other lounge area has a better view while this one faces the skyscraper next door, making the view only the offices there. It’s weird to sit and watch others work, but somehow you always had a thing for people watching. Just thinking of the life they live, so close yet so far from yours. This habit of yours drew you here after work, when you didn’t feel like going home to see your flatmate making out with her boyfriend on the couch, making it impossible for you to be anywhere else than your room. 

You just sat here, watched as the building next door emptied out like the one you were in, had a snack, read the news and let time pass. Until one day you weren’t alone. 

Harry came with the intention of being alone and the first few times the two of you sat on the farthest ends of the lounge, not interrupting each other. But then one day he struck up a conversation. 

“Do you think he loves working so much or just avoids someone at home?” he asked, pointing at a man you’d seen staying late in the office so late several times. 

“A bit of both,” you smiled as you answered and for the first time he took an armchair next to yours instead of moving to the corner of the room. And when he returned the next day he greeted you like an old friend and sat with you without a second thought.

That’s how it started. Long conversations afterhour, people watching, raiding the fridge for food when your stomachs were growling loud or ordering when you found absolutely nothing. There was something so comforting and secure in knowing that you’re the last in the building, wrapped up in your bubble as day turned into night almost every day while you got to know each other more and more. 

You only had one rule though. No work talk. You didn’t even know what department you worked at, for all you knew, he could be working on the top floor with the board. Pleasing Co. is big enough that it’s impossible to know everyone and for some reason, you wanted to keep the anonymity, it had a kind of thrill to it, not knowing when you might run into each other during the work day, though it hasn’t happened so far. 

It was all fun and games up until yesterday. You still can’t recall how it escalated, one minute you were talking about a pair from next door you’ve seen kissing a few times through the windows, and then the next Harry’s hand was on your thigh, teasing to go higher up every time it moved, his nose was running along your jawline and your hand rested on the back of his neck. The moment was growing hotter with each movement and you were ready to take it a step further and finally taste the lips you’d been fantasizing about for weeks, but then your bubble popped when a cleaner lady rolled her cart in and started mopping the floor. 

You moved away like nothing happened and then went home, your skin was still burning where he touched you and you couldn’t stop wondering all night what would have happened if you weren’t interrupted. 

Now as you walk into the lounge after work, you question if he will show up and if he does, what it will be like. Will he address how close you got yesterday? Was he just in a mood and you were there? You wouldn’t mind taking it up from where you left, but maybe he changed his mind. After all, it is still your workplace and even though you haven’t worked together, you’re still colleagues. It could be risky. 

You sit in your usual seat and stare out the window, but this time you don’t actually watch what’s happening in the other building, just blinking out into the void.

Up until you hear footsteps and you recognize them even before you see him. Harry walks in wearing his usual attire, fitted suit pants, white shirt with the top button left undone, teasing a bit of his chest hair, the sleeves rolled up, his tattoos making an appearance. 

“Hey,” he greets you and at first you can’t read a thing off his face. 

“Hi,” you breathe out and it’s kind of a standoff, you can feel the unknown vibes hanging between the two of you, impossible to tell who will break it first. 

His gaze runs down your body before returning to your face and then… he shows the tiniest smirk that shifts everything in an instant. You both start moving at the same time and meet in the middle, your lips crashing in a hungry need as you press up against him. 

His hands cup your jaw, angling your head gently but firmly as well and he starts walking you backwards, until your legs meet the back of the nearest couch. He keeps pressing forward, just enough to make you bend backwards, one leg coming up to hook around him, your dress riding up on your thigh in the movement and as if this was his plan all along, his hand moves to grab the exposed skin right away, his fingers digging into the flesh just an inch below your ass. 

The pressure makes you moan against his lips and he bites into your bottom lip, giving it a playful tug. Your hands get lost in his hair, messing up his gentle curls that always sit so perfectly, even at the end of the day. You’ve fantasized about tugging on his strands way too many times, sitting in your office, zoning out of boring emails and meetings. Now that you get to do it, you don’t think you’ll ever be able to stop. 

His open mouthed kisses move down your neck and you’re more than happy you chose a dress with a low cut, because he is quick to give some well.deserved attention to your cleavage as well. 

“Wait,” you breathe out and he lifts his head, lips swollen and pink, so kissable and inviting, but you manage to resist for a minute. “The cleaning lady… what if–”

“I asked them to leave this floor last. No one will come in here for hours.”

You stare back at him in disbelief that he went an extra mile and made sure you couldn’t get interrupted again. So you must have thought about yesterday just as much as you did. 

Craning your neck you look at the building next to yours, seeing some desks still occupied.

“Now they will get a show from us,” you whisper when you turn back to face him, but the smirk on his lips tells you he is not too bothered by that at all.

His hand now shamelessly slips to your ass, gives it a hard squeeze that makes you gasp at him, adding to his confidence some more. 

“They deserve a show once in a while,” he says, but then gives you the chance to put an end to it if it bothers you that strangers could get a glimpse of what you’re doing. 

You have never been one for enjoying exhibitionism, but for some reason, as you stare back at this gorgeous man who has one hand on your ass, the other one squeezing your ribcage, ready to move up to explore more of your body… you couldn’t care less who sees you. 

“We’re going to get in so much trouble if someone finds it out,” you say, but kiss him anyway, showing him that you’re willing to take the risk. 

“Don’t worry, I’m on great terms with the board,” he grins and returns to kissing you with such hunger, it makes your knees wobble in an instant. 

Somehow, he manages to move the two of you around so that he sits on the sofa and he eagerly pulls you to straddle his lap, your black dress now bunched around your waist, exposing your lacy thong underneath and giving his hands an easy way to finally palm your ass with nothing in the way. When you feel his fingers dig deep into your muscles you can’t help but grind against him, but then stop when you hear a pained grunt from him as your clothes center meets the growing bulge in his lap. 

“Do that again, please,” he pants when you try to hold yourself up, because you thought you might have moved a bit too fast. 

With a new wave of confidence you start moving your hips again, the tension and need growing in the pit of your stomach every time you feel his erection press against you. When with one particular move you rub against him harder than before, something snaps in him as he grabs onto your underwear and rips the thin fabric off your body, throwing it to the side as his mouth claims yours in a demanding manner. 

You have no idea how far it will go, but the growing need for him is clouding every warning that alerts you about how risky the situation is. Now as you’re grinding against his clothes crotch, you let your hands move freely and unbutton his shirt, revealing his firm abdomen underneath you. 

“Fuck, Y/N, you’re killing me,” he breathes against your neck and then bites the heated skin playfully. Moving away from him just enough to look at him, your hands settle on the button of his pants and you gently tug on it as you sink your teeth into your bottom lip. 

“Do you want to fuck me?” you ask sheepishly and you swear you can feel his cock twitch under the restraint of his pants. 

“Yes,” he answers in a low tone, his eyes never leaving yours. 

“Right here? Where people in the other building can see us?”

“Yes,” his answer comes fast again. 

With a smirk, you then unbutton and unzip his pants and he lifts his hips up just enough so that you can drag the pants along with his underwear down until his cock springs free. You can’t stop yourself from moaning when you see the glistening, pink tip, taking in his length and girth that already makes you squeeze. But you have one more thing in mind before filling yourself with him. 

Leaning down you kiss him, this time a bit slower, but with just as much passion as you move your hips so your cunt presses against his cock, but instead of letting it slip inside you, you make it lie flat against his stomach and right between your wet folds. Harry’s head rolls back when you start rolling your hips, making his erection move back and forth between your folds, the tip teasing your clit just perfectly. 

“Shit, you’re so wet,” he breathes out, hands sliding up your back, underneath your dress. 

“You made me this wet, Harry,” you speak against his lips as you keep up your rhythm. “Do you want to be inside me?”

“Yes! Please!”

“Or should I make you come like this? Let your cum cover your stomach instead of my cunt?”

“No, please, I need to be inside you.”

“You asked so nicely,” you smile down at him, a little devilish as you reach down and grab his cock that’s already covered in your arousal. You give it a squeeze, earning a moan from him before you lift yourself up just enough so that you can angle him right, the tip already slipping inside you. 

“You’re gonna let me ride you? Right here, where people can see us?”

“Yes, you can do anything, let them see how fucking good you are to me.”

You love the praising, you feel like you’re dominating him which is not usually what you do, but with Harry, it feels right. So when you lean down for another kiss you slowly drop yourself down until every inch of his cock is buried inside you. He is stretching you out like no one before, it’s a surprise to you that you could take him, though, you definitely need a few moments to get used to his size. 

“You feel so good, Y/N. Am I filling you up well? Can you feel my cock taking up every inch of you?”

“Yes, oh my God,” you let your head fall back and then slowly, you start moving. The first few times you hold yourself back, but when you feel like you can take him well, you don’t shy away from going harder. 

Up and down, back and forth, you keep alternating, riding him while ignoring just how public the setting is, all you can focus on is how good he feels. 

“I want to feel you come inside me,” you pant against his lips. 

“You want me to fill you up? Want to feel my cum dripping from you?”

You can only whine with a nod as your answer, gripping the back of his neck as you move faster and faster, your own orgasm building up rapidly. 

“I’ll give you that, baby. I’m gonna fill you up.”

“Now, I need to feel you coming, Harry!” you beg him before he wraps his arms around you, pulls you tight against him and starts thrusting up into you, fast and hard. 

You’re seeing stars and he bites into the skin on your neck right when you reach your high, then he follows just moments later, keeping his word, filling you up with his warm cum. 

When his movements stop you roll your hips a few more times, making sure you both got the best out of it and when you lean back to look at him you see the satisfaction plastered all over his face. 

“Maybe…” he starts as he reaches up and gently caresses your cheek with his knuckles. “Next time let’s do this somewhere more private.”

Smiling he nods towards the window and as you glance over your shoulder you spot two women standing by the window, obviously watching you two. When they realize that you spotted them, they start waving around, which definitely sends the message ‘Go girl!’ and all you can do is laugh. 

“I hope this won’t take too long,” your boss, Laura whines next to you as the room fills up. 

“Don’t think they would dare to keep everyone here past lunch time,” you smile up from your notebook. 

Today’s all staff meeting is about some big news. The founder of the company and current CEO, Jeffrey Azoff is retiring, it’s been a known fact for months, but the board kept it a secret who will take his place and they are finally announcing it. 

The room fills to the brim and you know those who weren’t fast enough to snatch a seat in the auditorium are watching online and just a few minutes after half past eleven, Jeff makes his way to the stage as everyone claps. 

“Thank you, thank you everyone. It is no surprise for anyone why we are here today. My exit from the company has been an open secret even before I made a statement about it publicly. Today I’m here to tell you who I’m passing my seat on to, who I very much trust to take good care of everything I built up.

“When Pleasing Co. was launched I never thought this is how big it would grow out to be, but it is my greatest pleasure that one simple idea blossomed into something that would change hundreds, even thousands of lives. It’s been a long and bumpy ride with many challenges, but thanks to the amazing people around me, I never gave up and achieved one success after the other. Fifteen years of hard work and many sacrifices, now I’m standing here with a bittersweet feeling in my chest. I’m sad that part of this journey is coming to its end for me, but I’m beyond happy to focus on other things in life that had to be put to the side to benefit my business. I can’t say that it was hard to decide who I want to follow me, because I’ve known this person for a long time and I know there’s no one kinder, smarter and reliable than him to take this post and it was a miracle he also shared the same goals as me when I presented him with my idea.”

You can feel the curiosity and a bit of tension rising in the room as Jeff is nearing the end of his speech. Everyone wants to know who will be the boss and rumors rolled around a couple of weeks ago that it is an outsider and not someone from the board, so everyone wants to know who this mysterious person is. 

“I hope he will find the beauty of all the challenges like I did and I know you will grow to like him just as much as I do. With that being said, I don’t want to keep you on your toes for any longer, so let me introduce you to Pleasing’s new CEO, Harry Styles!”

The clapping starts again as the man himself steps out onto the stage and while every female around you gasps because of his appearance, you stop breathing for a whole different reason.

Because Harry Styles happens to be the same Harry you fucked in the empty lounge after work yesterday. 

He walks over to the microphone, shakes hands with Jeff and then they even hug and he gives the audience a few humble nods as his eyes run through the room. Still frozen, you’re staring at him, doubting he would spot you, but right before he starts speaking, his gaze settles on you, the tiniest hidden smirk playing in the corners of his mouth. 

That mother fucker.

“Thank you, everyone and thank you Jeff. It is a great honor to be taking the lead and thank you for speaking so highly of me instead of embarrassing me with some stupid story from college.”

Everyone laughs at his joke and his smile grows with his confidence.

“I didn’t plan to have a big speech, because I’m definitely a man of acts.”

Right as he says that, his eyes find you again and you can feel your ears burning already. Did he just reference his acts from yesterday?

“I’m excited to start this adventure and I hope to please everyone’s expectations. I’ve been working with Jeff these past about two months, learning the ropes so I can be the best leader you all deserve. I’m planning to visit every department in the upcoming weeks to get a clear picture of everything that will be running underneath me and I promise to do my best to keep building what my friend worked so hard for. It is a new role for me as well, so I’m asking for some patience, but I also want you to see me as a colleague, not someone in charge. I think what makes this place so good is the humanity and connection between people and I want to be part of that, because I do think that’s the only way to go. So don’t be surprised if you find me by the coffee machine, or join you for dinner at the deli down the street and please, please invite me out for drinks after work!” 

The crowd laughs again and you can’t hold your smile back either. His gaze returns to yours as he addresses his last words.

“Because no matter what I do during the day, I want to remain the guy you share a secret with in the lounge after work, as if I was some random guy from finance. Hope to see you all soon.”

Employees from all kinds of departments applaud him and you join in, sharing a smirk with him that sends him a clear message. 

His status does not change what you have going on. You liked him when he could be a random guy from finance and you like him the same now, knowing that he is the head of the company.

For you, he’ll stay just Harry. Your secret from the lounge. 

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[ackermansundercut]

Training Day - A.H

a/n: you all wanted more bimbo!assistant!reader and i'm a woman of the people so here we are

on a real note i love her and she is my queen

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

summary: you don't understand why hotch is giving you training lessons, but apparently he thinks you need it

warnings: talking about men following her in public YUCK, hotch trying to train reader, reader not knowing what's going on, cuties being cute

wc: 0.8k

"I still don't really know why we're doing this."

You were grumbling more than was characteristic for you, with every part of your body, your arms, your legs, and even your ass, suffering from a dull ache--sadly, not the result of any enjoyable pastime. After being knocked over more times than you cared to count, Hotch extended his hand toward you. You gladly took it, letting him pull you to your feet.

Your fingers deftly pulled at your pink tracksuit top over the sliver of abdomen that that had been revealed in your less-than-graceful take down. Hotch had pointed out the impracticality of your outfit when you showed up, but you stood firm on the principle that if early training sessions were expected of you, then your attire would be non-negotiable.

"Because I want to be confident in your abilities to defend yourself." His arms folded over his chest as his gaze bore into you, challenging you to contradict him.

"I'm just here to look pretty and answer your phones, crime-fighting isn't in my job description. That's your thing, Mr."

You shuffled back to your original position anyway, hands coming up to shield your face as you mentally sorted through the steps, or at least tried to, struggling to recall the correct foot placement.

"Shoulder width apart."

It's like he could read your mind. You were not entirely convinced that he couldn't.

"Crime-fighting doesn't have to be your thing," Hotch stated, narrowing the gap between you, his hands firmly correcting your stance. You sometimes found an excuse to stand just so, hoping he would step in to manhandle you into place. "But being part of the BAU, even peripherally, means you're not immune to risks. I need to know you can handle yourself... for my piece of mind."

"Sir, is this like, your super-secret way of showing you care?"

Your lips twisted into a half-smile as his hands clasped your waist a little tighter than necessary: a warning that said you were playing with fire. His fingers then moved to direct yours, positioning them closer to your face, his knuckles lightly grazing across your cheek in the process.

"Eyes on me, stay focused."

"My eyes are always on you, sir," you say, your head canting to one side. 

He released a controlled breath, giving you a level look that signaling you were pushing it. Nevertheless, you flashed him a beaming smile and initiated the move he had been drilling into you. The tip of your elbow made contact with the soft of his stomach.

He issued a muted groan as he intercepted your arm, preventing it from digging further, and in a fluid motion he spun you around, pinning your backside to his front.

"That was perfect, right?" you squealed, your fist shooting up in victory.

The sudden jump caused his hands to shift from your arm, finding a new perch on your hips to steady your... enthusiastic bounce.

You whirled in his grasp, the proximity sending a faint hum through his chest. Clearing his throat, he managed. "Yes, uh, that was it."

Clutching his shirt, the fabric crumpled beneath your purple-tipped fingers, you giggled. "Just imagine someone trying to follow me to my car now. They wouldn't know what hit 'em!"

"Is that a common occurrence?" The lines of his face gathered into that customary look of concern, that characteristic frown of his making an appearance.

He gently disentangled your hands from his shirt, not letting go, but rather laying his atop of yours.

"Well, sometimes, but I usually just call Morgan, put him on speaker, and he starts talking about the FBI stuff," you explained, giving a light shrug that nudged the zipper of your jacket down just a smidge. "They take off after that."

He clenched his eyes shut, pausing momentarily before reopening it. One hand let go of yours to adjust the zipper back to its proper position.

"That makes my stomach hurt." And it did. "Don't hesitate to call me when that happens. I'll come get you."

Your smile stretched ear to ear, potent enough to make him feel lightheaded. "You know, with all these trainings, who needs to call for help?"

"How about we compromise, and you still call me, regardless?"

You pout your lips, shiny with clear gloss rather than your usual pink. "That sounds less like a compromise and more like a you thing, ya know?"

Hotch's laughter rumbled from his chest, a warm, breathy sound, as he let go of your hands, which he realized he had been holding far longer than appropriate, and guided you to the door.

"You don't appreciate the added precautions I'm willing to take for your safety?"

Dragging your sneaker on the floor, you plucked your bag from the wall as Hotch closed the door behind you. "Gee, when you say it like that..."

When you walked down the hall you seemed to be perfectly in step.

taglist: @hotchhner @khxna @readergf @sarcasm-and-stiles @edencherries @aurorsworld @princess76179 @malindacath @freyy253 @broadwaytraaaaash @sunfyyre @sleepysongbirdsings @trulycayla @sarcasm-and-stiles

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[ackermansundercut]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: here we go honeys. when me and aly (<3!) tossed this idea around months ago, this was the big question; how to do the reveal and what comes after. naturally it was as angsty as possible tehe <3 cw: canon typical violence

word count: 4.2k

synopsis: Azriel mourns a mistake that will surely haunt him for eternity as he races back to you. You play the leading role in one of your nightmares, except you can't seem to wake up from it.

CHAPTER SEVEN :: MATES

It's too loud and he can't think— that's the only coherent thing that Azriel can seem to grasp as he stumbles forward in the snow.

His shadows burst into a wild frenzy as he staggers towards the cabin door. It's not snowing here but the wind current is fast and wicked, tunnelling over the hilltop. His breath locks in his chest and even as he gasps, he can't seem to catch it.

It's too loud, too much— every single thought and feeling within him is just climbing over one another, overlapping, melding into each other so he can't tell where one ends and another begins.

Sadness, misery, torment, upset, anger. His emotions are thrown together with yours, a thousand afflictions all battling for his attention and he can't fucking think.

He shoves the cabin door open, falls through it, and it slams shut behind him.

Like a puppet getting its strings cut, all at once the noise... stops.

As though the very action of closing the door had managed to silence the bond between you and Azriel.

A different, very real fear suddenly burrows deep in his heart.

Still gasping for air, he shoves a hand against his chest and searches within himself desperately for that tether, his eyes crushing shut. For a moment, his heart hangs in the balance, teetering on the edge of agony.

And then— there.

Golden and rooted in his very soul, the bond that connects him to you. Only once he's found it does he release the breath captured in his lungs. He breathes an audible sigh of relief and shudders lightly, his knees giving out slightly.

He lets himself slump back against the cabin door as his scarred hand slips from his chest, his wings curling forward around himself. His head swims with the overload of new information, the first dregs of it only just sinking in.

You... were not the person you said you were.

...Was that such a bad thing?

Still breathing hard, Azriel's gaze turns to stare hard at his hands, their delicate scarring paining him nearly as much as the memory does. He thinks back to their origin.

Thinks back to a space too small for a growing boy, thinks of the darkness. He thinks of the never-ending misery that seemed to torment his life in a way he feared he would never escape.

It had taken a very long time for that fear to diminish in size; or perhaps, Azriel had just learned to grow around it.

But the cruelty of those mountains and the Fae that resided there was something he was intimately familiar with. The world up there, between the pines, was kill or be killed. Rise to the top of the food chain or spend every waking moment trying to figure out how to survive.

Isn't that what you had done? Learnt how to endure the conditions, to withstand the brute force of the winter and the merciless Illyrian way?

And wasn't that what he had done, all those years ago? Perhaps, the two of you weren't so different.

But his mind keeps snagging: liar, liar, liar.

Some vicious, prideful voice in his head makes a different point— he did it the right way. He didn't deceive anyone.

He fought for all he had, trained harder than any of his camp-mates to overcome every wretched obstacle in his way, earned his place at the top of the Blood Rite by being better, by working harder and winning.

Even with his... set back with learning to fly, he had still conquered it. He'd earned his place.

But… no, that wasn't right, was it?

He'd earned it, yes, but only because there was no other choice.

He had been kicked down at every possible chance, stalked for being born from a father who detested him and none of it was his fault. He'd earned his title as warrior but he had done nothing to reap every extra hurdle to get there.

Azriel had endured a great many terrible things in his life—and it took effort to recall that it wasn't fair. That it was an injustice he shouldn't have had to bear.

Sometimes, he hated how deeply ingrained the Illyrian way was within him. How it had changed him in the most unsavoury of ways, giving him an Illyrian pride that overtook his rationale at the worst of times.

It echoed out in the most unfamiliar of ways, like a hidden piece of himself he'd forgotten about— forgotten the person he'd needed to become to survive those camps.

So when Azriel thinks of the lie you've been hiding it, protecting yourself, the forgiveness is already there. It always was there. He could never had truly held it against you.

You had lied, yes, but as if there was any other way to survive. As if he could fault you for picking the option that let you fight, let you grow strong, let you keep your wings.

He remembers your words suddenly.

Please, I- I just wanted to keep my wings.

A sinister horror creeps up his throat and Azriel lurches forward, his forearms slamming against the cabin floor as his body forcibly retches. His stomach clenches tightly and bile floods his mouth but nothing comes out but his ragged breath.

How young had you been?

He knows to make your lie feasible it had to have been too young. Nine years old? Eight? He tries to recall the age that Lord Mylind said you started turning up trouble but it only succeeds in fueling the harrowing feeling that was running through his veins.

Azriel sags forward, his eyes drawing closed as he presses his forehead to the cool wood of the ground, trying to contain his growing dread. Still curled around himself, his wings quiver in the wake of his revelation. His shadows try soothe him, whirling down the planes of his neck.

You were pleading with him.

And... he had left you.

His stomach heaves once more, his breath a mixture of raspy pants.

It's impossible not to recount every single interaction you've had over the months, turning over every memory and seeing the other side of it with startling clarity.

The lone cabin, the outlier to the group. The tenseness in your shoulders when asked about the Blood Rite or your absences from training that Lord Mylind had spoken so crudely about.

Your drive to train and learn; the utter disappointment at the inadequacy of your tonics.

You had so much on the line, so much more than he ever could have imagined.

Azriel bites his cheek meanly as he recalls the conversation in which he asked why you hadn't completed in the Blood Rite. It makes perfect sense now; the exposure of the challenge was far too big of a risk and as a bastard, you would automatically be a target.

Even if you managed to succeed, which he had no doubt you could, the tattoos... removing your shirt...

All dead giveaways.

Your voice echoes in his mind.

Azriel, please, you have to understand—

You had begged him and he left you, he left you.

His body gives another awful retch, the horror of what he had done beginning to truly settle in. Gods, in a thousand ways you had been more trusting and vulnerable that he had ever known. Allowing him into your shelter, into your life...

Letting him get close to you, knowing that the closer he got, the more your secret threatened to reveal. And you let him anyway.

Azriel lurches to his feet, swaying for only a moment, his head reaching a clarity he so desperately lacked earlier.

He needs to go back. He should have fucking never left.

Somewhere between his ribs, there's an wallowing ache on the bond. A jolt of sharp pain.

Hand flying to his chest, Azriel stares at it and desperately prays to every god he can think of that he isn't too late to fix this. His eyes flick over to the Siphon on the back of hand, dim and lifeless. Drained.

Fuck. He snarls in his frustration. He can't even winnow back to you.

Turning and pressing back out the door, his boots smash through the snow outside for only a few steps— til he beats his mighty wings and takes to the skies.

Whether the bond had snapped for you or not, it didn't stop him from gripping that thread tightly and pouring every sincere intention down it. I'm sorry. I’m coming back. I’m sorry. I never should have left. I'm so fucking sorry.

He could only hope that you somewhere on the other side, connected to the same red string of fate, you could feel him coming back to you.

—

He's taking too long.

It's the thought that's stuck on loop, like a record that keeps skipping, repeating the same part over and over again. He's going as fast as he can and still, he knows he's taking too damn long.

As his wings strain from the long journey, the endless labyrinth of trees whirring past beneath him too fast to see, Azriel glimpses down at the siphons atop his hands.

They're still gleaming in that lacklustre way but there's more of a shine to them now. He can feel it too, the well refilling with a slow drip, the build up of his power.

His keen eyes scour the landscape, narrowed as he analyses the distance between here and Exordor. It's still far— it will stretch the reserve of magic that's barely begun to replenish but Azriel doesn't care. He'll do anything to reach you.

He squeezes his eyes shut, brow furrowing, and folds the fabric once more. The world spins as he pushes through the fabric of it, feeling the strain in his bones. The snowy entrance to your shelter comes into view.

He lands with a sickening crack, his knees bending to catch himself as he touches down, one heavy motion into the snow which spins up in a flurry. It's raining heavily, the drops coming down with a vehemence, creating a thunderous applause against the frozen ground.

Around him, the trees groan and shudder as they bow to the powerful energy. Birds take flight, cawing as they do. In the distance, there's a loud snap, carried with the wind.

Azriel stares right into the cabin.

His stomach threatens to lurch again at the sight. The door to your shelter is wide open.

His mate, where is his mate?

Stretching out the doorway, there are obvious signs of a struggle. The muddy snow has been kicked around, the boards nailed to the inside of the door are fresh with splinters, and... and...

The blood. Crimson, scarlet, fucking red blood coats the floorboards, a ghoulish splatter of it leading from your bed out the door, turning the slurry of melted snow a soft pink. He knows from the pull in his chest that you're not here.

This isn't just some attack. They haven't just ambushed you, they've... found out.

Where before he had felt terribly ill, bile rising, there is only icy and raging fury. In the distance, another snap sounds and his shadows beg him to pay attention to it, their whispers kissing at his cheeks. Water soaks his dark hair, stray raindrops rolling down his face.

Azriel ignores them and stumbles forward one, two steps and stops, his heart soaking in the reality of what had happened.

He had left you and they had taken you.

They found out and they hadn't killed you, they had— they had—

The snap in the distance. This time when it sounds, it yanks Azriel's attention, his head whipping towards where it's coming from. It's towards camp. Dread curdles up in his gut, latching onto each notch in his spine and burrowing deep.

Every instinct in his body roars into overdrive as he realises what it is he can hear in the distance — the crack of a whip against skin.

—

One of your nightmares has come to life, dragging from the murkiest parts of your mind and taking the treacherous form of Brudam.

You keep begging yourself to wake the fuck up.

It can’t be real— this can’t actually be happening, you think desperately, none of this was ever supposed to happen- you had- it was- you secret was something you guarded with your life.

"Wake up," You plead to yourself deliriously. Your wrists are already feeling chafed from where they're bounded against the wooden pole, the steel that binds them cold as ice. The rain has soaked you to the bone.

"Wake up," You all but sob, trying futilely to pull against the restraints on your wrists.

It only succeeds in tugging on the stakes driven through your wings, a searing, fiery type of pain the ripples along every nerve in them. A sob scrapes up your throat, answering the pain's call. It hurts, it hurts, it fucking hurts in a way you haven't known before — everything, every cell in your body, is being tortured.

A shredding deep in your gut as though you've taken a fistful of claws to the stomach makes you seize, your vision flashing wildly. Even now, your cycle continues its bloody rampage. You can't stop crying, can't stop your body from convulsing in pure agony.

Somewhere behind you, your ear pick up the shifting in the mud, Brudam preparing to strike again.

Even sobbing, you tense up, unable to stop yourself—instinct drives you to hastily try tuck your wings, trying to pull them from their spread position. They catch on the stakes pinned through them meanly, the delicate flesh tearing with a sickening squelch and sending rivers of pain up into your body.

You cry out a strangled gasp, your head bowing further forward, trying to escape what's to come.

The blow rains down onto your unprotected wings all the same.

It's pure fire. Like they've doused the membranous skin of your wings with oil and set them ablaze, fiery hot pain licking at the tendons, tracing all the way up to your bare back. Your teeth grit to contain your scream. Tears streak down your face, lost in the thrum of the rain.

"Wake. Up." You demand to yourself again, panting heavily now.

You can't take much more pain or you'll be unconscious soon and some awful part of you knows, that's when they'll take your wings. You'll wake up midway to the worst nightmare of them all; the splintering sound of them cutting them off your body.

There's a boot pressed suddenly to your lower back, pressing meanly.

"Oh no, this isn't a dream," Brudam taunts as he leans down, all too happily. His tone shifts to something harder with his next words, nearly spitting the words. "I knew there was something off about you, you mutt."

His voice climbs to a shout, addressing the crowd gathered around you. "I always knew you were a FUCKING TRAITOR!"

There's a roar from the crowd, lead by the antsy group of warriors you've grown up and trained beside. All of them are eager to see justice delivered for your lies. None of them are pleased to have been duped, much less by a female.

They know, everyone knows. There's no coming back from this. Even if it weren't from the scent of blood from your cycle, your bound chest—revealed through your cut away armor— is proof enough.

Another convulsion rocks your body, the pain from your cycle making itself known. You're burning hot from every laceration on your skin and freezing cold from being bare in the icy rain. Your defence gets swallowed up in your pitiful whimper.

The mud behind you shifts again, Brudam no doubt winding up for his next hit.

You hold your breath, capturing the next sob in your throat. Your wings tug inwards, despite how you beg them not to, and your wrists ache as you try to wrench them free fruitlessly.

A sense of finality sinks in. You're going to die here.

A part of you feels like maybe you'd always known it would end like this, one way or the other. It's tired. So fucking tired of living in your intricate lie and spending each and every moment of your miserable existence on alert. On defence. Waiting for a break that never seems to come.

It's that part that can't, in any capacity, be truly upset at Azriel.

You can't resent him for leaving when you're the one who lied.

You can't regret him finding out, without regretting ever meeting him—and that means... regretting all the happiness you've truly felt.

But there's also an anger swirling within you, a rage that is as icy as it is hungry for vengeance.

Inexplicably, it feels unknown. Not your own. It starts somewhere in your chest and it only feels like it's getting bigger, growing in size, glowing hotter.

In the drone of the rain, blackness swims before your tired eyes as they begin to slip shut— only, no, they haven't closed.

The darkness is real and in front of you. It's surrounding you, curling up from under your captured arms. Despite the loud protests from your anguished body, you lift your head shakily. You're still quivering, quiet hiccups pushing out your lips.

"What are you doing, witch?" Brudam snarls from behind you, his boot on your back digging in harder. You wince, the motion dragging your wings against the splinters of the stakes. You shake your head, unable to form words.

It isn't me, you want to say.

But you're not entirely sure that's true either. The black plume is only around you, rising as though it is coming from you. Protecting you.

"Brudam!" A loud voice cuts across the rustling, nervous crowd, cutting through the din of the rain clear as night and sounding as deadly as venom. The courtyard falls into silence.

Your heart lurches up your throat. You know that voice.

Something within you cleaves in half, torn by opposite forces. On one side, there the mountainous evidence of your miserable life, of every thing that's worked against you time and time again. Of the fact that things don't work out for you, they never have. You're a fool to believe that would change now.

The other side... is a terrible, feeble hope.

Because he came back.

"Shadowsinger," Brudam greets with a sneer. The boot on your back shifts and then retreats, the warrior turning away from you. Agony tears through your body again and you hold your breath, shuddering through the silent pain with gritted teeth. A dangerous hope starts to cling to your heart.

"One chance," Azriel growls. The hair on the back of your neck rises at the promise of violence in his voice.

"Let her go."

Brudam snorts unattractively, forcing a bitter sounding laugh out. You focus on trying not to throw up as the pain fogs your brain, bile filling your mouth.

"Not fucking likely."

"Walk away." Azriel snarls his demand, sounding angrier than you've ever heard him.

"Over my dead body, bastard," Brudam spits back, the mud shifting as he digs his feet in, preparing to fight. His hand tightens around the whip in his hand.

There's a moment of silence, the wind carrying a whistle, the trees swaying as if leaning closer to listen in, two warriors sizing each other up in the pouring rain. Your ears strain for Azriel's response.

"Gladly."

And then the courtyard is doused in pure shadow.

—

Azriel moves without hesitation.

Illyrian warriors are fiercely trained to fight through every type of conditions, battling in the harshest of all seasons. Snow, sleet, rain, shine. They're disciplined to go days without sleep, to fight and win, even with one arm pinned behind their back.

But what defence is there against losing your sight?

Azriel hadn't even known his shadows were capable of such a thing. Their usual whirling expands in a blink of an eye, spreading out into a storm-cloud of blackness that drapes itself across the landscape. People murmur and bleat in fright as it creeps out deathly fast, snuffing senses and blinding everyone in the courtyard except him.

Like Rhys' own cloak of darkness, of midnight — but no, it's not night, it's shadow.

Azriel doesn't dwell on it, doesn't hesitate. Not when there's still territory, still enemies, in the space between him and you.

There's a ripple of unease from the warriors but Azriel's already advancing, the shadows beneath his boots silencing the shift of his feet. Through the darkness, Brudam gives himself away with an animalistic snarl and leads Azriel exactly to his his target.

He swings powerfully and Heartstriker does what it does best—aims true.

The bones in Brudam's shoulder makes a horrible sinking crack as the blade pierces it through, the brute giving a fiendish cry of pain.

Azriel drives it all the way through, his anger aiding his strength as he swipes out Brudam's feet. Heartstriker buries itself deep into the mud, driven by the weight of Brudam's body as it hits the ground.

All Azriel can think is that he should fucking gut him, should skin him alive. He should pull that blade and drag it forward, force it through all the muscle and shatter every bone on the way, until it pierces his awful heart.

The mating bond within him roars at him to do so, every inch of his body, of his soul, enraged at the state he'd found you in, the agonising hurt bestowed on you by this male—but it's not his kill. Azriel knows that.

So instead, he draws the Truth Teller with deft, deadly accuracy and then sinks it in deep into Brudam's groin, til the tip reaches mud on the other side.

Brudam howls, his whole body twitching as it tries to curl up against either blade unsuccessfully. Between the rain and the shadows, he's too incapacitated to do anything except wail.

Azriel doesn't waste a second, already moving. There's a warrior approaching on every side but between the gift of sight and silence in the shadow, he's devastatingly lethal.

One goes down with a slice across his throat, crimson soaking his front. The next crumbles after too many jabs of Azriel's dagger land in his torso, too slow to block them when he can't see them coming. The next, his head cut from his shoulders in one mighty swing.

Their cries join the thunder of the storm but somehow, through it all, all he can hear is the softness of your weak breath. Wounded. Fading.

Azriel's vision goes red. He moves expertly, his kills efficient until the burning rage in him gets too much and then he's slashing with pure malice, teeth gritted in hate, as he cuts down any warrior who stood by and watched. All he can feel is the thread between you and him, nearly torn from how much they've hurt you.

When the clashing of steel stops, the last foe dead, only the din of the rain remains.

Like a vacuum has opened somewhere in the sky, the inky cover of his shadow is sucked away, leaving only his sluggish moving shadows and exposing the bleak day. Carnage lies all around him. Bodies upon bodies of warriors.

Azriel can only see you.

You're still strapped to that torturous pole, your beautiful wings forcibly spread out and pinned, like you're being laid out for dissection. Across the flesh of your wings is a sickening number of thin, scarlet lines, gently bleeding.

Beneath you, in the mud, is the remains of your armor and Azriel can trace the scar that'll be left on your back from where it was cut off. The binding on your chest remains, now stained with blood.

You aren't moving.

He sprints without thought, without reason, following the bond. He finds the thread within his chest, grasps it tight, and tugs desperately. You don't even flinch.

A fear mounts inside him, more heart-wrenching than he's ever felt before. A glance down at his siphons reveals their still dull appearance—fucking useless to him.

Azriel staggers to his knees as he reaches you, his scarred hands reaching up to pry off the steel that binds your wrist to the wooden pole—ripping out chunks of the wood at the same time with his rapid, panicked motion. Your hands fall limply to your sides. He feels sick again.

"Y/n?"

He's scared to touch you, scared to do more damage that he's already caused, so so frightened that he just found you and you might already be gone.

He doesn't know what he'll do if you die. He can't—the thought is suffocating in itself, like a black hole that opens and starts pulling in his entire world— you can't die or he'll— he'll- nothing will matter anymore.

RHYS. He throws the plea out desperately, nearly delirious at the sight of your unmoving body. The words sound like a sob, even in his own mind. You have to help me.

Where are you? Rhys' voice fills his mind in an instant.

Then... a haggard breath sounds, like drawing through a mouthful of blood. You cough lightly, barely audible, and murmur, "...Azriel...?"

Something explodes inside Azriel, a burst of pure energy that fills him with relief so overwhelmingly he could cry.

Exordor. He barely manages to think properly, to even respond, beyond the staggering emotion. Come immediately. Please. I need you to- she needs—you have to help her. Please.

I'm on my way.

tags below!

@strangerstilinski @janebirkln @itsswritten @mischiefmanagers @hnyclover

@waytoomanyteenagefeels @idkitsem @illyrianbitch @jeweline16 @fightmedraco

@iamjimintrash @maendering @spideytingley @aneekapaneeka @cassianswh0reeee

@viciane @astarlitsoul @mybestfriendmademe @archiveofcravings @reputaytionn-13

@bionic-donut @chessebookgirl @itseightbeats @littleblackcatinwonderland @twsssmlmaa

@fanworrior @skysayhi @vintageoldfashion @tequilya @fabulouslyflamboyant5

@rhysandorian @laughterafter @brieftriumphnightmare @hirah-yummar @some-person-somewhere

@scooobies @sfhsgrad-blog @cherry-cin @bookloverandalsocats @megscabinetofcurios

@doodlebugsblog @landofpetrichor @acourtofdreamsandshadows @florabelll @tanyaherondale

@aomi-recs @letmejustreadthanks @problemfinder @sevikas-whore @doodlebugg16-blog

@meandmysillywriting @justingnoreme @krowiathemythologynerd @hanatsuki-hime @sunny747

@coffeebeforewater @kalulakunundrum @marina468 @moonbirde (i'm so sorry! u asked me to tag u right at the beginning and i've forgotten this whole time! forgive me pls <3)

[ackermansundercut]

Kissed by Fire pt 2

Summary - Amelia Archeron, the oldest of the made sisters, sacrificed more than her sisters would ever understand, and more than she would ever allow them to know. Now, they want her to sacrifice her one chance at happiness, too.

Warnings - talks of sex work, beron, implied abuse, Lucien getting to be the smartest, person in a room.

Series Masterlist Eris Masterlist Master Masterlist

Eris sat at a silent family breakfast. Per tradition, no one spoke. No one had spoken at breakfast since Lucien's exile.

Beron no longer allowed casual conversation between his sons. No discussion of how their days were laid out, of who was covering which territory for the day, of how they slept.

Beron no longer allowed brotherhood. At least, not in front of him.

The note casually passed under the table started at their mother. He soft elegant script gracing the page. It had gone to the now youngest Hermes, his red hair was shaved on the right side with an intricate pattern and then curled on the top. He showed no reaction on his face before waiting for the next opportunity of Beron Speaking down to a servant over the quality of something she had no control over to pass it to Ares. The smug idiot also controlled his face as he continued eating and scratched his facial stubble that he had allowed to grow for much too long. He then waited for Beron to look away, passing the note to the second oldest whom Eris immediately shot a look. Apollo had always been the diplomatic one, the scholar interested in music and arts much more than any throne. He played his part well, but the male was easy to read. He kept his face cold and indifferent, waiting for the chance to pass the note To Eris.

Eris was the riskiest pass. He was constantly sitting at his father's right hand. A testament to his efforts and the cruelty he'd inflicted for the sake of his mother, his brothers, himself.

Lunch and tea at noon? Your father is going to the Winter Borders Today.

It wasn't even a question in Eris's mind. His mother could ask him to carve his own heart out and he would say yes.

Walking alongside Beron was something Eris longed to end. He always felt an almost slime growing on him when he had to. He listened carefully as Beron's spymaster, an undereducated ruddy looking male who hardly could gather anything worth knowing, handed him a folder.

“Rumor has it the King of Hybern got a hold of the 3 older Archeron sisters and threw them in the Cauldron,” he paused as Beron did. A look of disbelief flashes in his father's eyes as he opens the Report. “All three of them emerged fae.”

“And where did this rumor come from?”

The male looked at Beron, a small smirk forming, “Ianthe. She's currently in Spring with the curse breaker. Tamlin and the boy witnessed the whole thing.” The simple mention of Lucien had Eris looking up. “One of the sisters is evidently his mate.”

Chill set over Eris at that thought. It settled when he looked at his father's face. In place of the normally stone cold mask was a smile, not one of joy or happiness. One that promised if he ever got his hands on that poor girl, she would suffer, just so Lucien did. Just so his mother did. “Find out if this is accurate and let Eris know as soon as possible. Then find out which sister.” Beron slapped the report on Eris's chest. “Ensure your mother does not learn of this until it is convenient for me.”

Eris went to the tearoom his mother and brothers sat in, stress lining his every muscle like a heavy coat as he did. “I have news,” he watched as they all sighed heavily. “Lucien has a mate,” he threw the papers down. “I am guessing these three are why Azriel came to me a few weeks ago.”

Andromeda held the papers tight, reading each line over and over. “This changes things,” her voice was soft, breaking slightly at what this could mean. “You four need to be ready.”

Hermes leaned back, nodding as he did.

Ares took the reports next, Studying them hard. “You said the shadowsinger made you a deal right? Can you use it to force Rhysand into a bargain?”

Apollo sighed heavily, having dealt with Rhysand the most in the 50 years they were all trapped together. “Rhysand isn't going to bargain for his assistance unless his family is at risk. That's his sole motivation in his world. Not his court. Not himself. His family.”

“We need more,” Eris concluded. “Helion might not be enough. Tamlin is an unstable support. Kal is unknown. Thesan is going to hand his support on a platter just because he hates Beron. Rhysand-”

“Has no hound in the race,” his mother finished with a distant look over her shoulder towards the window. Towards the sunlight she could never fully bathe herself in. “Find one.”

Amelia hated Rhysand. She leaned across a table from him, blinking at him like he was an absolute idiot. “If I could access it, I could learn to control it, Rhysand.”

The High Lord sighed. “And when you open a gate to Mother knows where, Welcoming Mother knows what into my court and home, what then Amelia?”

It had taken Amren the better part of three weeks. Three long weeks Amelia had spent on constant faebane.

She hardly ate anymore, not that she really was before.

All glow and color had left her skin, leaving her pale and lifeless.

Her eyes constantly held dark circles from dreamless sleep.

Rhysand saw the parallel. He was not foolish or blind. It ate at him, nagging loudly in the back of his mind and pounding over and over again whenever he'd shut his eyes.

He kept lying to himself, pretending it was for Amelia's own good.

There had not been a worldwalker since Amren first appeared. And even those thousands of years ago, the walkers were rumors. Ghosts in the wind passed down by busy body gossips who believe they possibly saw a gate open and close.

“And what will you do if I just refuse to take it?”

Rhys looked up at Amelia, a sympathetic glaze to his eyes as he began to hold her mind and force her to drink the tainted wine. “It wouldn't matter,” his voice was flat. “I am sorry Amelia, but until we find out more, this is what I have to do to keep you safe.”

“Safe,” she whispered the word back like it was poisoned. “You all promised us that word before and failed,” she stood ignoring the look of pain that flashed on his face, on Cassian's, on Azriel's. “Hopefully you fail this time too.” She left the room, slamming the door so hard the frames shook.

Amelia walked down the hall, shutting her door Behind her and curled into her blanket, smiling at the familiar scent that screamed Autumn.

Amelia pulled out the map of Pryithian She had ripped out of a book. Studying it hard one more time.

She'd make it out of this damned court.

Even if she had to burn it to the ground to do so.

Lucien read the note over and over again. It had come to him through the hearth. It smelled of roasted chestnuts and a crackling fire.

He wished he could bask in it. He wished he could bottle up the scent and bathe in it, take comfort in it during nights when his dreams plagued him.

The sense of security the scent brought him was almost mocking as he read his mother's handwriting over and over.

“Beron knows. He knows about your mate. Hide her. Run away with her.”

Lucien sat on his bed, sending a silent prayer to the Cauldron. He had planned on running with Feyre anyways. He had been trying to find a way out for them for a week now, but the damn twins went everywhere with them.

Lucien hid the note as his door opened without a knock, “What do you want, Ianthe?”

“There's something in the forest. Tamlin told me to take you to look at it.”

Several days had passed since Amelia and Rhys fought. They had only spoken in passing, the female holding her head high and refusing to apologize. The high lord returned the sentiment. He had started having to have Azriel or Cassian watch her drink the tea, or else she would dump it according to the twins.

She had lost weight. Way too much weight. Her and Elain were walking skeletons. Rhys entered Amelia's room, heart falling at the sight of each bone visible in her back. “Feyre has escaped Spring. Lucien is coming with her.”

Amelia nodded. “Elain's mate. How does your dear Shadowsinger feel about that?”

Her bored tone had Rhys immediately irritated. “Do you not care that your youngest sister is currently on the run?”

She raised a brow, crossing her arms over the sweater that was now much too large for her. “I trust Feyre's abilities to get herself out of anything she walks into. I've had no choice but to do that for years,” she moved towards the window. “You do not know everything, Rhysand, you do not know the extent of my care nor the sacrifice I made.”

He sat in the chair he always took, “Because you refuse to tell me, Amelia. You refuse to tell me what oh so wonderful sacrifice you made while your younger sisters were cold and starving.”

Her mind flashed to that cabin, chopping wood for hours straight, stacking it nicely. To prepare them breakfast and leaving it to warm over a fire. Just for her to leave the house without eating and head to the pleasure house.

She'd leave before they woke, and return long after they slept.

Each night she'd hide money in Feyre's bags. Enough to get them food for the next week, if her younger Sister didn't decide to treat herself to unnecessary paints and brushes, then tuck the rest into another bag.

A bag she hoped to eventually gain enough gold stashed inside of to buy them a home.

One that wasn't one windstorm from falling apart.

“How long did you work there,” his voice broke. “How little were you paid to lay there.”

Amelia's father had lost and gambled away their wealth when Amelia was 15. “The second father was hunted down, so I went there. I was 15. I worked there long after that raging fluff ball decided we were his charity case. That's how Jurian found me. He bought me for the night using enough money that they'd turn a blind eye to whatever he wanted to do to me. The house took 90% of my Earnings. 20% would go towards paying off my debt to them so I could be free. They pocketed the rest. I'd take home a measly 10%.”

She could see the disgust washing over him. “How much was an hour with you?”

She shrugged, "Depended on what he wanted to do. I had a male pay 30 gold to beat me once. I had a male pay 50 to do things I never want to speak about again.”

Rhys nodded. “Why don't they know?”

“Because High Lord, nothing says hold on to your hopes like finding out your sister fucks for coin.”

She watched Rhysand get a distant look in his eyes, “I have to go. She's here.” Amelia nodded. “I will give her your love, even if you won't ask me to.”

She paused, looking at him in shock. He moved to her, kissing her temple softly. “No one will ever touch you without your consent again. I promise. Just give me time for the rest. We are still searching.”

Something soft was in his eyes. Something akin to care. To love.

It made Amelia feel bile set in her stomach followed by guilt.

Despite her anger and insults, he was trying.

And maybe, she should try too.

Lucien sat on the couch across from the oldest Archeron sister. He was trying to process her outfit. “Where did you get that sweater?” His brother's sweater, Lucien didn't say the words after a look from Azriel and Cassian told him not to.

“Az brought it to me,” Lucien hummed at her response.

They were studying each other. Trying to figure out each other's ticks like it was their passion project in court training. “Why do you smell like faebane?”

She countered immediately, “Why do YOU smell like faebane?”

“Poisoned by the same whore of a priestess who sold you out,” Lucien leaned back, raising and nodding for her explanation.

“Being forced to take it because that whore of a priestess had me thrown into an oversized Cauldron and it did something to me.”

“Enough,” Azriel said softly. “This conversation is done.”

“What do you mean?” Lucien pushed despite the warning.

“I can see strings,” Amelia said softly. “They're all different. Different colors, smells, materials. Some sparkle like what they're connected to is active and alive. Some are duller like light can't fully reach the end I can see.”

Lucien felt his face dropping, unable to school a reaction due to his exhaustion. “And these strings, when you touch them, can you hear anything? See anything?”

She nodded. “Between teas when they come back, I can reach them. One was dark, cold, when I touched it I heard a woman's voice. It sounded like someone was singing a dark song as she spoke in a language I didn't understand. Another time there was a string that almost seemed to glow. I could hear laughter, strange music, another language I didn't know.”

The three males shared a look. This was more information than they had gotten from her in a month, "Amelia, the night you followed me, did you pull one of the strings?”

She looked to Azriel, blue eyes sad. “In my sleep, yes. It smelled like fire and apples,” Lucien's stomach fell. “I was drawn to whoever you were speaking with. Like their voice was enough to keep me warm. Like they'd be enough to keep me safe.”

Azriel felt his face pale when she turned away and stood to leave the room.

“I think I already know the answer, but who were you with?”

Cassian sighed, sitting down. “He went to Eris. To get that sweater and a blanket in hopes he would enchant them. Amelia can't hold warmth since the Cauldron.”

“Has she met him?” They shook their heads. “I'd keep her away from him.” Azriel knew what Lucien was suggesting and voiced soft agreement. “Beron can't get his hands on a Realm Walker. It'd be too dangerous for every court and world she got him to.”

Lucien sipped the tea he had staring at the fire. "You should also check resources from Vallahan instead of here. The last recorded Realm Walker was born and trained there. Helion would be able to get his hands on some of their notes."

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanager @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes

Kissed by Fire Taglist:

@justdreamstars @coralseacourt @kemillyfreitas @impossibelle @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @believinghurts

[ackermansundercut]

— common ground [into the fire, part iii]

part i | part ii | masterlist

cooper howard / the ghoul x f!reader

rated e - 4k

tags: dubcon, power dynamics, vault dweller!reader, bounty hunting, pwp, sex for favors, 1 spank, sub/dom elements, light degradation, use of chems, shotgunning chems, riding, PiV, canon-typical violence and death

a/n: the scene where he complained about doing all the work had me like 👀 (reimagining), so here we go! 💖

“S’that right? Need me to fuck you? Fill up that greedy little cunt?”

His head tipping back as he hums, as if disappointed. Each word exaggerated, with his slow drawl, “Well, I’d sure like to sweetheart… but it seems to me like I’ve been doing an awful lot of work around here.”

“Findin’ this place. Cleanin’ it out. Gettin’ you clothes.” A sigh, before his voice drops, “Makin’ you come.”

“Think you oughta return the favor, don’t you?”

(Or - you take the Ghoul for a ride)

"Fuck!”

You crouch outside as another loud shotgun blast fires - the wooden door next to you peppering with bullets.

This wasn't what you had in mind.

You had thought you'd find a chem station in the next town. A pharmacy, an old hospital. Something somewhat respectable - not standing watch as the Ghoul blew his way through a long-abandoned two-story home.

The layered yelling dies off with each pull of his trigger, until everything going silent.

He finds you there a moment later, still curled in on yourself. A roll of his eyes when he sees you - still unused to the violence.

"It's clear." The Ghoul beckons, "Let's find that station."

You follow him inside, your gaze boring a hole into his back. Trying hard not to look down, nose wrinkling when you almost trip over a set of legs that sprawl across the floor.

A hand pinches at your elbow, keeping you upright.

"What?" He asks, at your expression.

"Did you have to..." You start, as he checks down the hallway.

It's empty - the doors leading to two bedrooms. The bed frames bare and rusted, the rooms already picked through.

A shrug, "They shot first."

"You goaded them."

You could hear him, even from outside. That knowing tone - some kind of warning. A rough laugh, and then the firefight had started.

"We're looking for a chem station, sweetheart." He scoffs, head cocking as he backs you up against the door he just closed, "Think they're gonna share with you like you’re on a goddamn play date?"

"They-" You blink up at him, "They might have."

He clicks his tongue, giving you a long look,"You still got a lot to learn, Vaultie."

A second, before he steps away.

"These weren't those kind of people."

You find it in the basement. A man slumped just outside the cracked-open door, the weathered lab coat stained and splattered red on the left-hand side.

Anything salvageable from above must have been brought down here. Three threadbare mattresses behind a makeshift wall. A long couch that faces a television that still runs, the picture blurry with static.

The station sits along the back wall. A beaker still bubbles over the burner, the smell acrid. Bottles litter the surface - something being made in a batch.

Your mind is already racing ahead, eyes scanning for things you'll need. Too-large gloves shoved on, disposing of the burnt mixture while you search for an empty glass.

Missing how he angles the couch to watch, feet propped up on the wooden coffee table. That ever-steady wariness waning with your focus, the tension in his shoulders easing as he sinks into the cushion.

You're too busy to notice. Sorting the different ingredients, littered across the counter.

There's an excess of toxic soot flowers, their petals papery between your fingers. Opened packages of Med-X, a spilled pile of Buffout. A jar of acid.  

Psycho. Cut with something else, something stronger. You think the Ghoul was right - maybe you had been foolish to underestimate them.

You try to shake the thought away, as you gather what you need. Antiseptic, from your own bag. Three jars of glowing fungus, found beneath the sagging counter. Ground up and tipped into a dusty beaker, the heat turned down low.

"Can you get me some water?" You call from over your shoulder, a jar held in your hand.

There's no answer. Silence, until something hard presses into your back, pinning you against the table.

It feels familiar, the way his hips nudge against yours, and it sends your mind back. An urge to arch - bend low. Mimicking the days before, where you can still feel the twinge of him with the stretch of your thighs.

"You think you're callin' the shots now, sweetheart?" His voice is low, the brim of his hat brushing your head as he leans over your shoulder.

"No," You squeak - caught off-guard, "I just-, I can't leave this until it thickens."

"Mm.” His hum is low. “Too bad. Would've liked to see you try.”

Heat blooms in your cheeks at his words, that rough drawl, even after the last couple days. A thin layer of suggestion in his tone, as he shifts closer - his chest bumping into your back.

Your mind flickering through possibilities, before his voice cuts through.

“Said you need water?”

"Yes. Please," The nod you give is small - you have to start your stirring over, losing your rhythm, "I saw a few cartons in the kitchen. If you don't mind."

"Polite little thing, when you're distracted," He husks, "I'll have to remember that."

The Ghoul makes no effort to move, though. Fingers wrapping around the glass. His other hand gripping the edge of the table, boxing you in. You wonder if he can hear the way your heart thuds in your chest, eyes fixed firmly on your work.

“Where’d you learn to do this?”

It takes you a second to answer - he’d had never offered many questions. Responses that were no more than a couple of words, over the stretch of long hours on the road.

“Uh, my Vault. We were short on hands, my mother was a chemist.” Your words are slow - a still-painful topic, “Used to make all kinds of stuff. Medicine and… and chems, alike.”

People who left were always brought back. Dazed and half-sick from the world above, whatever they had seen. Left at your doorstep to be patched up, if they made it that long.

You always told yourself that wouldn’t be you.

That when you were gone, you’d stay that way.

“Hm.” His tone flattens, “Wouldn’t have guessed. Don’t seem the type.”

“Yeah?” You head turns, catching his shadowed ones. Leaning into the welcome diversion, “What type do I seem like, then?”

The Ghoul’s eyes narrow, an unconscious flick down to your mouth.

“Trouble.” He husks, with a shallow roll of his hips. You can’t help the short inhale that he’s certain to hear, the way your fingers tighten around your instruments.

“Though I’m still workin’ out what kind.”

It’s there that he leaves you. Flustered and silently revisiting evenings before, a familiar anticipation curling low inside you.

The steps creak behind you as he slips upstairs. Returning some time later with what you need - twirling a dented pot found in the kitchen, so you can purify it. Folding himself onto the couch when you tell him it will be a while.

A cut glass decanter salvaged as well, that he drinks directly from. A rough gasp as the bitter alcohol floods through him. Helping himself to the chems that litter the tabletop - before his feet kick up, the hat tipped low over his face.

You think he does rest - a rarity.

You examine him then - as you wait for the water to boil, and then cool, before you can use it to mix with the other components.

Taking the rare chance to do it freely.

In the Wasteland you’ve learned to stay cautious. That you can’t fall behind. That surely he would notice, if your gaze lingered on him for too long.

But here, time seems to slow for a moment. Nothing to do but wait, as your fingers drift to your neck. Pressing into the bruise, as if you could feel the indents of his teeth.

His presence feels the same.

A mark left on you. Something you can’t help but want to touch, even if it aches. A reminder that lingers, and there’s a part of you that wishes it would stay.

It has you wondering, as your eyes sweep across him. Over the long-faded clothes, hiding rough and reddened skin - every inch of him wrapped away.

If you got close enough-

Would you find that he bore a mark of his own?

You make enough for a little over two weeks. Carefully poured and sealed into a variety of small bottles and tubes you’ve scavenged, scraping out every last bit that you can.

In the less-than-stellar conditions, it didn’t turn out so bad. The vials you had seen him buy was a thin, piss-yellow that had made you cringe. Poor work to begin with, and that was even before it was cut with more water.

What you offer out to him is thick - a sheen clinging to the glass as it sloshes, when it passes from your hand to his.

Liquid gold, in comparison.

“Mm.” The Ghoul hums - eyes greedy, as he examines, holding it up to the bit of light.

Before they’re focusing on you. Flickering from head to toe - considering - before his legs spread a bit wider. A hand clapping down against a thigh.

The look you give him is blank. A squeak when his fingers hook around one of your belt loops and pulls - hauling you onto his lap.

“You think I’m just gonna take somethin’ you cooked up?” His brow lifts, hands pinching against your hips, “Not a chance, sweetie. I think we oughta try this together.”

The Ghoul’s fingers slip up then, rucking up the hem of your shirt. His tone turning knowing.

“And I don’t think you’ve got enough in you.”

Your cheeks burn at his insinuation. More than aware, your breath catching as the rough tips of his leather gloves drag across your skin.

“Bet I’ve been leakin’ out of you since last time.” The Ghoul rasps, “Wouldn’t want to waste this, would we?”

He’s solid beneath you. Your thighs splitting on either side of his waist, knees digging into old cushions. Close enough to kiss - if you weren’t so certain he’d bite.

Lost though, on how to proceed. You don’t know the rules to his game. Always keeping you at arms-length - wrists bound, caught in his grip.

Would he let you touch him?

He mistakes your hesitance, his brow pinching.

“Spent enough time starin’. Lookin’ like you wanted to take a ride.” Acid slips into his tone, teeth bared, “Change your mind, now you’ve got a front row seat?”

That knocks you out of your thoughts - embarrassed that you were caught staring at him. Annoyed by his assumption. A scoff, as your hips start to move, a slow roll. Hands coming up to rest against his shoulders, meeting his eyes.

They’re pretty, like the rest of him. Shades of light brown - looking like they’re caught the sun, even underground. Thick lashes, above the deep hollow of sunken eye sockets, the split cavern of his missing nose.

Something that had startled you, the first time you saw him. Now, you hardly even notice. And his mouth -

“I’m not scared of you.” You murmur, watching the way his lip curls in a sneer. A soft sound bitten back as you grind down, feeling how he’s stiff beneath you.

You wonder how long he’s been this way. Hard, from watching you work. Waiting.

Another exchange, though you wish you could tell him it doesn’t have to be that way. You had meant what you said, when you had made your offer - even if you mean it a little differently, now.

Maybe you still could.

“You should be,” The Ghoul growls - hands ghosting over your sides, up to the thin cotton, “If you had any goddamn sense. Letting me touch you like this-”

A hand is cupping your breast now. A hard swipe of his thumb against your stiff peak, your fingers biting down into his jacket.

Your hips jerk against his. A soft moan, when the seam of your pants catches against your clit - leaving you clenching around nothing.

“I want you to.” You confess - catching the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head, “Told you, whatever you want.”

The Ghoul makes a rough sound in his throat, watching as you tug the cups down to fit beneath your breasts, putting yourself on display for him.

“Haven’t learned, have you?” He warns, his voice low, “Don’t make an offer you can’t follow through on.”

The pinch of his fingers sends an ache down to settle between your thighs, the hint of pain pairing with your pleasure.

Your own hand wandering, wanting to see more. Sliding against a leather vest, the stained shirt beneath that was once as blue as your suit. Frayed, looping embroidery on the faded collar.

Feeling the warmth of his skin as you tug at the snap at his throat. An inch, and then another, before he’s catching your hand.

Dragging it up to his shoulders, fixing you with a look, “You best keep those right here.”

“You don’t want me to touch you?” You ask, eyes flicking down to the peek of skin at his throat.

“I want these off.” He tells you instead, snapping the waistband of your pants against skin.

You have to leave him to do it. Watching the way his arms stretch across the back of the sofa, as you kick the pants off, then your underwear beneath.

Bare again, as you settle. Fitting yourself against the curve of his cock. Leather and metal kissing your skin as you move against him, until his lips are parted with a ragged breath.

You can feel your muscles clench. The slick slide of your pussy against his bulge, barely nudging at that deep-seated ache to be filled.

“Makin’ a mess, sweetheart.” He husks, his hips lifting to meet yours. Gloved hands moving to curl around your waist - pulling you down to meet him, coaxing a lazy rhythm from you.

“Rubbin’ up against me like a bitch in heat. Should make you clean that up.”

It coaxes a whine from you, as you let him move you. The sound does something to you - the layered approval in his tone, the low rasp of his voice. Not so unaffected as he seems, with how hard he is beneath you.

He must see it in your expression, a hand leaving the couch to grasp at your chin. Flexing up and into you, letting you feel the hard ridge of him.

“This what you want, sweetheart?”

Making you meet his gaze, as you answer. All dark eyes and the flash of teeth, under the brim of his hat.

“Yes.” You keen, “I need you, please-”

“S’that right? Need me to fuck you? Fill up that greedy little cunt?”

His head tipping back as he hums, as if disappointed. Each word exaggerated, with his slow drawl, “Well, I’d sure like to sweetheart… but it seems to me like I’ve been doing an awful lot of work around here.”

The hand leaves your chin to drop down. Slowly loosening a belt buckle, letting it pool on the cushions. Your cheeks heating when you see the slick shine to the front of his pants, where you’ve rutted yourself against him.

“Findin’ this place. Cleanin’ it out,” His eyes are on yours - your breath short as he tugs the zipper down. “Gettin’ you clothes.”

A sigh, before his voice drops, “Makin’ you come.”

You moan at that, a soft sound caught behind your teeth - fingers pinching into his shoulders.

Waiting for him to draw his cock out - fist wrapped around the base. Flushed and thick in his palm, inches away from where you need him.

The Ghoul does grin then, a wicked thing that shows his teeth.

“Think you oughta return the favor, don’t you?”

He’s giving you an inch - seeing if you’ll try to take a mile. A firm handle, still wrapped around a fist, but loosening the reins.

Letting himself watch.

“Seems fair.” You manage, breathless.

“Then go on,” He husks, “Show me how you can take it.”

Your hand reaches down, but then he’s clicking his tongue - fingers fixing back on his shoulders.

Leaving you to lift your hips. His cock slipping against your slick core, your teeth biting into your lip as you line yourself up - the rough head catching at your entrance.

It’s different this time. Sinking down on him, feeling each inch as it splits you open - instead of suddenly filling you to the hilt.

“Fuck,” You sigh, with the stretch. It twinges deep inside you, where his hips fit against yours.

Lifting yourself only to sink back down, his arms flexing beneath his coat as he lets you ride him, your pace slowly picking up until you’re bouncing on his cock.

As much as you enjoyed last time, there was something about this. Fully able to watch the way his lips part, hear the rattling groan when you tighten around him.

See the way his eyes skate across the bruise on your neck, only to drop down to watch the sway of your tits as your fingers lace behind his neck.

“Goddamn, sweetheart.” His hand flattens against the small of your back. The other gripping your hip, tugging you towards him, “You sure know how to ride.”

Not giving you time to answer, before his head is dipping. The brim of his hat knocking back when it hits your chin - the tips of your fingers just catching it. Slipping it on your own head for safekeeping before he can protest.

It earns you a sharp nip against the curve of your breast, before his lips close around the tight peak of a nipple and sucks.

You cry out, chasing the pressure that builds in your belly. Growing even more wet with the slick swirl of his tongue and the scrape of teeth - his cock grinding against a spongy spot inside you as you arch into his mouth.

“Please,” You whine, fingers flexing and then curling. Needing more friction against your clit, where your heartbeat has dropped and settled.

Trying so hard to listen, a whine between your gritted teeth. Your tits glossy with spit when he leans back, giving you a knowing look.

“You wanna come?” He husks - his eyes dropping, as you nod, “Only if you lean back and show me, sweetheart.”

Relief sings in you, as you adjust. Thighs spreading, as you grip onto his shoulder. Leaning back until he can watch the way he spears into you. How he shines, all slicked up, with each roll of your hips.

Your other hand loses its grip in his coat to slip down, press where your bodies meet.

Fingertips circle, a low moan at the much-needed touch. Your rhythm grows sloppy until his hands hook beneath your thighs. Guiding you into a harsh rhythm, each pound of his cock winding you higher and higher as the couch creaks beneath you.

“Come on, cowpoke.” He rasps, his hand cracking down against your ass, “Is that the best you can do?”

It builds - your fingers pressing harder against the slick bud. Whimpered noises that are more sound than words, as his thighs spread, feet planting so he can drive up into you.

“I said come on.” He growls, “Wanna feel you come on my cock again.”

Like before, it feels like the control slips through your fingers. Your own touch brings you close to that edge, but it’s the pounding of his cock that makes you fall.

Your back arching, crying out as your core clenches. Pleasure bursting deep inside you, racing up your spine and down to the tips of your fingers and pointed toes.

The quick thrust slowa into a lazy grind. A low “atta girl” that he grits out, as he feels the way you come hard around him.

Eyes dropping from your face to watch the greedy press of your fingers as you draw it out - until his own hand is wrapping around your wrist.

Tugging your hand away as the pleasure still courses inside you, hips still chasing the last ripples as you ride his cock.

Bringing your fingers to his mouth. Fitting them against teeth and tongue as his lips close around, tasting the slick that clings to them.

It makes goosebumps raise on your skin. The briefest thrill of fear. Certain that if you pulled your fingers free right now, the flesh and muscle would peel from you - leaving only bones behind.

He groans loudly around them, teeth indenting your skin. Tongue swirling against your knuckles, his hips rocking up to meet yours.

Freeing you, only to grasp at your hips - urging you to move faster. A loud slap of skin until his jaw is clenching - and he’s bringing you down once more against him with a rough sound.

Coming inside you again, but this time you get to see the way his head tips back with his snarl. How his fingers bite into your skin as you feel him throb - throat bared as he spills deep inside you with each rough jerk of his hips.

A flare of something flicking to life in your belly, knowing you did this to him. The groan he made when he tasted you echoing in your mind, giving you something to keep.

You make to move when he goes still, but a hand grips at your hip - holding you in place. Keeping you full of him, as the afterglow still glitters in your veins.

His eyes are dark, fixed on you. Taking in your shadowed, half-lidded gaze - sweat-dewed and bare skinned against him. His hat, still perched on your head. Looking like it belongs there.

A hand digs around in his bag. Pulling out the inhaler for his serum. Snapping it together without his gaze leaving you.

Bringing it to his mouth after - sucking in a deep, held breath. Those eyes closing with a low, contented groan.

A broad hand slips from your hip to splay across the back of your neck, fingers digging into your throat. Pulling you down to him - just as his head tilts to press his lips against yours.

Just as you soften, he exhales - the RadAway flooding through your parted lips. A stinging, metallic taste of iodine that makes you shudder, before you realize he’s deepening the kiss.

You lean into it without thought. The ache in your gums fading with the brush of his tongue. His grip anchoring you in place as he takes, licking into your mouth while his cock still fills you.

Leaving you breathless. Letting him, as your own arms wrap around his shoulders to keep him close. Meeting the messy scrape of teeth and swirl of tongue. The sharp taste fading, layered with the whisky and a hint of you that still lingers.

Before he’s pulling back far too soon, eyes dark as he pants.

“Fuck.” He rasps - his tongue tasting where yours had been, flicking across a lower lip. Before he’s looking at the inhaler - shaking it for another use.

“Looks like I might just have to keep you around.”

You make what you can with the rest of the supplies afterward - waste not, want not. An extra stimpak. Swiping the rest of the mentats, keeping the grape and berry ones for yourself. Refilling your canteen with more of the purified water.

The rest of the chems you gather - packing them in a tin. Tossing them his way, a low whistle when he sees what’s inside.

It’s late enough that the Ghoul decides it’s best to stay here, and leave at dawn. Certain that he will catch up to the bounty tomorrow, already sure of two places where he might be offloading the stolen wares.

You don’t mind. The uneasy thought of sleeping in a house with corpses quickly overshadowed by the real mattresses waiting in the basement. Stained but there’s still bedding - patched up blankets.

A fire, that he coaxes to life in the fireplace upstairs. Dinner, roasting over it.

It almost feels like something. A moment you can play pretend - that these walls will keep you safe.

That maybe you could clean it up.

That maybe he didn’t despise you, and maybe he’d want to stay.

It’s a foolish thought, a sigh as you push it from you. Digging a spoon into the rusted can of Pork ‘N Beans you had scavenged - not trusting the look of the skewer he had been tending.

A thumb running across your lower lip, as you chew. Remember how his had felt. Examining the angry marks pressed into your knuckles. 

His shadow crosses over you, then - you have to crane your neck up to see him. His hat back where it belongs, much like your own clothes.

The tilt of his head, as he considers you again. Before his hand is slipping into the bag that slings across his shoulder.

Gloved fingers curling around something - tossing it silently into your lap, before he’s disappearing upstairs to finish his sweep of the house.

It’s golden, in the light of the fireplace. Seems like he’s already done a little looting of his own. A rolled up bag, the tube and needle tucked inside.

And a bottle of the RadAway you made for him.

save a horse, ride a cowboy and all that 🤠💖 (thank you so much for reading! would love to know what you thought if you enjoyed!)

[ackermansundercut]

The Devil at Your Window |3: A Show of Trust|

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader Word count: 6.9k

Warnings/Tags: 18+; fluff, flirting, sexual tension, light angst, pining, eventual smut, identity reveal, and lots of black suit Matty

Series Installment List & Summary

a/n: Nothing like an injured, soaking wet black suit Matt... Feedback is always appreciated!

Tag list: @danzer8705 @darkened-writer @keepingitlokiii @kezibear @dorothleah @sarahskywalker-amidala @1988-fiend @haruari @sleepysleepymom

The voices on the television show you'd been watching gradually began to blur together into a soft hum as your lazy Saturday night wore on late into the evening. Heavy rain pelted against your apartment windows, the night surprisingly just warm enough for it instead of the snow the city had been getting in abundance. You hoped most of the snow would be melted by tomorrow with how much it had been raining today, already tired of winter and ready for spring despite it still only being January.

The sound of heavy droplets rhythmically battering against the glass windows of your apartment only began to further lull you into a relaxed state on your couch, cozy and warm beneath your blankets. Eventually your eyelids began to feel heavy, inevitably beginning to slowly lower until they dropped closed. A few times you caught yourself beginning to doze off on your couch and your eyes flew back open, your body giving a slight jolt along the cushions. Though gradually they began to drop shut once more until you fell into a light sleep.

It was at the sound of loud, frantic pounding that you woke with a startle on your couch. Your eyelids flew open, your heart racing in your chest at the abrupt, harsh noise that had disturbed your peaceful night. You laid there on the cushions disoriented, wondering how long you’d fallen asleep for and what time it currently was as you squinted at your television. 

Another series of rapid banging had a gasp slipping out of you, your body sitting bolt upright on the couch. Your head spun in the direction of the noise only to spot the Devil once again standing on your fire escape. Except unlike the previous time he’d stopped by a few days ago, he was bent in half with an arm wrapped across his abdomen, clutching his side. From the faint light of your television screen illuminating him out on the fire escape, you could see the painful twist of his mouth.

He’d gotten hurt tonight. There was no denying it with the way he was carrying himself like that.

Throwing the blankets off of yourself in a rush, you rose to your feet, turning off the television before darting straight to the window. Your hands moving quickly, you undid the locks before pushing it up. Droplets of freezing rain immediately pelted you in the face and you tried to blink them from your lashes.

“Why the hell are you out in this?” you asked him, shouting loud enough to be heard over the rain as you stepped to the side. “Get in here!”

The Devil didn’t utter a single cocky remark this time to your surprise. Instead, he began to climb through the opening of your window as you headed over to the nearby lightswitch, flipping it on so you both could see better. At the sound of him emitting a hiss of pain between his teeth, you spun back around just in time to watch him drop to your worn wooden floors in a sopping wet heap.

“Shit!” you cursed.

In a hurry you sprinted back over, pausing only briefly to quickly slam your window shut, blocking the rain back out of your apartment once more. Then you dropped to your knees roughly, the fabric of your sweatpants absorbing some of the water that had already begun to puddle around him. The Devil continued to lie on his side, his mouth hanging open as loud, ragged breaths left him. You cringed at the sight of him lying there, suddenly feeling panicked and helpless.

“What happened?” you asked him. “Are you okay? Do you need a hospital or a–a doctor?”

“No,” he grunted out instantly. “No hospitals.”

You grimaced, your hands darting out to help him only to hover over his body where he lay in a heap before you. Eyes flying wildly around him, you did your best to search for any sign of injury, but you couldn’t seem to spot anything besides his soaking wet clothes now clinging to him even tighter than when they were dry. You couldn’t seem to spot any bleeding, either–there at least wasn’t any blood on your floor–but with how damp his clothes were and how dark the fabric was, it was impossible to know for sure.

“Well I don’t know how much medical knowledge you think I have,” you told him with a nervous laugh, “but it only extends to things I can fix with a bandaid. And I’m guessing that’s not what’s– shit !”

The Devil rolled onto his back before you with a loud, pained groan, entirely cutting you off. Eyes wide in panic, your hands still hovered uselessly above him. His breathing was labored as he lay in the growing cold puddle of water he was making on your floor.

“What's wrong?” you asked in a rush. “How can I help?”

“Baseball bat,” he breathed out, voice hoarse. 

You watched as his left hand lowered to his side, his mouth curling into a painful grimace as he gestured along the length of it. He’d gestured to the entire length of his ribcage, where each bone was unmistakable with how skin tight the wet fabric was on him. And while you weren’t a doctor, it appeared like something seemed off in one of the spaces. Had he broken a rib?

"Just–just needed somewhere safe,” he continued, breath still coming in sharp. “To try to heal. Barely–” 

A hiss of pain escaped his lips, his head rolling back along your floor. You began to gnaw on your bottom lip, your heart still hammering away frantically in your chest. Your body was still in a state of panic as you sat there on your soaked knees, not sure how to help the masked man before you.

“Barely made it here,” he finished.

Still nervously gnawing your bottom lip, you shook your head, unsure of how you were supposed to help him. “Why come to me? I’m not a medical professional, Devil!”

An amused huff of laughter broke on yet another wounded noise from him next. Worry only further filled you as you glanced back down at his ribs. Something definitely didn’t seem quite right.

“I can–can heal myself,” he began, voice still strained. “Sort of, at least. I just–just need somewhere quiet to meditate.”

“ Meditate ?” you asked in shock, the word flying out of you. “You’re going to meditate ? I don’t know if you know this, Devil, but yoga is not the answer right now! You need a hospital!”

Something like a smile faintly pulled at the corners of his mouth–the first one you’d seen on him this whole time. Somehow that only worried you further. Had he gotten hit in the head with that baseball bat, too?

“No, not yoga,” he told you. “But that was–was cute.”

Your brows jumped up onto your forehead, your jaw once again dropping. Hands falling back down to your sides, you sat there dumbfounded with this man once more. Who the hell was he?

“I’m sorry, are you flirting with me?” you asked him. “While you’re literally lying in pain on my apartment floor soaking wet from freezing rain? With most likely a broken rib?” You shook your head, beginning to rise back up to your feet. “Okay, I’m calling you an ambulance, you probably have a concussion and there’s–”

Something caught your wrist and you paused from your place halfway risen from the floor. Glancing down, you spotted a black gloved hand holding onto you with just enough strength to catch your attention. Slowly your eyes rose back up to where you figured his were behind the wet black mask. His head had rolled along the floor towards you, a despairing look on the lower half of his face.

“Please,” he pleaded softly. “Don’t. Just–just trust me. Please?”

For a moment you stood there in an awkward sort of crouch, your bottom lip once again caught between your teeth. You scanned him over as he lay there on his back, your eyes inevitably landing on that space where you assumed he’d broken a rib. Flinching, you focused back on his face, his hand still holding your wrist.

“Please,” he tried again. “I just need maybe twenty minutes. Then I’ll head to my place. I know someone who can help me better when I get there.”

“Then why not call them now? Or why not go there instead?” you asked him.

One corner of his lip twisted upward in something like a sheepish smile. “You were closer,” he answered softly. “And I’d rather not risk outing myself by bringing you both together.”

Eyelids falling shut, you pinched the bridge of your nose with your other hand. Gradually you felt him release your wrist as you tried to think through this situation. Everything inside of you was screaming to ignore him and to call an ambulance. If his rib was broken there was no way he was going to just walk out of here in twenty minutes feeling better.

But maybe there was something different about him. Like those other superheroes. Truthfully, you’d always wondered with every news story you’d heard about The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Could there be something special about him? Like an ability to heal himself?

Blowing out a rough breath, you lowered your hand from your face and focused back on him. “You can meditate to heal?” you asked him carefully. “You’re not–not shitting me, are you? Because if you need a hospital I’d rather you go to one and not like, die on my floor or something.”

“I’m not going to die,” he assured you. “I can heal. Not completely, but enough. It’s…a sort of skill I learned a long time ago.”

“Seems like a pretty useful fucking skill,” you muttered to yourself, catching the small smile on his lips. “Okay, well you’ve got to be freezing with those wet clothes. Do you want some blankets?”

“I am incredibly cold actually,” he admitted, that sheepish grin returning. “Fighting the urge to start shivering is becoming quite difficult. But I was actually hoping for a favor if it wouldn’t make you too uncomfortable.”

Your eyes narrowed back at him curiously. “And what favor would that be?” you asked him.

“I need to be able to focus when I meditate,” he told you, grimacing as he spoke. “And let’s just say, for me, that’s hard to do with–with cold, wet clothes on my skin.”

It took you a moment to process what he was saying, your mind initially focused on trying to understand what he had meant by telling you that focusing would be hard for him to do with wet clothes on his skin, as if there was something more to it than discomfort. But then suddenly you caught what he’d meant. Breath catching in your throat, your eyes grew wide. Did he want you to take his clothes off?

“So you…” you began hesitantly, voice trailing off.

“Yeah,” he answered, an awkward chuckle falling out of him before it broke off on a gasp of pain. “But it’s not exactly easy for me to move, so I’d–I’d need some assistance getting the shirt and pants off.”

Swallowing hard, your eyes traveled down from his masked face and back towards his body. His very toned, very attractive body that you’d thought about a few times in a not so appropriate way since his last visit. And here he was, injured and asking you to take his clothes off in your apartment. Licking your lips, you tried to fight the heat that suddenly sparked low in your stomach–this wasn’t the time or place for that.

“If you’re uncomfortable with that, don’t worry about it,” he told you when you’d remained silent. “I understand. I can just–just try to work around it, it’ll just be more difficult.”

Shaking your head slowly, you told him, “No, no I can help. I just wasn’t exactly expecting you to show up injured and wanting to get naked at my place tonight.”

The smile you’d come to know him for returned to his face, the sight of it a minor relief. It eased your panic and fear a little, at least.

“Well I’m not asking you to take off the mask or the boxers,” he pointed out. “So I’m not really getting naked here tonight.”

“So the Devil wears boxers and not briefs?” you teased, hoping to hide your nerves with humor as you settled back down on the wet floor beside him again. “Guess you’ve answered a much-asked question for the masses of Hell’s Kitchen tonight.”

“Boxer briefs, if you want to be technical,” he replied, still grinning slightly. “But you’d have figured that out on your own soon enough, I imagine.”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you felt the heat beginning to creep up your neck at his comment. You knew he meant it in the way that you’d find out because you’d be taking his pants off to help him get warm and ‘heal’ with his meditation somehow, but still, you couldn’t help but wonder if it could’ve had another meaning.

“And does that mean you’re part of the masses wondering what I wear under this?” he asked, breaking you from your thoughts.

Cheeks flaming, you laughed a little nervously. “Now I’m really starting to think someone got you in the head with that baseball bat, too,” you replied. Clearing your throat, you tried to switch the topic back to the situation at hand. “So how am I supposed to…manage this, exactly? I imagine moving is painful, but I have a feeling your clothes aren’t going to just come right off with you being this wet.”

A rumbling laugh came from him, the sound mixed with pained groans and gasps as his rib clearly ached and protested the movement. Brows knitting together, you shot his masked face a concerned look.

“You should probably not be laughing right now,” you informed him. “Pretty sure that’s not helping. And it sounds painful.”

“I’m sorry, it’s just,” he began, a wheeze of laughter still coming from him, “in my experience, the opposite has always been true.”

This time your head tilted curiously to the side as you tried to work out what he meant. For a moment you sat there, replaying what you’d just said in your head. And then it hit you and your face flamed even further.

“Oh my God!” you shrieked, fighting the urge to slap his very solid thigh beside you. “It is not the time for this!”

His laughter subsided, but the grin remained on his lips. “I’m sorry, you’re entirely right. I’m not trying to make you more uncomfortable,” he apologized. “I’ll stop and focus. Promise. You’re just cute when you get flustered like that. I truly appreciate your help though, Miss…?”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at him. “Absolutely not the time for that, either,” you scolded him, doing your best to ignore how he’d once again called you ‘cute.’ “So focusing on the task at hand here, I’m guessing for this ‘meditation’ that you do, you sit up for that, right? Not just…lay in a heap on the floor?”

“Yes,” he answered. “Generally.”

“Okay,” you began slowly, your cheeks still feeling like they were burning as your eyes trailed down every visible muscle along his chest beneath his wet shirt before landing on his belt buckle. “I suppose that means removing your pants first would be the best course of action,” you mused aloud. “Probably easier to remove with you, you know, laying down as opposed to sitting.”

“Probably,” he answered, a hint of a smile in his tone.

You sat there hesitating for a few seconds, your gaze still on his belt buckle as silence filled your apartment. You could practically feel his attention on you, the hair on the back of your neck raising. It wasn’t like you’d never undressed someone before, but generally all of those situations were vastly different from this one. It wasn’t like you were taking off his pants so that you could sleep with him, yet somehow sitting here, staring at him on your floor like this–especially after the comments he’d just made–had this moment feeling oddly and unexpectedly intimate. Even with his injured side.

“So uhm,” you said, pausing to wet your lips, eyes still focused on his belt buckle, “I’ll just start there. I guess.”

“Here,” he murmured.

His gloved hands rose up from his sides, reaching down and working to unclasp his belt buckle. It was so quiet in your apartment as his hands worked that you could hear the clink of the metal as he undid it. Swallowing hard and trying to control your wildly beating heart, you watched as those gloved hands deftly undid the button of his dark pants next. The slide of his zipper downward afterwards was even audible as you sat there beside him, trying hard to think about anything other than how you wished his pants were coming off under different circumstances.

“If you could help get them off the rest of the way,” he said, his voice drawing you back to the moment, “that’d help. I can’t exactly sit up and take them off at the moment or I’d do it myself.”

Blinking hard a few times, you nodded. “Right,” you answered. “Yeah, of course. I’ll just–just…yeah.”

Something like a breath of amusement passed his lips as his hands dropped back to the floor at his sides. Your stomach began to twist nervously, realizing he was waiting for you to take his pants off now. 

Leaning forward, you carefully gripped the fabric of his pants on either side of his hips. They were incredibly cold to the touch, the realization of which helped ease some of that growing heat of your own because he had to be freezing right now. Though as you began to tug the black, wet pants down his thighs, trying your hardest to be gentle as you heard him gasp out, you realized this wasn’t going to be remotely easy or fast. 

To put it lightly, the Devil certainly filled out his clothes. 

With a hiss of pain he arched his back along the floor, allowing you to pull his pants down just beneath his ass after much effort. You muttered an apology, trying to focus your hardest on not hurting him further as you began to peel the soaked fabric down his thighs next. It took every ounce of your willpower to not stare at the way his damp, black underwear clung to him, revealing what was hidden beneath the fabric as you pulled his dark pants downwards past a particular appendage. 

As you continued to tug the wet pants down the lower half of his thighs, you became increasingly aware of the way your fingertips were dragging along the length of bare skin on his legs. The dark wisps of his hair brushed against your fingers and you grit your teeth, trying hard to remain focused on what you were doing and not how you were gradually beginning to feel. 

He quite possibly has a broken rib , you reminded yourself, trying to focus on pulling each pant leg down past his muscular calves. Stop it. He is injured. This isn't sexual. This isn't sexual.

After having removed his boots, leaving his socks on which were thankfully dry, you managed to pull his pants entirely off of him a minute later. You tossed the rumpled ball off to the side of you where they landed along your wood floor with a soft, wet thump . 

“Okay,” you said, attention returning to his face. “So maybe we should sit you up–even though that goes against everything inside of me if you do have a broken rib–so that I can get your shirt off?”

The Devil nodded, his gloved hands landing flat on the floor at his sides before he abruptly pushed himself upright, something like a distressed growl escaping between his clenched teeth as he moved. Your hands immediately darted forward, landing on his shoulders as you tried to steady him before you.

“Shit, I didn’t mean you had to do it like that ,” you chastised. “I could have helped you!”

“Well,” he breathed out, a grimace on his mouth, “little too late for that.”

Attention dropping down, they landed on his gloved hands. Those, too, were wet. And with how tight his shirt was, there was no doubt in your mind that you were going to have to remove those before removing his shirt.

“Okay, gloves next, then your shirt,” you told him. 

He obediently held up his left hand first, holding it out towards you. With far less hesitation than when you removed his pants, you began to undo the velcro strap around his wrist. The sharp tear of the velcro rang loud in your ears before you began to gently ease the glove off of his hand. Once you'd slid it off, dropping the glove onto the floor beside your knees, your eyes admittedly lingered on his hand for a few seconds longer than necessary, your own left hand still gingerly holding his wrist. 

He had big hands. You also spotted a few cuts where his knuckles had clearly torn from fighting. You resisted the urge to run your fingers over the dried bloody marks, though the sight of them didn't stop you from wondering what his hands would feel like gliding up beneath your own shirt, scratching you lightly with the callouses you noticed on his palms and fingertips. Your eyelids briefly fluttered shut at what your imagination conjured up, imagining them on your skin far warmer than they currently were as his palms ran up your sides and delicately over your ribcage.

But then you abruptly reminded yourself of where you were and what was going on. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you released his wrist, though you noticed the very faint tilt of his head just before you did. Feeling embarrassed, you undid his other glove faster than the previous one before removing it. Gathering both gloves in your hands, you tossed them over to the side of you where they landed just beside his discarded pants. 

Focusing back on him, you became aware that all that was left to do was to peel off his shirt now. Which would only end up revealing exactly all of that muscle you already knew was waiting beneath that thin black material. Your mouth felt like it was going dry at just the thought of seeing him even further undressed.

This isn’t sexual , you tried to remind yourself.

Sucking in a breath, your hands dropped down to the hem of his soaking wet shirt. Carefully you began to lift it up, still holding your breath as defined abdominal muscle after defined abdominal muscle revealed itself to you. You could feel the way your hands had begun to shake before you’d even managed to cautiously slip the wet material over his head, his arms raising up in an attempt to help you as he let out a faint grunt. 

Sitting back on your damp knees, you discarded his shirt off to the side by the pile of his other soaked clothes on your floor. Though this time when you returned your attention back to the Devil before you, he was wearing only his damp mask, black boxer briefs, and some dry, black socks. Releasing the breath you’d been holding, you tried to keep your voice steady as you rose back up to your feet.

“I’ll grab you some blankets,” you told him. “To help you get warm.”

Heading back over to your couch, you did your best to calm your breathing and once more mentally remind yourself of the situation the pair of you were in. Surely if he caught you staring longingly at his body you'd scare him away considering how skittish he seemed despite his flirtations with you. Besides, he was injured . That wasn't how you should be feeling right now, even if his body looked chiseled out of marble as he sat on your floor. 

Picking up the two blankets from your couch that you’d fallen asleep under not that long ago, you bundled them in your arms before turning back around. Making your way back towards the almost naked vigilante sitting on your floor, you noticed that he’d scooted away from the puddle of water he’d made, now sitting in a dry spot.

Stepping over to the side of him, you bent over and gingerly wrapped both blankets around his bare, broad shoulders. The Devil quickly grabbed onto the edges of them and hugged them tight around himself as he softly thanked you. You saw his body give a shudder just before he grit his teeth, a muscle flexing in his jaw as his mouth twisted in pain. 

“Hopefully that helps,” you said, straightening up and taking a few steps backwards. You gestured a hand towards the pile of his wet clothes on your floor. “I can take those down to the laundry facility in my building,” you offered. “It’s just a couple of floors down. I could try to throw them in a dryer to dry them a little for you while you're here.”

The Devil’s mouth curled into a soft smile as he shook his head gently. “No, that’s alright,” he replied. “They’ll just get wet again the moment I step back outside because it's still raining. And if anyone in your building were to see you with them, I’m sure they’d begin to wonder. I hear my clothing is…quite recognizable.”

A frown settled on your face as you stared at the wet clothing he would inevitably have to dress back into. “Right, yeah,” you mumbled, nodding. “That makes sense, I suppose. Though maybe I could lend you an umbrella?”

The Devil laughed lightly, but you spotted the grimace on his mouth as your attention returned to his face. The frown only deepened on your face and you wished there was more you could do to help him right now. He was clearly trying to hide the fact that he was in a lot of pain.

“I appreciate the offer, but I need both hands to get around out there,” he explained. “An umbrella would just get in the way.”

Sighing in defeat, you awkwardly wrapped your arms over your chest and glanced down at your bare feet. Now that he was sitting on your floor almost entirely undressed, injured, and wrapped in your blankets, you didn’t know what you should do with yourself while he did…whatever it was that he needed to do. 

“Should I just give you some privacy then?” you questioned softly. “For your meditation? Or…?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the Devil’s covered gaze drop down towards his lap. The movement appeared almost nervous, which had you glancing up curiously at his quiet form sitting there on the floor. 

“Actually, could I ask one more favor?” he asked. “Even though I know I probably shouldn't.”

Gnawing the inside of your cheek, you wondered what he meant by that. But nevertheless, you were willing to offer him whatever help you could–within reason, of course. Because someone needed to make sure he was taken care of after everything he was always doing for this city. It was becoming increasingly obvious to you that he certainly didn't take care of himself to the extent that he needed to, and you still weren't convinced that he wasn't lonely and in need of someone on his side. 

“What’s that?” you asked him.

“Could you, maybe–” 

He broke off on a nervous laugh which quickly turned into a groan of pain yet again. You winced, taking an involuntary step towards him.

“Could you maybe help keep me warm?” he asked hesitantly. “While I meditate, I mean?”

Your eyebrows instantly flew up onto your forehead at the question, but it was the tone of his voice that had you even more surprised. He always appeared so cocky and self-assured when he'd been here with you, but right now he sounded almost uncertain and nervous.

“It's just, the blankets alone aren't quite that warm enough for me to properly focus any time soon and–”

“Okay,” you blurted.

Your quick agreement to his request surprised even yourself as you stood there, staring at the Devil’s parted lips, his explanation left unfinished. Arms hugging your chest tighter, you suddenly felt self-conscious. Had you really just agreed to cuddle him half naked now? And so easily?

“It's okay if you're uncomfortable,” he assured you. “I realize what I'm asking you is a bit much, considering the circumstances.”

“No, it's–it's fine,” you replied, cautiously making your way towards him. “You have dubbed me your favorite space heater after all.” 

A soft smile pulled the corners of his lips upwards as he nodded slowly. He opened his arms, spreading them wide and revealing his almost naked body beneath the blankets he’d been wrapped up in. Both of his legs were crossed before himself as he patiently waited for you to join him beneath the blankets. The sight only had your nerves increasing yet again tonight, because this moment also felt far more intimate than it probably should have. 

“How would it be best for me to uh, lend you my body heat?” you asked, trying to keep your voice from rising a few octaves as you came to a stop directly in front of him. “I don't know what you need to do to heal. I don’t want to be in the way or anything.”

“If it's not too uncomfortable for you, you can just sit on my lap,” he answered. “I need to really focus on myself and tune everything else out. So as long as you're sitting fairly still you won't bother me.” A sheepish smile reappeared on his face as he added, “And we sort of need to be close in order to actually share body heat. Like before.”

You nodded, though you didn’t completely agree with him about this being like last time. Because before when you'd both cuddled together for warmth he had been fully clothed. 

“Right,” you murmured. “Just like before.”

You hesitated a second longer, eyeing the way he was still sitting cross-legged on your floor, his arms still stretched open for you. With a deep breath in, you lowered yourself down onto his lap without any further opportunity to overthink the situation. Moving carefully, you adjusted your position on his lap, trying hard not to hurt him as both of your legs straddled his hips. Facing him, your arms nervously wrapped around his bare waist, your hands awkwardly resting on his lower back. His skin was cold to the touch and you resisted the urge to rub your hands along him to warm him up. Surely that would be crossing a line.

The Devil’s arms wrapped the blankets around the pair of you once you'd settled, inevitably encircling you in a sort of embrace that drew you even closer to the front of himself. Your cheeks were on fire as you felt your chest brushing against his solid one. Just like the first time he'd appeared at your apartment and cuddled you for warmth, you were growing increasingly aware of your bra-lessness around him. Especially with the way your nipples were poking at the fabric of your sweatshirt each time they grazed his very firm chest. You desperately hoped he hadn't noticed. It was already difficult enough trying to ignore the feel of him beneath your ass because that wasn't helping you to keep your head right now, either.

“Is this okay?” you whispered.

The Devil cleared his throat, his face mere inches from yours now that you were in his lap. You were doing your best to focus on the picture on your wall just behind him because staring at his lips would only result in you embarrassing yourself further.

“Yeah,” he answered. “As long as you’re comfortable. I’m just going to try to focus–” he paused, clearing his throat a second time, “–so I’ll uh, need silence for a bit.”

“How long?” you asked.

You kept your eyes glued to the picture on the wall, trying to ignore the way his chest brushed against yours with his next inhale. Despite how cold he felt, you felt like your own body temperature was elevating.

“Twenty minutes?” 

Your eyelids fluttered at that deep, gravely voice just beside your ear, his warm breath grazing the side of your neck. You were going to be sitting in his lap for the next twenty minutes trying to resist the urge to kiss him? To grind down against his cock that you were positive you could just partially feel beneath you? To not bury your face into the crook of his neck and breathe in the scent of him?

“Hopefully I’ll be able to concentrate,” he said, voice strained.

“Sorry,” you whispered back. “I'll try to sit still.”

Silence fell between the pair of you, but your mind quickly grew louder than the room around you. You kept having to remind yourself to focus on staying quiet and immobile because you were doing this to help the Devil. That was what you needed to focus on and nothing else.

Eventually, as an unknown length of time passed while you both sat there on your floor, you began to feel his body relax against yours, as if all the tension was beginning to gradually ease out of his muscles. His breathing became something steady and rhythmic, which was when your thoughts finally turned to something less inappropriate. Because instead of that blazing heat that had been building inside of you ever since he'd asked you to help remove his clothes, something softer and less intense began to fill you as you sat in his lap, your own body relaxing in turn against him.

Shifting your head to the side just a bit, your gaze moved from the picture on the wall back to his face beside yours. You imagined his eyes were closed beneath the black fabric now as he concentrated on whatever it was that he was doing. You wondered what color they were beneath all that black. Gaze lowering, you studied the strong line of his jaw, taking in the little hairs of his dark stubble. Eventually your gaze traveled towards his mouth, attempting to memorize the shape of his slightly parted pink lips. You could still feel each of his soft exhales brushing over your exposed neck. Each breath of his faintly tickled your skin as you gradually found yourself breathing almost in sync with him.

For a while that’s what you found yourself doing, silently observing him while you took soothing breaths that matched his own. You noticed the subtle shifts of his mouth as he sat quietly beneath you, the faint twitches of his arm muscles against your back. At a certain point you became aware of how warm his body had become, no longer as cold as when you’d first plopped into his lap. 

You weren’t sure how much time had passed before he startled you with a very subtle movement. His head gradually lowered a few inches until his forehead came to rest against your shoulder. That unfamiliar warmth only grew inside of you, your heart fluttering in your chest at the unexpected display of his trust with you tonight. Smiling slightly, your own head tilted a little to the side, coming to rest against his as your own eyelids lowered.

You may not have known much about the mysterious masked vigilante who ran around the streets of the city at night, but you knew he had a good heart. Underneath the flirtatious comments and jokes was a man who deeply loved this city and the people in it. You just wished the city could give him literally anything back in return for the blood he clearly spilled for it. 

You must have briefly fallen asleep wrapped around the Devil because when he began to shift beneath you, you startled awake. Eyes slowly blinking the sleep from them, you pulled back and glanced at his face still so close to yours. The Devil was wearing a pleased grin, the sight causing your stomach to twist into knots. 

“Comfortable?” he teased.

“Shit, I'm sorry,” you apologized quickly, embarrassed. “It's just late and I'm tired, I didn't mean to fall asleep on you again.”

“It's okay,” he assured you, still grinning. “But maybe I should get dressed and let you sleep in your own bed now.”

“Oh,” you breathed out, disappointment creeping into you. “Right. So you're–you're done with your meditation thing?”

“I am,” he answered. “And feeling far better and warmer than before. So thank you.”

His arms unwrapped themselves from around you, the cold from your apartment suddenly hitting the back of you where you were no longer wrapped inside the blanket cocoon with him. Biting your lip, you carefully disentangled yourself from around him, your heart strangely sinking to your stomach as you did. 

Almost immediately after you'd climbed out of his lap, the Devil rose back up to his feet in a smooth motion, barely wincing at the fluid movement. He balled your blankets in his hands, your eyes drawn to the pull of muscles on his arms and chest as he moved with ease, looking nothing like the man who'd collapsed on your floor in pain not that long ago. He tossed the balled up blankets smoothly past you where they landed perfectly on the back of your couch. 

Afterwards he turned, crossing the few steps towards his pile of damp clothes still lying on your floor. With barely any show of pain, you watched as he bent down, grabbing his still wet pants and beginning to pull them on. You cringed as he began to pull them up his legs, aware they must’ve been cold and uncomfortable to dress back in, but a glance back at your window proved that it was indeed still raining. Even if you'd dried them he would've been soaked again in seconds.

“You're going to have that friend of yours check on you, right?” you asked him. “To make sure you're alright?”

The Devil looked over at you, his hands buckling the belt of his tight pants. That cheeky smirk was on his lips again, which must have meant he somehow really felt better, even if you couldn't possibly begin to comprehend how what he'd done had actually healed him.

“Still worried about me?” he questioned back. “I promise I'll be just fine. And yes, I'll have my friend give me a little check up, if that helps ease your mind.”

“It does,” you admitted.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you focused on the window you knew he was soon to slip back out of in an attempt to give him privacy as he dressed. That unfamiliar sinking feeling was back in your gut again, demanding attention. But you didn't have long to contemplate what it meant before the Devil was stepping into the space before you, now fully clothed in his attire once more. Except for his gloves, you noticed, which he was holding in his left hand.

“Thank you for your help once again tonight, angel,” he whispered.

His right hand reached out, unexpectedly and gently cupping your jaw. The pad of his thumb affectionately traced along the line of it with a tenderness you’d never felt before, stopping once it reached the corner of your lips. Feeling your heart skip in your chest at his touch and what he'd just called you, the question slipped right past your lips in a faint breath.

“Angel?” you asked. 

His thumb remained beside your lips, a faint smile ghosting over his own beneath his still damp mask. “Well you won't tell me your name,” he replied quietly. “And you continually insist on helping the Devil despite how undeserving I am, so I think it only seems fitting.” 

His thumb moved, just barely grazing your bottom lip. Your breath hitched, your face involuntarily inching forward towards his. 

“Sleep well, angel,” he murmured. 

Too dazed to even formulate a response, you stood there silently as his hand released your face. Turning around, he made his way towards your window, quickly sliding his gloves on before raising it back up. Without hesitation, he slipped through the opening and back out into the cold, rainy night. 

By the time you'd recovered from whatever that moment had just been, he was already closing your window after himself. A small smile tugged at his mouth before he turned and dove over the side of your fire escape railing. 

Heart still hammering erratically in your chest, your hand reached up, fingers gently touching the place his just had. Closing your eyes, you could almost recall the tender feel of them on you even now. 

And that's when it made sense. You weren't just eager to help the masked man because of what he did for the city and how much of a hero you thought he was. And it wasn't just because you believed he didn't really have many others in this city to help him.

It was because you were beginning to feel something for him. Something more than just physical attraction despite not knowing his name or his face.

[ackermansundercut]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Sixteen

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

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

Warnings: Lucien Vanserra could kill me and I would be honored. Cannon typical violence. Some angst. Lots of fun

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

Lucien stood in disbelief, mouth opening and closing. Words stuck in his throat.  

You knew as his eyes roamed over your features that he was hunting for some mark of Helion’s that you’d inherited, whether it be the set of your eyes, the curve of your jaw, the slope of your nose, or even the tilt of your sharp ears. But he came up empty. Whatever features you did share with Helion could have easily been shared by two strangers. It was how you’d gotten away with working with him at the Day Court and attending balls by his side. 

But there were some things that went deeper than skin and bones. He could barely make it out in the hum of your power and the faint, charming glow in your eyes. It was something that spoke of warmth and sparkling intellect. A sliver of the sun given form. 

You were Helion’s daughter. 

You were… you were his sister.

You cleared your throat and looked away. “I understand this must be a surprise. Perhaps not the kind of surprise you were hoping for.” 

“You’re my sister,” Lucien finally breathed out, and the wind, so harsh and biting before, ceased.

“Half-sister… technically.” 

“I don’t go by halves.” 

The sharp, sudden rush of cold air into your lungs had you shivering. Lucien noticed and without thinking he reached out with his power, wrapping heat around your body until you may as well have been perched in front of a roaring fire. His magic smelled like woodsmoke and balsam.

“You’re my sister.” He repeated the phrase a few more times, finding it more believable with each swirl of the words around his tongue. 

Elain had known this was coming and had given him a cryptic warning, but that did nothing to lessen the excitement spreading in his chest with each passing second. 

You watched him wearily, hands clasped over your body and eyes furrowed, like you couldn’t tell if he was upset. Which was ridiculous. How could Lucien ever be upset by this?

“You’re my sister!” 

A sharp laugh exited his body that grew and grew until you felt like you were floating on the waves of his happiness. He rushed forward, hoisting you in the air and spinning you around like you weighed nothing. Wind rushed past your ears as the world blurred. 

He gently deposited you back on solid ground.

“How old are you? How long have you known about Helion? Where have you been all this time?” He asked the questions in rapid succession, heart hammering away in his chest. 

He had a sister. A sister. 

“I’m three hundred and forty-three.”

He smiled. He’d always wanted a younger sibling. A younger sister to be exact that he could teach to fight and hunt and ride with more support than he’d ever been afforded. 

“I’ve known about Helion since I was little.” Lucien’s smile slipped at that revelation. “And I’ve been in the Day Court in one of the athenaeums. It was my home up until the point where Koschei burned down my house and I got saddled with Beth’s book. I’ve been here ever since. Although I never expected for any of this—” You gestured vaguely at the House, the sky, at Lucien, “to happen. Not that I’m upset!” You added quickly. 

“What was it like? Growing up in the Day Court?” He looked you up and down again, searching for scars or broken bones that had never healed right. But from what he could tell, you were whole. 

He clenched his fists tightly until you answered.

“It was safe. Lonely, but safe.” 

“Good.” He breathed out in relief. “Good.” 

Azriel watched everything from the deck that wrapped around the back of the house. The wind carried the tang of salt, opening his lungs and easing the pain in his chest that wrapped around him like a vice. He kept his wings pulled in tight and hands clasped behind his back. He was a slice in the fabric of the universe, unmoving and still. 

And he missed you. Gods did he miss you. 

“We shouldn’t stand so close,” Azriel murmured. 

His voice was ragged, filled with more gravel than the walkway that snaked through Elain’s garden. Weighed down with secrets that felt more like anvils. 

Elain dropped the empty bucket onto the deck followed by the clang of her spade. The shovel lay discarded in the field, the ground marked by neat lines of overturned earth. She cupped her hands and blew into them, breathing life back into her stiff fingers. 

Twenty minutes ago he’d seen you run beneath his window, racing towards the Sidra with your robes hiked up to your knees so you could try and keep up with Lucien’s long strides as he pulled you along by your hand, red hair streaming behind him like a bundle of ribbons. 

You’d been calling out for him to slow down, your voice loud and breathless.

And after everything that had happened, the things he’d seen, he couldn’t stop himself from walking down to the deck to watch you. 

Now you stood at the water’s edge with your hands outstretched, dutifully holding onto every stone that Lucien plucked from the river. Your head tipped to the side in curiosity.

His childhood in Autumn had not been kind, but that didn’t mean there hadn’t been happy moments sprinkled in amongst the sorrow. There in the woods with bejeweled treetops and diamond glass rivers he’d learned how to swim and fish and hunt. He’d wrestled with his brothers, fallen in love, and gained the confidence and freedom to eventually travel the Courts and make his own way in the world. 

But you’d been lonely your whole life. Trapped indoors with nothing but your books for company. You’d never learned how to swim. You’d never dug through the soil for slimy worms to go fishing. You’d never fallen asleep beneath a glittering sky, fire smoke curling in the air and the taste of chestnuts lingering on your tongue and filling your belly. 

It had been a different kind of sorrow, but no less real. 

Lucien aimed to change some of that. Your mere presence beside him, as hesitant as it was, filled him with a happiness he couldn’t name. 

He had his trousers rolled up to his thighs revealing powerful legs and freckled, caramel-brown skin. He didn’t mind the cold waters rolling over his hands as he tracked the riverbed for the smoothest, flattest stones. Every time he looked back you were either watching him or examining each stone with narrowed eyes like you’d find some algorithm carved into their edges that would tell you what made them so special for the task at hand. 

Azriel couldn’t hear what you two were saying, and he didn’t send his shadows out to investigate, but soon you were tugging off your boots, then your socks, and tying the long length of your robes around your waist. You gingerly dipped your toes into the river and immediately leapt back. 

Lucien’s laugh rolled over the earth, full of warmth and joy. He was grinning so wide Azriel could see the whites of his teeth and his shaking shoulders.

Inch by inch you walked into the river up to your calves and Lucien dunked his cupped hands into the cold water. 

“Don’t you dare! Lucien!” 

Then you were shaking your head, slapping Lucien’s hands away with a shout when he tossed the water at your face, and threatening to launch the black stones back into the river for him to fetch. Your toes were already starting to go numb.

Azriel’s heart gave a painful lurch, even as he smiled softly at the sight of you. 

“I don’t… I don’t want to give them the wrong idea.” Azriel swallowed and turned his gaze down to where a plump sparrow was digging around in the grasses. 

Elain ignored him, dropping her arms onto the wooden railing and staring out. She let out a lovely, longing sigh and Azriel just knew she was strumming the bond within her chest to feel Lucien on the other side. 

The red-haired male looked up to meet her gaze and smiled softly. You also looked up, and then immediately looked away with rosy cheeks.

“Lucien knows where I stand. He… he’s finally beginning to trust me again.” 

He’d been so eager to give her his heart the first time around, and she’d crushed it beneath her dainty shoes, too angry at the life that had been torn away to look at the one she’d been given. This time around she was determined to earn Lucien’s love, no matter how easy he made it for her. No matter how many times he told her it wasn’t something that had ever needed to be earned.

“It took some time to gain that back.” She shifted. “But then again, we were lucky. We knew what we were to each other. You still haven’t told Y/n you’re mates.” 

“You know about that?”

Elain rolled her eyes as if the answer were obvious, because it was. 

“I don’t think I can tell her, Elain.” 

“And why not?” 

Azriel hesitated. 

Here was a truth he hadn’t been able to express to his brothers — the truth they didn’t understand: They were good, decent males, and when it had come to their mating bonds they’d treated them with the respect they deserved. They’d been patient. They’d never tried to force a hand that wasn’t theirs. 

But Azriel was… wrong. In so many ways he was wrong. 

He either waited too long or he moved without thinking. He fell into obsession like a starling with clipped wings. He scrounged for scraps of affection where he wasn’t supposed to and brooded when it inevitably blew up in his face. He’d been trying to take his time with you. He’d been trying to do it right. He was… 

He was already in love with you. 

He’d been in love with you for some time now.

Elain smiled, still staring towards the river. 

She had loved Azriel once. Not in the way she loved Lucien and not in a way that had been good for them, but still it had been love of some kind. She could feel the waves rolling off his body as he came to his quiet realization, and it felt very different from the way he’d felt about her and very similar to the way she felt about Lucien. 

“I love her, Elain.” He whispered the words like they were fragile as spun sugar, ready to dissolve the moment they left his lips. 

“She’ll say yes to the bond. I’ve seen it.”

Azriel let out a broken, strangled noise and looked at Elain, begging for more. “Even after—”

“Yes. Even after what that boy made you do. Even after what she learned when she touched your hand.” She looked down at Azriel’s hands, leather gloves worn and supple. She gave them a squeeze. “A year ago I had a vision of a white bird flying out of the sun with a golden ribbon tied to one of its feathers. Its wings were dipped in ink so she could leave a trail along the ground for a beast of shadow to follow.” 

Azriel went still as death. “And then what happened?” 

Elain looked up at him, eyes glittering. “She flew to the base of a mountain, laid down, and has been waiting ever since. She’s been waiting for you. For someone who understands what it means to be lonely and what it’s like to hope for more.” 

And Azriel did exactly that. He hoped for more. 

More time with you. More unrestrained touches. More midnight conversations until your eyes were threatening to shut. 

Something changed then. Elain’s brown, doe eyes turned misty and flat. Her voice dropped and the hand she reached out to grab hold of his arm was cold as ice. 

“You need to be careful, Az,” she warned. “Don’t let her go into the mirror. She may not come out.” She clawed at his arms. “Az, you need to be careful. The mirror…” 

He gripped her shoulders, stabilizing her as she swayed on her feet. 

“Elain, what—” But her vision was already gone. No matter how hard she tried to hold on it was like trying to keep water in a cracked cup. 

Lucien kept his arm perfectly parallel with the earth, drew back, and snapped his wrist at the last second. The stone flew out over the glassy river and kept kissing the surface in weakening arches before it was eventually swallowed up in a dollop of salt. 

“Eight.” 

Lucien looked at you incredulously. “I counted nine.” 

“Eight skips,” you argued. “Males always overestimate.” 

“And what experience do you have with males?”

None. Except for that one glorious day you’d clung to Azriel like the world was finally peaceful. It was nowhere near the level of experience you suspected Lucien must have after centuries spent bouncing around from Court to Court. Nowhere near the level of experience Azriel or the others had when it came to touch. 

You bristled. “Enough.” 

Lucien smirked like he knew you were lying and held out his hand for another stone. Soon it too was lost to the river. 

“How many this time?” 

You twisted your lips to the side, but had to admit, “Nine.”

He was grinning. 

“Come on.” He held out his hand for you, beckoning you deeper into the river. “Your turn. Just like I showed you.”

“This is a terrible idea.” 

“Come on!”

“I will kill a fish, Lucien.” 

There was a playful roll of his eyes. “Y/n—”

“I’ll end up throwing a rock so hard into the water I’ll give an innocent, unsuspecting fish brain damage.” So what if you were being melodramatic. That did nothing to counter the fact that your hand-eye coordination was shit. 

“Y/n, you’ll be fine. I promise.” 

Wrong.

You were gods awful at this. 

You tried your best to mimic the bend of Lucien’s spine as he let go of his stone, tried to mimic the way he curled his fingers against its rounded edges. But every single one of your throws was either too strong or too weak. Too high or too low. 

You chucked the last rock in your hand but the spin on it — or rather lack thereof — was abysmal. It plopped into the river three yards away with a splash. 

Lucien chuckled, shaking his head as you stomped back onto the beach, swearing with every step as your robes dragged through the water behind you. 

You whirled around and kicked up river water in his direction. 

“Stop laughing!” A smile tugged at your lips even as you said that. 

“You’re doing very well!” 

“Don’t be condescending.”

“I’m not!”

 “I didn’t grow up in the backwoods of Autumn. I’ve never done this before,” you grumbled, your words tinged with embarrassment. 

And thank the Mother you hadn’t. Yes, Lucien had always wanted a sister, but he flinched just to think of the horrors you would have faced if you’d both shared a mother instead of a father. The ways Beron would have bent you until you broke, especially as a female. Sold to the highest bidder and forced to have as many children as possible. A high-end, noble-blooded breeder.

Suddenly he wasn’t laughing anymore. The smile slipped off his bright face. 

You stiffened. Some of the scars on Lucien’s body took on new meaning. 

“I’m sorry, Lucien,” you said. The fun of the afternoon, as embarrassing as it had been for you, fell away. “I wasn’t thinking.” 

You’d only heard whispers of the way Beron treated his children. Which could only mean that they’d endured infinitely worse. 

Lucien shook his head and more of his scarlet hair came tumbling out of his braid. He looked so much like Helion in the sun that you were surprised more people didn’t know. They had the same strong noses, the same build with their tapered waists and strong legs. They even had the same dimple on their left cheeks. 

But maybe Beron and his brothers had known, or at least suspected that he was different, and that had added to Lucien’s torment.

“Maybe one day you could show me though,” you asked hopefully when the silence was on the verge of becoming too loud, “I’ve never been to Autumn — I’ve not been to most places, actually — but I’d like to see it. I could show you the Day Court too.” 

He shook his head slowly, rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t think that would be a good idea — visiting the Day Court.” 

That was the issue you’d been tiptoeing around the last two hours. You both knew about Helion, but he was only aware of your existence, not Lucien’s. And it was one thing for you to be revealed as Helion’s daughter — there’d be gossip, attempts on your life, and countless marriage proposals. 

But for Lucien? He’d suddenly find himself face to face with the weight of a crown and an entire Court on his shoulders. You wouldn’t blame him for trying to avoid that fate.

Still, you couldn’t help but ask, “Lucien… Why haven’t you told Helion yet? Beron’s been dead for years now, and I’ve heard only good things about Eris. That he’s honest and fair. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who’d punish you if you claimed your right to Helion’s Court.”

His bright eyes turned bitter, all laughter disappearing. He dipped his hand into the river, picked up a rock, and chucked it back in. Its edges were too ragged anyway. 

“What makes you think he doesn’t already know?” 

You straightened up as if the answer were obvious. “Trust me, he doesn’t know. If he knew you were his son, he would have found ways to see you grow up. We might have even grown up together.”

 It was a pathetic daydream, but one you’d been thinking about. 

“You’re wrong!” 

The outburst was so sudden, so unlike the Lucien everyone else spoke of that you had to take a few steps back. Smoke rose from his clenched fists and his skin pulsed, glowing with an inner light like he was more ember than fae. 

He blinked rapidly then swore, brushing his salt-stiffened hair back. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, but…” He shook his head. “He wouldn’t have come. He didn’t come. He just left me and my mother there with that monster. He must have known what it was like — the things he did to her and the rest of us — but he never showed up. Not for my mother. Not for me.” 

“He didn’t know.” 

You repeated those words with the same conviction you had for everything else you knew to be true. You stepped closer and with the slope of the beach you could face him eye-to-eye. 

“Do you want to know how I know? My mother wanted nothing to do with him when she found out she was pregnant. He had to hear it from one of the healers.  And when I was born she forbade him from visiting, forbade him from even laying eyes on me, but he couldn’t stay away. He found ways to be in my life and protected me as best he could, and when Mom died and I was left on my own, he gave me projects with purpose so I wouldn’t crumble into nothing.” You stabbed your finger against your chest. “He did that for me. Is he a great father? Absolutely not. Is he a decent father? Maybe? Probably not, he wasn’t there most of the time. But he’s trying. I know it’s not the same and we’re still strangers and I understand if you don’t forgive him for abandoning your mother — I wouldn’t — but he would have gone for you.” 

You were breathing hard now. Lucien just stared with shiny eyes and unclenched fists. 

“And I think after everything you’ve been through, you deserve to know what it’s like to have a father who at least tries.” 

The world was too small right now. It was too big. The Sidra had soaked through your skin and your robes were growing heavier and heavier by the second, weighed down by salt water and time. 

“Would you at least consider telling him? Please?” 

Because another pathetic daydream you’d been thinking of recently was that one day it might be you and Helion and Lucien. An imperfect family, but a family nevertheless. That you might not feel so alone anymore. 

Lucien’s throat bobbed and he turned away from you long enough for the crisp wind to dry his tears. 

“Take off your robes. They must be soaked by now. I’ll make sure you don’t go cold.'” His voice was strangled. He cleared his throat. “And I’ll look for more stones. No sister of mine is going to go through life without learning how to skip stones.” 

He threw that word around so casually — sister — like saying it over and over again would somehow make the hundreds of years you’d both spent on your own disappear. 

Clouds gathered steadily overhead painting the world with a wash of grey. But that did nothing to diminish the faint light that emanated from you and Lucien as you waded through the shallows and finally learned to skip stones. Lucien whooped, red hair streaming behind him, and you smiled as your last stone skipped twice over the river before disappearing beneath the surface. 

You leaned back in the tall, dying grasses and sipped on the cardamom tea Elain brought down from the House, listening to the many stories Lucien had gathered over centuries spent traversing Prythian and the Human Lands. You told him about The Alcove, Cherp, your mother, and the books you read, and he listened like it was the most epic tale he’d heard in his entire life. 

Sometimes you both went quiet. It was sobering to think about what you’d both endured alone without your true family. But still… it was good to have one another now. 

When you walked into the packed dining room — barefoot, salt-stained, and rosy from the cold — Lucien pulled out the seat next to him for you, surprising the grey Ione.

Elain dropped gracefully into the chair across from her mate, a knowing smile on her face. 

“Good day?” 

You and Lucien glanced at one another. His golden eye whirred and his russet eye gleamed mischievously. 

You folded your arms over your chest, forcing down the smile that threatened to make its appearance. “The worst.” 

“You’re just upset because you lost,” Lucien teased, casually draping his arm over your shoulder. 

“It was hardly a fair competition. You must have — what? — five-hundred years of experience against me?”

He clasped a hand over his chest. “You wound me, sister. Although, if you must know, I’m four hundred and seventeen.” 

“I’m surprised you’re not a sack of bones on the floor.” 

“I’m not that old.”

“I think I see a few grey hairs here and there.” 

Lucien scoffed, but everyone noticed when he absentmindedly touched his long red locks as the last of the dinner plates materialized on the table. Feyre reached over from beside Lucien and squeezed his hand tightly under the table. 

It wasn’t the drop of Helion’s magic that caused The High Lady’s eyes to glow so brightly. She was just happy. Lucien squeezed her hand back even tighter. 

Azriel was the last to arrive, appearing in the hallway in a swath of shadows like he was stepping out of one of your dreams. He must have flown home today. Mist gathered into droplets that clung to his skin and hair and eyelashes like a thousand diamonds. Not even the faint shadows beneath his eyes could distract from his beauty, and you felt that familiar wash of comfort flow over your body when you caught his scent. 

There was only one available seat left at the table. The one directly across from you and Lucien… and right next to Elain. 

Your stomach dropped. 

The seating arrangement was truly a horrible coincidence. One that no one seemed to recognize until it was too late and Azriel’s chair was screeching over the wooden floor. Both he and Elain shifted in their seats, quietly pulling them further apart. It should have made you feel better that Azriel was trying so hard to distance himself from Elain, but the only thing it emphasized was that they’d used to be so close. 

Cassian looked over nervously at his brother, but Azriel was as impassive as always. The room fell into uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by the sounds of chewing and the clinking of silverware. If the House was a person, they would be sweating buckets. 

Cassian coughed and sipped his wine. “So… lovely weather we’re having.” 

Lightning cracked across the darkened sky, followed by rain that began plummeting to the earth in heavy sheets. 

Rhysand leaned over and smacked his brother on the back of his head and Cassian couldn’t even feign annoyance at that. 

“You never fail to have incredible timing, Cassian.” Lucien drank his wine deeply and some of the tension seemed to lift from the table when everyone noticed how happy he still was. The terrible things in the world had not lessened, but Lucien felt lighter than he had in decades.

In proper Helion fashion, he kept the pleasant conversation spinning over the table, ensnaring you with the stories he tossed back and forth with Feyre. 

“How was I supposed to know you’d be crazy enough to try and capture a Suriel?”

“What? Like it was meant to be difficult?”

Lucien smirked and crossed his arms. “Beginner’s luck.”

“What were the second and third times then?” 

“The Suriel being a terrible busybody who was bored and wanted to spill gossip.” 

Feyre flipped him off and he winked in return. 

Azriel did what he always did and sat still and quiet as a mouse, eyes tracing over the flow of conversation like he knew who would speak before they’d even opened their mouths. But his eyes kept lingering on you, a smile tugging at his lips whenever one grew on yours. 

Lucien noticed it the third time it happened. Then the fourth. Then the fifth. Until he found himself watching the Shadowsinger almost as intensely as Azriel was watching you. 

His grip tightened around his silverware. 

“I am not nearly as uptight as Gwyn says I am,” you muttered, pushing around the potatoes on your plate. 

You’d sunk into your seat when, to your embarrassment, the conversation had steered in your direction. Azriel had been the one to do it, casually dropping a comment about how much time you spent in Cagniv Library and the ways in which you’d already influenced the priestesses who operated there. It was the first thing he’d said all day. 

“You made a fifth year apprentice cry.”

“That’s a lie, Nesta, and you know it.” 

Nesta did know it, but you’d been so quiet the past few weeks. She wanted to poke fun if only to make you smile. 

“Fine, that was an exaggeration. But you interrogated Farrah like she was a war criminal. Azriel would have been impressed.” 

“She’s the only expert on Cyerion Age Bauldish folklore and she was missing half the citations for her thesis! It took me ages to track down some of her sources.”

“She can’t cite a book that’s over 2,000 years old with no identifiable author. Or title. Or publishing date.” 

You grumbled under your breath. Something about, “Your library gives me anxiety” and “You’re making me look bad in front of Lucien.”

“Hmmm? Sorry?” Lucien tore his eyes away from where one of Azriel’s shadows had slid under the table and was now wrapping around the leg of your chair in an effort to gain your attention.  

You shook your head. “Nesta’s just trying to make me look bad.” 

“I don’t think that’s possible,” Azriel said softly, so softly he probably hadn’t even meant to say the words aloud. He looked up from his plate, shocked to hear his own voice continue on. “Maybe after this is all done, you could take on the task of reorganizing Cagniv. I’m sure you’d be saving the next Librarian more than a few headaches.”  

Your wide eyes met his across the table and for a brief moment it was like you two were alone and teasing each other over tea in the middle of the night like you used to. Two shadows illuminated by candlelight in a Court that never slept.

You sat up a little straighter. “Is that a challenge?” 

Azriel smiled faintly, “Maybe. Although I’m sure Bryaxis would give you a run for your money.”

You furrowed your brows. “Bryaxis?” 

Rhys smirked, “He’s the resident shadow demon that lives on the bottom floor of Cagniv. He flew down once on a dare and he high-tailed it out of the abyss white as a sheet. He still doesn’t talk about it.”

“Fuck you for bringing that up, Rhys.” Cassian’s hand trembled as he brought his fork up to his lips, “You’ll never let me live that down will you?” 

“You… you have a shadow demon living in your library?” Your face twisted in horror and you slammed your knife down on the table, “Is that why a third of the catalogue is missing from the shelves? I’ve been searching for ages!”

And there it was — that faint twitch of irritation in your eyes that told Azriel you were already contemplating going down to confront Bryaxis yourself. He could imagine how you’d stand there with a hand tucked into your robes, swinging a lantern from the other as you bullied the monster into letting you move the volumes someplace else. How you’d lecture him on the importance of controlling humidity when it comes to parchment preservation, and perhaps how you’d begrudgingly agree that the creature’s darkness had protected the fragile books from light exposure. 

“I knew that’s what you’d focus on,” Azriel said. His voice was deeper than an ocean, and just as full of hidden meaning. He shook his head in disbelief, a small smile gracing his lips. “You just learned you spent months studying with a monster lurking nearby — a monster that has Cassian trembling in the corner—”

“I am not trembling—”

“And you’re not afraid at all. You’re… you’re incredible, Y/n.” 

You pursed your lips, tamping down the delight that threatened to spill over inside of you like champagne bubbles — light and airy and lovestruck. With only a handful of sentences, Azriel had you wishing that everyone else would just leave. You felt the heat rise in your cheeks as Azriel kept looking at you. It was a quiet, intimate undressing without an inch of skin needing to be revealed. 

A tendril of shadow creeped up your arm and tugged your hair. The rest hovered shyly over a bag you recognized as Azriel’s, as if they knew they’d done wrong by ferrying it over from their master’s bedroom. But the timing was so perfect, how could they not? 

With you watching, they tugged open the strings and spilled the contents on the floor. 

To Lucien’s surprise, Azriel’s notorious stone-face went flush with color when he heard the thud of books and realized what his shadows had done. 

“Wait—Y/n—” His chair groaned in protest when he shot to his feet.

But you were already holding them in your hands. 

The Natural Trials and Tribulations of Leonora Bedroot, Three Knocks for A Kiss, and A Touch of Cinnamon. Your favorite books in the entire world. Two copies each. One brand new, and one whose pages were already flared, leather spines lovingly wrinkled. 

Your breath caught in your throat when you flipped through Three Knocks for a Kiss and saw Azriel’s delicate scrawl on every page. Passages had been circled and underlined with his comments left in the margins. Small tabs of paper poked out with more handwritten notes. 

Azriel’s been reading these over and over again for months now. He bought them a week after you came to Velaris because he remembered you liked books that are well loved and full of memory. The nights he couldn’t sleep and dream of you, he’d perch on his windowsill and read until morning came. You’ve given him a peace he’s never known before. 

A kind of peace you thought you’d been alone in feeling. 

The scent of night-chilled mountains and parchment paper filled your nose. 

Azriel bowed his head ever so slightly, eyes focused on your hands now clutching the books like they were gold. 

“I remembered seeing them in your apartment. I was going to give them to you at some point but…” Azriel trailed off, then whispered. “I remember what you told me about your mother reading them to you.” I remember everything you’ve told me. 

“I can keep them?” Your voice was a hush over the room. 

You cradled them protectively against your chest, as if at any moment they’d be torn away from you. You’d been hesitant to buy new copies after the original ones had been burned down in the Alcove. Part of their charm had always been the memories of your mother reading them aloud like they were flowers growing from her lips instead of words, buzzing and honey-laden. The books felt different now, but they still felt like something. They weren’t sterile and blank. They were filled with Azriel and all the good memories he carried with him. Few and far between as they were. 

“They’re yours,” Azriel breathed, “All yours.”  

Lucien looked back and forth between you two, focusing on the blush of your cheeks and the wetness in your eyes and the thinly veiled adoration in Azriel’s face now that you were looking back at him. A sick, knowing feeling had been building inside of him throughout dinner, but he’d repressed it. He couldn’t repress it any longer.

No. Absolutely not. There’s no way. There’s no fucking way.

He let his shock flow through the bond and looked to Elain for confirmation. 

Please tell me I’m wrong. He begged silently. Anyone but him. Literally anyone but him.

They’d yet to accept the bond, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t read each other like an open book. And right now Lucien was doing nothing to hide his seething temper. 

Elain bit her pale, pink lips and nodded, confirming what he already suspected. Then, in a move of silent permission, she slid her chair six inches away from Azriel’s until she was practically sharing a seat with Nesta. 

“Here we go again,” Nesta groaned and looked at Cassian. You want to get her?

Yeah I got her.

You straightened up, pressing the books to your chest in confusion. What had started off as a graciously uneventful dinner had turned into a moment of beauty that you wanted to preserve for a little while longer.  

But everyone around you parted, leaning back in their chairs and pulling glasses of wine off the table before draining them in one long chug. Even Ione held her plate in her hands, popping a tomato in her mouth with interest. Mor looked nervous clutching a sweaty bottle of wine against her chest. Feyre and Rhys looked resigned and Lucien… Lucien looked livid. After all, he owed Azriel for the Blood Duel.

Cassian hoisted you out of your seat with his arms wrapped firmly around your middle and stepped back and out of the way.

Your eyes widened when Lucien stood up, skin rippling with light and power. He calmly rolled back his sleeves revealing muscular, scarred forearms, then took off his rings one by one and dropped them on the table. 

Clink. Clink. Clink. 

He wanted to feel it when he beat the Shadowsinger to a pulp.

Oh… Oh shit. 

“Wait—Lucien!”

Lucien gritted his teeth and launched himself over the table. 

Azriel didn’t flinch. His hazel eyes didn’t even flicker in surprise. In fact, you swore you saw them flutter closed in acceptance. 

In another fight, Azriel might have had the advantage of wings and height, but Lucien had the wider build and the fucking motive. He slammed into the Shadowsinger’s chest and together they disappeared beneath the lip of the table before landing in a sprawl on the floor that knocked the air out of Azriel’s lungs. 

Cassian winced when he heard the first of Lucien’s blows land. 

“Let me go!” You kicked and squirmed in his grip, but you would have had more luck fighting a mountain. “Cassian, what the fuck?!”

“I’m really sorry, Y/n. But even I have to admit he had this coming.” There was another bloody crack. “Oh damn that sounds like it hurt.”

“Honestly, I didn't know he had it in him,” was Nesta’s only comment. Ione moved to stand beside the eldest Archeron sister so she could get a better view, a faintly amused smile on her face. 

“I did,” Elain said simply. That was one of the many things she and Lucien had in common. Their general patience and understanding could only stretch so far before snapping. “Ione, perhaps you should go upstairs.”

The older woman looked offended. “Why? This is the most fun I’ve had in ages. Such drama.”

When Helion had fought Azriel, there’d been an elegance to it — something altogether noble about the event as the two stared each other down as equals. 

This was nothing like that. 

Lucien was pissed and even Azriel had to admit that he really, really deserved this one. 

Lucien’s chest heaved, every blow of his fists against Azriel’s face punctuated by snarling words. 

“First you go after my mate—” Punch. “Then my sister—” Punch. Punch. “Are you—” Punch. “Fucking—” Punch. “Kidding me?!”

The last blow sent Azriel’s head snapping back hard enough to crack the floor tiles. Blood splattered from his nose like a spray of paint lobed at a canvas and Azriel knew from his sudden inability to breath that it was broken. 

“Lucien! Stop it!”

“We just redid the tiles,” Rhysand groaned, rubbing his temples. 

Lucien growled and grabbed Azriel by the front of his leathers, throwing him over and onto the table. The long mahogany table, shiny and expensive as hell, snapped in two with a deafening bang. Silverware flew into the air, catching the light like holiday tinsel. Porcelain plates shattered and Azriel finally groaned in pain from the harsh twisting of his wings. The fearsome Shadowsinger and Spymaster of the Night Court could only lay there as green peas rolled down on top of him, gravy sinking into his hair. 

“Not the table too,” Rhys whined. He’d had it specially commissioned for the River House. 

Lucien dragged Azriel off the glorified heap of wood chips before tossing him back onto the floor, fist raised in the air. 

“Alright! That’s enough,” Feyre said with a loud clap of her hands. “If you two want to fight, do it outside. I don’t want anyone breaking my house. Again.” 

The River House sighed in relief. 

Lucien paused just long enough for Rhysand to haul the redhead off his brother with little regard for anyone’s pride. 

“Get off me,” Lucien snapped, shoving Rhys away. “I can’t fucking believe this.” 

When Cassian finally let you down, you rushed over to Azriel’s side, swiping the handkerchief Rhys held out for you as you passed. 

Azriel sat on the floor, face impassive despite the brutal angle of his nose and the blood sprayed over his face and neck. You cradled his face, gently nudging it this way and that as you surveyed the damage. 

“Oh Azriel,” you breathed. 

Bruises bloomed over his cheekbones, muddy as paint water. His right eye was almost swollen shut, and his split lips bled anew when he gave you a tentative smile. 

“Hi,” he murmured reverently, leaning against the palm you cupped beneath his jaw.

Lucien gagged. “Can someone rip my eye out again? Both this time, please?”

“Damnit, Lucien!” You held the handkerchief up to Azriel’s nose, trying to stem the flow of blood before it could continue dripping from his chin. “Don’t be an asshole.” 

“Really, Y/n?! You’re defending him?!”

Azriel wrapped one arm protectively around your waist, eyes narrowed in a glare. With the blood coating his face he looked positively murderous. Like he’d done the beating and not Lucien. 

“Don’t yell at her,” he growled, his voice dangerously low. 

“For fuck’s sake.” 

It had been a momentary outburst — a rare occurrence with Lucien that held no anger towards you. But you still felt the flare of Azriel’s power as shadows wrapped around you in a layer so thick you couldn’t see past your waist. 

“Azriel—” You didn’t want another fight. “It's ok.” 

“No. It’s not.” 

Lucien was a mixed bag of emotions and he felt a dozen of them go off at the same time like fireworks. There was rage at the male who had the audacity to lay a hand on you, who’d hurt you if the rumours in Velaris were true. A bitter desire for revenge that still lay heavy on his hands after the utter hell he’d gone through watching Azriel and Elain for years. Protectiveness over you — his sister. And a tiny sliver of shame that grew every time you prodded the Shadowsinger’s bent nose and winced. 

“Do you know?” Lucien’s voice shook. 

“Do I know what, Lucien?” 

He swore and looked at everyone in turn. The members of the Inner Circle were trying their damned hardest not to meet his eyes, nervously angling their gaze towards the ground or out the windows like the evening fog was the most interesting thing they’d ever seen.

Fucking hell. You didn’t know.

Lucien reached down over your shoulder, grabbed Azriel’s nose and shoved it back into place with a loud pop. 

You cringed at the sound, but Azriel didn’t react. He was well acquainted with pain and knew how to hide it. 

He breathed through his reset nose, touching the swore flesh gingerly. “Thank you.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

“Lucien!” 

He clenched his teeth so hard he thought they might crack. Elain chose that moment to quietly slide her hand into his from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder so he was surrounded by the smell of wildflowers. She tapped the center of his chest, right where he’d told her he felt anchored by the bond, and then looked pointedly to where you kneeled on the ground in between Azriel’s legs. 

And Azriel… Azriel looked lost to the world. Centuries spent relegated to the shadows as a Spymaster had wiped away his feelings, at least outwardly. But everyone could plainly see the way he kept his hand on your arm, thumb brushing circles over your warm skin and the settling of his breathing the longer you held onto his jaw with careful fingers. 

Of all the people. It had to be him. 

“The Mother works in mysterious ways,” Elain whispered so only her mate could hear.

“Unfortunately for me.” 

Lucien took in a ragged breath and clenched his fists, waiting for the worst of his anger to fade away before he collected the books back into the discarded bag and held it out for you. 

A peace offering. 

You pulled Azriel back onto his feet, keeping one hand firmly clasped in his, and glared at your brother. “That was completely unnecessary.”

“I’m sorry, Y/n.” And he meant it. 

Your lips flattened. “Shouldn’t you be apologizing to Azriel?”

His mismatched eyes flared with irritation when they flickered to the Shadowsinger. 

Azriel stood quietly at your side, his face a motley of red, purple, and blue. Still handsome though, much to Lucien’s annoyance. 

“I’m not going to apologize for that. He deserved it. I’m just sorry you had to witness it.” Lucien hesitated, then said, “Y/n, I’m not usually like this. I don’t want you to think poorly of me just because of… him.” It was taking everything within him not to use more colorful language to describe the Shadowsinger. “It won’t happen again… unless you ask me to… which I hope you do.” 

Lucien wasn’t sure what to expect. He didn’t know what anger looked like painted on your features, or sadness, and he didn’t want to. So, it was a pleasant surprise when you only rolled your eyes and muttered, “First Helion and now you. Fucking males,” before slinging the bag over your shoulder and tugging Azriel towards your room. 

The Shadowsinger trailed after you without a second thought, heart hammering away in his chest. 

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______________

Author's Note:

LET'S GO BIG BROTHER LUCIEEEEENNNNNNNNN

Y'all I had so much fucking fun writing the Lucien/Azriel fight scene. And to think that for a hot second I considered not writing it because I was worried it would be too repetitive to have Azriel get his ass beaten by both Helion and Lucien. Azriel, you poor, poor man, I'm sorry to have put you through all this. But also I'm not sorry at all.

Hope you all enjoyed this chapter! As always, please feel free to send me your thoughts!

[ackermansundercut]

Eris Vanserra Fic Rec Library 🍁❤️‍🔥

these fics are a mix of Eris x reader, Eris x OC, and a few general Eris fics with no pairing. if you've never read an Eris fic before, I highly recommend starting with the first rec below (gust & flame) because that fic made me fall in love with him. enjoy ✨

🌼 personal favorite 🥀 angst 💞 fluff 🔥 smut

by @invisibleanonymousmonsters

gust & flame (series) 🥀💞🌼

by @theostrophywife

here in your arms. 💞

like you wanna be loved 💞

by @acourtofmenandthirst

The Fox & The Hound 💞

by @leafsandstarlight

Destiny's Battleground (series) 🥀💞🔥

In Spite of Our Differences (series) 🥀💞🔥🌼

Great Rite 🔥

The Prince of Blood

by @profound-imagination

Finding Home 💞

Rose Gardens

by @munsons-hellfire

Happiness in the Heart 🥀💞

by @sweetcarolina-24

Scorched Shadows

by @azrielbrainrot

Fire on Fire

Mind Over Matter 🥀

by @danikamariewrites

Rescue 💞🥀

Fake Sleeper 💞

Peace 💞

Seekers 💞🌼

Did You Just Say No?

Song of Death

Starfall Revelations 🥀💞

Guilt 🥀💞

Kisses 💞

by @redbleedingrose

Till the End of Time 💞🥀

Pretty? 🥀💞

by @b0xerdancer-writes

It Wasn't Supposed to Happen Like This 🥀💞

by @thisblogisaboutabook

Bad Idea, Right? 🥀🔥

by @azsazz

Cherries, Juniper, and Orange Slices 💞

Fire & Water 🥀🔥

by @honeybeefae

Cauldron Fated 💞🥀🔥🌼

Forgotten Ties 🥀

Valentine's Mini Fic 💞

A Court of Wings & Fire (series) 🥀

Past and Present 🥀💞

Coronation Day 💞

Potions 🔥🌼

by @we-were-beautiful

The Fox and the Hounds 💞

by @bubbles-for-all-of-us

My little flame 💞

Her 🌼

My tears ricochet 🥀

by @2thestars-andbeyond

The Fire That Burns Within (series) 💞🥀🔥

by @simkaswriting

What if…Eris had danced with y/n instead?

by @jeannineee

Daylight 🥀💞

Breeding 🔥

by @jdeclerc

a brother's intervention 🥀

by @azrielsdove

Playing With Fire 🥀🔥Azriel x Reader x Eris

by @cassiefromhell

Unexpected 💞🥀🔥Azriel x Reader x Eris

by @fieldofdaisiies

Late Again 🥀

Brother 🥀💞 no pairing

Falling 💞🌼

by @azrielsoulmate

Covered in you 💞

by @cupidojenphrodite

Morning After 🔥

by @acourtofwhatthefuck

Loose Lips 🥀🔥

by @thelov3lybookworm

Remember me? (series) 💞🥀 from Rhysand x Reader to Eris x Reader

Bloodshed 🥀💞

Not what I expected 🥀💞🌼

by @fineghkst

How Eris acts around his mate 💞

by @ladyescapism

fractured bonds 🥀

by @clairebear08

Woven 🥀

Use Me 🔥

by @historiaxvanserra

If I Can't Have Love, I Want Power 🥀🌼

I Am Not a Martyr, I'm a Problem

by @shadowdaddies

Autumn's Eden 💞

Bramble 💞

by @azrielslightintheshadows

Fake love. 🥀

by @crypticandmachiavellianaugustine

Sweet Nothings 💞🌼

by @readychilledwine

Death of Peace of Mind 🥀🔥🌼

Safe Haven 💞

Relief

Unconditional 💞

Leap 💞🌼

Kissed By Fire

Lapcat 🔥

Pack Mentality 💞

Tainted Love 🥀

by @throneofsmut

Bound In Flames (series) 🥀💞🔥

by @parkerslatte

Overlooked 🥀🌼

Warm Me Up 💞🔥

by @prythianpages

Like An Angel 💞

Cruel, Wicked Thing

by @saphirered

Frozen lake 🔥💞

by @thehighladywrites

Professor Eris 🥀💞🔥

by @thevanserrras

Breaking Point 🥀

Den of Foxes 🥀💞

Happy Equinox at Last 💞

Wake Up 🥀💞 Azriel x Reader x Eris

Petty 🥀💞

by @secret-third-thing

Never An Honest Word 🥀 no pairing

by @nocasdatsgay

From the Ashes, the Wildflowers Grow (series) 🥀💞🔥🌼

by @lucienforhighking

Hounds of Love 💞

Dancing 💞🔥

by @callmeblaire

when fire and ice dance

by @moonlightazriel

Symphonies 💞

When no one hears your calls 🥀💞

by @sellyoursoulforagoodfic

Monstrous Secrets 🥀💞

by @florencemtrash

Flame, Shadow, Beast 🥀💞 Azriel x Reader x Eris

by @serpentandlily

Sly Fox, Dumb Bunny (series) 🌼

Last Solstice 🥀💞🌼

by @fever-fluff

Unconditional

by @yearning-for-autumn

Would That I

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chapter xxiv – gust & flame

Eris Vanserra x Reader

Eris Vanserra has been a prisoner in his own home since the day he was born. He has done what he had to in order to survive and protect the few he loves. And he is playing the long game. Waiting, waiting, and waiting for the right time to make his move, to usurp his wicked father and become High Lord of Autumn Court. But things become even more complicated when a human girl drops into his life. Perhaps Eris can wait no longer to take his throne.

Word Count:  4,000+

masterlist

Cassian continued swaying Y/N around after her confession. He could tell she was panicking, and knew she didn’t want to have a breakdown here and now. So, he distracted her, twirling her unnecessarily around until she was laughing and telling him to cut it out through her giggles. 

“We miss you in the Night Court,” Cassian said through a smile, but along with sad eyes she could not miss. 

“I miss it, too.” However, there was more to say and he caught it. 

“But?” He urged. 

“But Autumn feels like…” Y/N dared not finish. 

“Like home?” Cassian offered gently. 

She shook her head. “The Mortal Lands are my home, Cassian.” 

He sighed. “Sometimes homes change, Y/N.” 

Then the Illyrians gaze settled on someone over her shoulder. 

She turned to see Helion Spell-Cleaver politely standing near them with his hands clasped behind his back. 

The High Lord stood tall. His wide and muscular torso was on display from the drapery of his white and gold robes. And his onyx hair was more voluminous and shiny than any woman’s she’d ever seen. In it was his gold, halo crown and band that proved his power and position. He was a beautiful male, that was indisputable. 

“High Lord Helion,” Cassian bowed his head in greeting. Though he was not his High Lord, he was still above him in power. 

Helion nodded to the General, then bowed to Y/N as if she were Lady of Autumn. “I was hoping for a dance with the female of the night.” 

Y/N expected to look at Cassian and find a warning glare on his face. But he seemed only amused. Perhaps she didn’t know Helion as well as she realized and misjudged his intentions at the High Lord meeting where she was interrogated. Perhaps this was actually the male that Leonora had secretly loved for so long. 

A small growl came from the floor. Y/N looked down to see Ronan giving another warning growl to Helion as he stood between him and Y/N. 

She couldn’t help but giggle at her tiny and brave fox. “Ronan, relax.”

The fox turned to look up at her and stopped growling immediately. 

“Go to Eris,” she commanded him softly. 

The fox whimpered as he hesitated, before eventually trotting over to Eris on the other side of the room. He plopped his butt down at the High Lord’s feet, but protectively watched her, prepared to come to her defense if she should need him. 

Y/N stepped away from her friend and toward the High Lord carefully.

“Behave, Helion,” Cassian warned playfully, but quietly enough that only the three of them would catch it. “Though I would enjoy watching Eris take you on if you do not.” 

A new song started and Helion guided them around the floor. 

“Is this a game of some sort?” Y/N asked him with clear suspicion. 

“I assure you it is not, Lady Y/N.” Helion smiled down at her. “I fear we got off on the wrong foot. But I see now that I judged you too harshly.” 

“You fae are distrusting creatures,” she teased darkly as they continued to spin. 

He chuckled. “A life if immortality makes us weary of new beings, especially ones who are as subtly powerful as you are.” 

Y/N frowned at that. Not knowing the true strength of her new power was unsettling to her and it haunted her most nights. 

Helion’s voice lowered and his mouth moved closer to her ear as he said, “Between the two of us, I must confess that my interrogation came from a selfish place.”

Then Y/N caught his gaze flicker to Leonora for hardly a second. If she had blinked, she would’ve missed it. 

“I only wanted to make sure the people of Autumn Court were not in danger,” Helion lied quietly. 

“Why do you not go to her?” Y/N whispered. 

“It is my shame.”

Her eyes squinted in confusion. 

“You have not been in Prythian long, Y/N. And you were lucky to only know Beron for the last moments of his existence.” His eyes glazed over as his mind raced through the past of his immortal life. “You do not know the torture she endured. And through it all, I stood back and let it happen. I should have saved her. I should have killed Beron myself.” 

“But you are High Lord of Day, it would have started a war. And you would have lost so many lives of your Court.” 

Helion’s amber eyes darkened almost to a brown. “What good is power if it cannot be used to protect the ones we love?” 

Y/N didn’t know how to answer that. She was not familiar with having the powers that he possessed. But she had now been around enough High Lords to recognize that such strength did not come without its consequences. 

“I do not deserve her forgiveness or love,” Helion finished. “You do not know what it is like to see the female you love lose the light from her eyes, all while being treated like nothing more than a breeder.” 

Y/N allowed herself to watch Leonora for a moment, who spoke to various courtiers of Autumn, with a polite smile on her lips. 

“Do not underestimate how much light you could bring back to her eyes,” she muttered. “I do not think she believes there is anything to forgive. I think she only worries, after all this time, that there might not be a second chance for you both.” 

Helion gave her a grateful grin. “You have given me hope for Autumn, Y/N. Perhaps you could visit Day Court soon with your mate, and together we could repair the gap between our two courts.” 

Y/N couldn’t meet his gaze as she answered, “I have not accepted the bond…"

Perhaps she shouldn’t be sharing such information to another High Lord. She didn’t know why she confessed it so quickly and easily. 

Helion’s brow furrowed. “And do you not plan to do so?” 

Y/N looked around, trying to buy herself time on her response. 

“Forgive me,” he quickly added. "It is none of my concern.” 

Then, as if trying to change the subject, Helion locked eyes on Nesta, who pretended to be annoyed with Cassian’s obvious and heavy flirting. Everyone knew they were claimed mates, so Y/N didn’t know why she tortured him in such a way. 

“Though, before tonight ends, I should once again attempt to convince those two in joining one of my parties…” 

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’ve heard all about your bedroom habits. Which seems like a strange way to reconcile with your lost lover…”

To her surprise, Helion looked guilty from her call out. “It is much easier to forget about lost love and a broken heart when you preoccupy yourself with endless lust.”

“I will confess,” Y/N began with a mischievous smile. “Us Valkyries are desperate to pet one of your Pegasus. Nesta has threatened to proposition both her and her mate to do so. Though I do not recommend taking her up on the offer if you care for Leonora as you say.”

Helion smiled as he found Nesta, Gwyn, and Emerie gossiping and giggling in a corner with empty glasses of wine. 

The High Lord of Day stepped away from Y/N and bowed his head slightly to her. “It has been an honor, Lady Y/N.” 

Then Y/N was alone on the dance floor. And she quickly made her escape before another male could ask her to dance.

There were two giant doors open to the gardens outside. Suddenly, fresh air seemed like the best thing for her. 

Y/N took in the garden before her. Across the pond, the autumn trees glowed with the yellowish faelight floating amongst the branches. To her left, was a fountain surrounded by the red and orange fallen leaves of the court. To her right, was a stone and metal temple that stepped directly into the pond – and Y/N made her way to that. 

The wind brushed around her, giving her a delicate touch to her cheek. 

Y/N gave a small smile at the companionship. 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

The voice behind her made Y/N jump. “You frightened me.” 

The male was tall and spindly. He did not have the powerful muscle that Eris, or any of her male fae friends, possessed. 

He did not apologize for scaring her, nor did he look even slightly guilty for it. 

“May I ask your name?” Y/N continued, looking around them and noting that it was just the two of them outside. 

“Muiris,” was all he provided as he took steps toward her. 

“Nice to meet you, Muiris. I am Y/N.”

“I know who you are,” he answered back too quickly and harshly. 

Y/N blinked at the rudeness. 

He stepped past her and looked at the large pond before them, hands clasped behind his back. “This particular garden was built centuries ago. So long ago, in fact, that most in this Court were not even alive to remember a time before it existed.” 

Y/N got the feeling he didn’t care if she responded or not. So she remained quiet. 

He turned to look her up and down. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, seeing as you are not of fae blood,” he snipped. 

She openly glared at him now.

This male was clearly no friend, Autumn courtier or not. 

“How did you do it?” He hissed suddenly. 

“Do what?” But her instincts were telling her to take a step back and get away from him. 

He only moved closer. “Those of us whom still have our wits about us know your game. You have bewitched Eris Vanserra, convinced him to kill his own father. And you will kill him next. I have known witches in my time, and good they are not. Your kind is only capable of evil. And I will not stand by and watch Autumn fall into your clutches.”

Before Y/N could even wrap her mind around his words, the male unsheathed a dagger from some hidden place on his body. 

She was quick though, shooting to the side and unsheathing her own knife strapped to her thigh. 

But before she could even raise it in defense, an arrow flew from behind her and hit her attacker squarely in the wrist that held his weapon. 

Y/N whipped around to see a Autumn guard had released the arrow, and he was now calling out orders and warnings to his comrades.  

Though Muiris had cried out in pain and dropped the dagger, he wasn’t weak enough to abandon his mission. 

But as he lunged for her once again, a gust of wind hit him so hard that he was flown backward into the pond. 

Y/N blinked and she was surrounded by nearly twenty Autumn soldiers who circled her protectively. 

A whip of fire burst out of nowhere and dragged Muiris out of the water by his ankle, scraping his body across the harsh stone steps. 

Y/N turned to see Eris slowly walking toward the male.

While his composure was calm, she could only see the fire and rage in his gaze and posture.

A whimper came from below her. Ronan had found her and was pawing at her legs in distress. 

Without thinking, Y/N bent to pick him up. She held him as if he was her anchor. And in return, the fox kit licked her face repeatedly. 

“I always knew you were a fool, Muiris,” Eris growled. Then he bent to pick up the dagger he’d dropped. It was then that Y/N realized it was made of iron – a witch’s ultimate weakness. “But your stupidity has reached a new low.” 

With a snap of his finger, Muiris was shot onto his feet by an invisible power. And flames erupted at his feet, climbing up his body. The male screamed in agony, but he was inflicting pain, not death. Eris was keeping him alive…for now.

“The witch has cast spells on you, High Lord!”

Eris lashed out to grip the males throat, his hand looking more like a demon's talons than human. “Is that so?” He hissed, his tone alone belittling such an accusation. 

Muiris gasped for breath. “I only…tried to do what is…best for Autumn Court.” 

“I am what is best for Autumn Court,” Eris growled as his grip tightened around Muiris' throat. “And she is what is best for me.” 

Y/N then realized they had an audience. Cassian, Rhysand, and Feyre rushed outside to see what was going on. 

Muiris found Y/N’s eyes through the crowd. “She will…ruin us.” 

Eris moved his face centimeters away from Muiris.

The High Lord's flames did not burn him like they did his victim, only dancing around his skin like they belonged to his body. 

“She will save us all,” Eris whispered, but somehow Y/N could hear it clearly from where she stood. 

“You are going to die now,” Eris added. But Muiris didn’t react until he added, “And you should know that everyone you brought with you tonight will die with you.” 

The males eyes widened in panic. “B-But my son…my son…he was not a part of this!”

“I do not trust such a defense, especially one from your mouth. However, if it is true, then his punishment will simply be his relation to you. An attack on my mate is an attack on this court, and I will counter accordingly.” 

Eris turned to look at her. And for half a second, the fire in his gaze blew out. 

Then he looked at the soldiers who surrounded his mate. “Escort Y/N back to her chambers.” 

She opened her mouth to argue, but she knew better than to challenge Eris so publicly. And then she realized she had no idea what to even say, because there was not a single part of her that wished to spare this male’s life.

So she let the small army escort her back inside. 

Rhysand, Cassian, and Feyre all shared looks with her as she left. 

The other High Lords and guests from there courts began winnowing their exits. 

You should go, Y/N spoke to both Feyre’s and Rhysand’s minds. I am safe here. But Eris will not rest until his wrath is released. 

He is only protecting you, Rhysand defended Eris surprisingly. I would do the same for my mate. And his eyes flickered to Feyre’s. 

You say the word and we will bring you right back to Night Court, Feyre answered back softly. 

But the nobles and courtiers of Autumn remained standing. They watched with disgust – not at Eris’ reckoning, but at Muiris’ actions. Clearly, they did not stand with his beliefs toward their new High Lord and his mate. 

Y/N had been escorted back inside. 

Half a dozen fae were on their knees with fiery cages keeping them from moving: Muiris’ companions. Eris’ smoke hounds had already been dispatched, guarding each of them as an extra precaution. They growled menacingly with their tales pointed in the air. Not even Y/N’s presence distracted them from their task. 

It wasn’t until Y/N was in the hallway that she heard the screams and the sound of fire burning flesh. 

She knew Eris burned them slowly. 

–🍁–🍁–🍁–

Y/N paced in front of the fireplace in her bedchambers. 

There would be no sleep for her tonight. No one told her the Forest House was on lock down, but she heard the running in the hallways and the shouting of orders. 

Y/N wanted to go to Eris, but she also didn’t want to get in the way. 

If there was one pattern Y/N couldn’t ignore, it was that her endangerment caused Eris to go absolutely feral. She wondered if it it was terrible how little it scared her. The way he protected her so fiercely and without hesitation…it only lit a fire in Y/N’s body. No one – not even her coven – had defended her in such a way. Perhaps his manor of doing so would scream danger to others, but to Y/N…it only screamed love. 

There was a knock on her door. 

But Y/N’s heart didn’t jump in anxiety, unsure of who it could be. 

Ronan awoke from his slumber near the giant fireplace to growl at the door and beat her to it.

But she immediately knew it was Eris, and she rushed to throw it open. 

“Y/N,” Eris breathed. 

She looked around and realized that all of the guards who had escorted her safely back to her chambers earlier had stayed and stood guard outside. 

But that meant the two of them had an audience. 

Without thinking, Y/N pulled the collar of his red, velvet tunic from the event that he had yet to take off. Even his armor was still in place. 

Eris slammed the door behind him. “I had to secure the Forest House and hunt down any remnants of Muiris’ following.” The words rushed out as if he needed an excuse for keeping her waiting. 

Then he grasped her shoulders and frantically looked over her body. She only wore her nightgown now, but could not care less about the propriety of her attire in his presence. 

“My soldiers promised me you were unharmed,” Eris practically gasped. “But I…I had to be sure for myself.” 

Y/N grasped his face gently. “Eris, I am fine,” she reassured him in a soft voice. “He did not even get a chance to touch me.” 

He nodded, his heart finally calming from seeing for himself that his mate was fine. “Then I will return to my rooms.”

But they both knew he wanted to do nothing of the sorts. 

Y/N quickly grabbed his hands. “Stay,” she muttered. “Please.” 

Then, in an attempt to stop things from going too sobering, she added, “This was your room once, after all.” 

Eris smirked. “Aye, and there is nothing but your scent here now.” 

“I shall never truly understand the keen senses of the fae. You are far too open about how much you smell," she teased in return.

Eris fully smiled now. “Trust me when I say, your scent is nothing but delectable.” 

Y/N’s face felt hot, even from such a strange compliment. 

Ronan, annoyed that his sleep was interrupted, had relaxed once he realized it was Y/N’s mate at the door. He trotted back to curl into a ball again next to the crackling fire. 

“Do you need help taking this off?” Y/N asked Eris, gesturing to his armor. 

He brushed off the offer almost immediately, “I can manage.” 

But Y/N ignored him, stepping toward him and beginning to unbuckle the heavy metal on his torso. 

“Relax,” Y/N whispered into his ears as she stood behind him, noting how tense his shoulders were as she helped him. 

The sound and feeling of her breath caused a rush to go down Eris’ spine. 

Eventually, all of his armor and his cloak were politely collected into somewhat of a pile against the wall, leaving Eris in only his velvet arming coat.

Y/N glanced down at her state of undress and then quirked an eyebrow. “Now that will not be comfortable sleeping in.” 

Eris narrowed his eyes and tried to hide his smirk as he took the last of his clothes off, leaving him only in black braise, briefs and no shirt. 

Like every other time Eris’ chest was exposed, Y/N couldn’t help but stare. 

There were scars across his skin, and Y/N wondered how many of them were from battle and how many of them were by the hand of his abusive father. 

Without realizing it, Y/N’s fingers began tracing some of them. 

“They healed long ago,” he explained softly, as if trying to comfort her.

Her only response was to grab his hand and slowly lead him to her bed. 

Though the situation would appear to be leading to a certain intimacy, there was no promise of such an act. Eris didn’t want to ask that of her and risk scaring her away. No, all he wanted right now was to hold her in his arms and prove that his mate really was safe. 

Y/N slipped under the covers of the bed first and pulled him in with her. But she stayed close, ignoring the other half of the bed behind her. 

Carefully, she placed her head on his chest, her ear sitting right over his heart. Her left arm draped over his muscular torso. 

The two of them just lay there for quite some time, only feeling each other and hearing the rustling of the trees outside with their dry, autumn leaves. 

“Does my wrath frighten you?” Eris finally said so quietly that it felt like it came from a ghost within the room. 

Y/N didn’t move from her place on his chest. 

“Perhaps it should…” she eventually sighed, as her eyes drifted off. “But you have never scared me, Eris.” 

“You are right: perhaps you should be frightened of me.” He takes in a shaky breath as his eyes stare up at the ceiling. “I am merciful. And that was what I promised myself I would be if I were to ever usurp my father, and live to rule Autumn.” 

Then his gaze turned to look down at her.

She lifted her head in response.

“But I will become the villain when you are threatened. I will sacrifice what little good I have left in me to destroy any who dare hurt you, Y/N.” 

This is the part where he expected her to run, to confess that he had gone too far and his words instilled fear in her finally. 

Instead, Y/N reached up and caressed his cheek. “Then… let us hope it does not come to that.”

Quiet enveloped them once again. 

Eris rubbed his hand up and down Y/N’s bicep. 

Finally, she had the courage to ask what had truly haunted her from tonight’s events. “Does it not bother you…that there are those who think I have brought evil and deception to your court?” 

“Why should I? If they truly cared for Autumn, they would have rebelled against Beron long ago. They are only attempting to test their new High Lord, to find my weakness and see how pliant they can make me.” 

“But perhaps I do make you weak…” Y/N whispered so softly he almost didn’t hear it. 

“That is far from the truth.” Eris’ voice was strong and now too loud for the quiet room. 

And with it, his emotions made the flames of the all the candles in the room spike in height and glow. 

“Before you arrived this evening, I was… struggling,” he admitted. “I can command an army to win any battle, gain my troops unmovable loyalty, and oversee this court to exceptional change. But making my people…like me.” He paused. “I had never considered that would be an obstacle during all my years of seeking to become High Lord.” 

Y/N let him continue.

“Nearly all of Hewn City despises both Rhysand and Feyre," Eris added harshly. "Yet they do not let such opinions hinder them. What does it matter to be liked by such horrid beings?” 

She couldn’t help but smirk. “We are not them, though. And both of them came to rule Night Court in much different manner than you.” 

They both knew she was right. Losing a father and High Lord from horrors of war was far different than killing one’s father and usurping him. And Feyre…Feyre was fae. Though by magic and not birth, she would still grow more and more like those she protected in her court. 

“It seems unfair to compare ourselves to them. We are…different.” Then her eyes dazed off as she noted that Eris most likely hoped that their love affair would blossom into something similar than those two now have. “I ask that you do not do it again.” 

--------

OK OK OK. I am so fucking sorry that I was MIA for so fucking long. My life is....crazy. I'm currently trying to find a new job and I am also working on other personal projects. So I simply have not had the time nor the energy to write.

But please, please, please write a book report for this chapter. I think it will get me to keep in the creative space to write more chapters of this quickly.

[ackermansundercut]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Thirteen

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

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

Warnings: Canon typical violence. A walk through Velaris turns for the worse and the secrets of The Book are finally revealed...

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

It would seem I was wrong. It does not take much for Bethsevah Mordeigh to turn. 

I should be ashamed, but the more often Thanatos keeps coming back, the more I come to like him. Make no mistake, he’s as dangerous and volatile as a starving animal, but compared to his siblings he’s a saint. 

I saw him kill a male yesterday. One who stumbled upon our hidden ceremony and threatened to come back with Koschei’s army and crush us and the Mother beneath his boot. 

But with a snap of Thanatos’s fingers the nameless fae was gone. Gone in a gust of red wind that smelled and tasted like metal. And Thanatos looked stronger for it. His pale skin stopped being so translucent. His hair looked a touch darker, so dark it swallowed all light. A piece cut away from the fabric of the world. 

Death is his food. Him and his siblings feed on it and crave it like nothing else. 

Except for me. 

Thanatos says he craves me. And I think I believe him. I think I’m beginning to crave him too. 

Gwyn froze when the mountain’s door slid back. Azriel stood outside Cagniv Library with a bouquet of salt-white water lilies clutched in one hand and pale blue tulips in the other. 

“Azriel,” you smiled brightly, the last word you’d meant to speak to Gwyn dying on your lips. “What’re you doing here?”

The midday sun beat down on the face of the mountain, shortening the shadows around your feet. 

“I was coming from the House of Wind and was hoping you’d take a long walk home with me. These are for you.” He held out the tulips. “And for you.” He held out the lilies for Gwyn, which she accepted after a brief moment of hesitance. 

Azriel looked… lighter. His shadows were stronger than ever, clinging to his body like a second scent, but his eyes held a fondness and love for you that Gwyn had never seen before. Not when he was looking at Mor, not when he was looking at Elain… not when he was looking at her. It was so obvious to Gwyn’s eyes, she was amazed you hadn’t caught on yet. You just looked at the flowers with a touch of color flooding your cheeks. Bashful and uncertain of how to accept such a gift. 

“Thank you.” You touched the velvety petals between your fingers as though they might crumble if you weren’t gentle. 

“Yes. Thank you.” 

Azriel looked at Gwyn, that small smile of his faltering and then growing once more when Gwyn nodded her head. It was a silent acknowledgement. A quiet understanding that didn’t completely escape your notice. 

I’m not happy with you. Gwyn’s eyes spoke. But I understand. Her teal eyes flashed protectively. Don’t fuck this up.

“I assume I’ll be seeing you tomorrow?” Gwyn smirked at you and nudged her shoulder with your own, feeling the soft give of her skin and the strength in her arms. 

“Where else would I be?”

“At home. Sleeping.”

“Pffft. Sleep is for the weak.” 

“Careful. You’re starting to sound like Az. Now shoo.” Gwyn waved you off, watching as you took the arm that Azriel offered and made your way down the smooth steps of the mountain back to the city. 

You bowed your heads together, lips barely moving and cutting out two dark silhouettes in the air. Azriel must have said something funny because your gentle laugh carried itself on the wind, weaving into the air like silver thread. Gwyn couldn’t help but smile at you. 

If she knew what was about to happen, she would have never let you leave the library. 

“They’re in love.” 

Azriel looked sideways at you, catching the sweet scent of your hair as you leaned against him. The Palace of Hoof and Leaf buzzed with quiet energy, the air tinged with the scent of sugar from the confectionary booths. 

“Who?”

“Beth and Thanatos.” 

The book rocked against your hip, matching the beat of you and Azriel’s steps as you walked through the cobblestone marketplace. Lanterns hung unlit from the arches above, bobbing on wire like the bubbles that a pair of hawk-winged children were blowing from the steps of a peach-stone apartment. The girl, blue-eyed and red-haired, nudged the boy, pointing at the Shadowsinger with something like awe. Azriel offered them a faint smile and a few tendrils of his shadows licked at their feet as they scampered away with laughter. It was just a game to them after all. 

“I didn’t think he was capable of love,” Azriel noted. He thought back to the memories you’d unearthed with your powers and of the violent ways Thanatos had inched his way into Beth’s life. Wherever he lingered, death followed. But so far as you knew, he was also incredibly protective of Beth and the other priestesses. They’d benefited from his presence even if they were unnerved by it. He’d kept them hidden from Koschei.

“Beth didn’t think so either.” You flinched when one of the marketplace hawkers held his hand out to you. He didn’t shout like the others and seemed grieved when you stepped back into the folds of Azriel’s wings. He opened his sticky fist palm up to the sky revealing a handful of neat caramel candies wrapped in wax paper. 

“For the miss.” 

Y/n looked at Azriel, who only nodded with a smile.

“Thank you.” You gingerly took them from him, taking a moment to admire the light brown of the confectioner’s eyes, like burnt sugar, and the wisps of candy floss clinging to his shirt like loose threads. 

He didn’t resume his shouting until you were a good distance away, deep voice bellowing out over the square that his wares were made fresh that morning. You unwrapped one of the candies and stuck it in your mouth, sighing as it turned around on your tongue, slowly melting. Azriel took one of the candies you offered, but tucked it into his pocket when you turned your head to inspect the baskets of spices laid out on the sidewall.

“But he keeps staying with her. Keeps warning her of Koschei’s movements so she and her fellow priestesses can stay hidden. He… he cares for her. Or at least Beth seems to think so. The information — the story — is more pleasant than I could have hoped for, and I’m eternally grateful she doesn’t go in depth about their activities—” 

Azriel chuckled. “So it’s not like one of Nesta’s books.”

“Thank the Mother no. But it doesn’t get us any closer to finding out how to defeat Koschei. She doesn’t even talk about Koschei or the priestesses much. Only Thanatos. It’s just a love story.”

“Love stories are never just that though. They’re probably the most powerful things in the universe. Look at Rhysand and Feyre. Cassian and Nesta. I don’t think we’d be where we are now if not for their love for one another. The things they were willing to do to protect what they cared about.” 

“Do you ever wish you had that?” You dared to ask. “That kind of love? A mate?” Azriel turned to look at you, eyes filled with more cryptic meaning than you could ever imagine unraveling. There was hope, longing, grief, and a slew of other emotions. Their weight seemed to press in on you, but you didn’t feel overwhelmed. 

“All the time,” he whispered. Then he smiled, staring down at where your arm was linked to his. “Do you?” 

You turned away almost bitterly. “I don’t know what I’d do with that kind of love. If I’d be able to handle it. It might be too much for me.”

“I would disagree.” 

You couldn’t find the words to respond, so you settled on silence. Luckily for you, silence with Azriel never felt uncomfortable. 

“If your shadows keep taking them, I’m going to forget how many I’ve selected.”

“I see no problem with this,” Azriel shrugged and continued to follow you around the bookshop. It had stuck out to you immediately on your long walk back to the River House. A squat, two-story townhouse with charmingly chipped white paint laid over sturdy brick and sage green shutters. Candles winked in the afternoon light pressed up against window sills where two fat ginger cats lay purring in the sun. The dark, woodsy interior dripped with books, leather notebooks, and automatic writing pens that hovered over thick pages like butterflies. “We have space in the house.” 

“It’s less about space and more about how much I’ve spent.” Your fingers brushed the next book on the shelf and its deep purple binding. 

Oh that one’s interesting — a romance between a Spring Court nymph and a Dundarian knife maker filled with adventure, lust, longing, and found family. 

You’d no sooner plucked it from the shelf before shadows crowded your hands, whisking it off to whatever ether Azriel kept them hidden in. He wrote the name of the book on a sheaf of paper, his handwriting neat and simple. 

You turned on him, arms folded over your chest. “You can’t keep doing that.” 

“You are not to spend a copper of your own money here. Rhysand and Feyre’s orders. Just put it on the House’s credit. Rhysand’s already added you.” 

“They put me on their credit?” You balked even thinking about the money you’d been given access to.

Azriel nodded. “Consider it repayment.”

“Repayment for what? I haven’t done anything.”

Azriel looked at you quietly, as if the answer were obvious. “You’re the reason I still have a sister-in-law and a niece. You’re the reason we now have a name to investigate and are one step closer to defeating Koschei. You’re the reason the Godswoods and the Gallows haven’t been stolen from yet and a number of Librarians still have their lives. Do I need to continue?”

You thought through what he said. It was true that Helion’s intervention in the Godswoods and the Gallows had been effective. No deaths had been reported since then, but it didn’t make you feel any safer. A snake was still a snake, even when camouflaged.

“Only two of those things matter to the Night Court. Helion owes me for the latter.” 

“Then you can have him contact the banks and transfer the sums.” Azriel’s eyes twinkled with mischie. You went to snatch the paper out of his hands, but all he had to do was raise his arm to the ceiling, a smile tugging at his lips. You jumped up, one hand firm on his shoulder for leverage, but it was no use. He was too damned tall. 

You stood on the tips of your toes to get closer to eye level with Azriel. His eyes flickered down to your lips, the shapes they made as you quietly said, “Thank you.” 

You lingered in the stacks for a few moments longer, nervously asked the shop owner to put the list of books on the High Lord and High Lady’s tab — which she did with a warm smile — and then made your way back outside. The bell hanging above the doorway jingled happily, the wood burned sign saying Come back soon! Love, Jessebell. 

You trailed ahead of him down the street. Every sign, every shop window display, every street sign — you drank them in like you were ravenous. 

Azriel felt Rhys’s presence drift in the outskirts of his mind, and without hesitation, he let him in. 

Where are you? What’s taking so long?

Nearly to the Sidra. I brought her to Jessebell’s. 

That explains your lateness. Rhys paused. She must have loved that. 

Azriel smiled inwardly. She did. She really did.  

A female with weathered, dark skin and flowers sprouting from her ears stopped you on the street and although your first instinct was to recoil, you relaxed when she only lifted up a deep black tulip in her textured hands. The wilting flower straightened up when you kissed one of the petals as instructed and the gentle laugh that followed had Azriel’s heart soaring. 

Well make sure you get here in time for dinner. I want as many of our family members under my roof as possible.

Is this an ask, or a command?

Don’t make me use my High Lord voice on you.

Azriel rolled his eyes with a smile. I am absolutely trembling. Do you use that tone of voice on Nyx? 

He felt as much as heard Rhys’s laughter. Enjoy your time with Y/n, but come back soon. Mor is looking to get her hands on your mate. Mother help us all.

Rhys cut the connection and Azriel was free to admire you once more. 

You cradled the bouquet he’d given you in your arms, light reflecting off the petals and casting a faint blue glow on your face as you chatted with the florist. Your smile, which had started out forced and nervous, was slipping into something more relaxed. When the female laughed merrily and touched your wrist, you didn’t flinch. 

Dark tendrils of night curled around his ears and Azriel felt a shiver trail down his spine. 

Behind you. His shadows whispered. The boy needs help. There’s something wrong with him.

The boy startled back when Azriel turned towards him, tripping over a nick in the cobblestones and landing with a wince on his palms. Glassy pale eyes stared up, wide and terrified. His clothes were rumpled and unkempt and his white-blond hair was a mess of curls flecked with grey, like he’d been rolling around in dust. Pale pink and blue veins rose to the surface of his green-tinged skin, sickly and unnerving. He looked like a corpse on puppet strings.

Azriel looked around, but no one was searching for the little boy. No yelps belonging to scared parents. No calls from a sibling. 

“Shadowsinger, sir?” Even his voice sounded sickly, like his vocal chords were disintegrating in his throat. 

Azriel immediately dropped to his knees and slid his hands behind his back. “What’s happened, little one? What’s wrong?” His voice was smooth and gentle. 

He was too busy thinking that his boy was younger than Nyx, too busy ordering his shadows out to search for the boy’s parents that he didn’t think twice about the lingering stench of blood clinging to the boy’s shoes or the faint pain beginning to grow behind his hazel eyes. 

The boy looked around furtively while wringing his grubby hands, and then leaned close to whisper in Azriel’s ear. His pale eyes narrowed in concentration.

“It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen a black tulip before.” 

“It’s a little secret of mine. You need to get the seed and soil just right.” The female brushed her waist length hair over her shoulder. The knotted strands had the thick, coarse texture of seafarer’s rope, as aged and wise as the rest of her. When you held the flower back out for her to take she shook her head. 

“For you, my dear. I have dozens more and I think it would attract more business if you wore it around today. A beautiful creature like you must get lots of attention.” 

You knew she was probably just saying these things to get your business, but you couldn’t help the spark of joy the compliments gave you. She helped tuck the flower into the braids of your hair and you felt the petals kiss the tips of your left ear. 

“Say.” The female leaned in like she was about to share a secret. “If you aren’t already taken, I have a niece who’d love to have a pretty girl like you on her arm.” 

Your blush deepened and you found yourself stammering, “That’s very kind, but I don't-I don’t-'' You glanced up the street. Azriel was kneeling on the ground, head bent down to a small child. You only caught the wisps of white, candy floss hair over Azriel’s broad shoulders. 

The female traced the path of your gaze and sighed. “Ahhhhh. I see.” There was a triumphant look in her eyes, even as she said, “Shame. But I’ll still give you my niece’s name if you don’t mind.” 

Your eyes snapped away from Azriel’s and you smiled in embarrassment. “Oh, we’re not—”

“Henna.” 

You stepped back. Panic froze the blood in your veins and you felt pinpricks traveling up your body, stabbing your heart and your mind. You could see her now. Her silver hair fanned out around her. Her broken body. Her bloodied eye socket, dark and empty. 

“I’m sorry. What did you say?” You had to have heard her incorrectly. Your head was pounding but you pushed back on your mental wards, shoring up your defenses until the feeling passed.

The female tilted her head to the side. Her eyes were as milky and glassy as pearls. “Does the name mean anything to you, dear?” 

You took another step back and the female stepped forward. Her eyes seemed to clear then and her brows furrowed in concentration and pain. She lunged forward, tearing away at your clothes and knocking the flowers of your hands as she begged. “Help me. The boy. He’s inside—HELP ME!” 

You surged back, crumpling to the ground under her heavy weight as she continued to pull and claw. 

She’d been restocking the back room when the dirty little boy and the tailor showed up in the alleyway. He still carried that bolt of fabric under the crook of his arm. He took out a knife, orange eyes flashing and slit his throat from ear to ear while the little boy watched. Smiling.

“LET GO!” You kicked out, ramming your knee up and into the soft flesh of her stomach like you’d seen Emerie do to Cassian, but you lacked her strength and technique. The female wheezed but didn’t let go, even as others came to try and pry her off of you. Their voices were frantic, trying to calm you down, but they were the voices and hands of strangers. 

“AZ!” You screamed, feeling the female sink her nails into your arm.

There was an ugly tearing sound and the cool touch of wind at your chest. Your robes were ripped apart under her rough hands and her eyes narrowed in on your belt and the chain that connected to the book. She bucked off a cherub-faced female with a blow to her nose and blood splashed over your cheek. 

“Help me. Please. Oh… oh gods.” She grabbed at the book, but the chain glowed iron hot in her hands. The smell of burning scorched your nose as the magic did what it was meant to do. Nothing could break that chain. Not unless you willed it. Not while you were still alive. 

“Oh gods. Oh gods help me. I’m so sorry.” There were tears streaming down her face, tracing the canyons and valleys of her skin. She threw off the fae clamoring around you both and ran with jerky, uncoordinated leaps back into her flower shop. She snatched the gardening shears off the windowsill where she’d been trimming her hydrangea bushes. She wept and shook her head, mouth struggling to open and scream as she held the shears up high and then drove them into her neck.

The scene took a long time to filter through the haze of panic and disbelief. 

“Az… Az… Az—AZRIEL!” Your shrill scream pierced through the air. You scrambled away from everyone. Stones shaved away the skin of your knees, your palms. The tattered silk of your robes trailed behind you. “Don’t touch me!” You shrieked at the male who tried grabbing your arm, soft voice whispering. 

He wasn’t the one you wanted. 

“AZRIEL!” 

The female dropped to her knees, hands clutching her throat as blood poured out in bubbly, gurgling spurts. The candy pink strips of her apron turned a wet, sticky black as she crawled back towards the door.

“Oh gods… Please,” she wheezed, wet and agonized, before collapsing face down on the floor. Motionless. 

You staggered to your feet twisting away from everyone crowding around you. 

“Don’t touch me. Don’t!” 

“Miss you must sit. Please—”

“Let me help—” 

“Are you hurt? What’s—” 

“Don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me. Don’t touch me!” 

Screams. The sound of doors slamming shut. Locks turning. Commanding barks calling for a healer. Calling for the High Lord and the High Lady. Calling for the Shadowsinger to help.

Azriel was still kneeling in front of that boy and no matter how many times you called his name and pushed through the crowd of people now rushing up and down the streets in a frenzy, he didn’t get up. He didn’t look at you. You may as well have not existed. 

You finally reached him, narrowly missing being run over by a satyr who seemed to have gotten the wrong impression about which direction to sprint in. Every clip clop of his hooves shot through you. 

“Az.” 

Why hadn’t… Why hadn’t he helped you? 

“Az.”

Why hadn’t he come when you called?

The Shadowsinger rose. One hand grabbed the hilt of Truth Teller and the malicious blade sang as it was unleashed. The shadows that normally hovered about him like mist were gone. They were all around you now, tugging you in the opposite direction towards the Sidra. They pleaded for you to run, but you couldn’t understand them.

Something was deeply, deeply wrong.

“Az.” You begged and grabbed hold of his hand. “Please. You’re scaring me.”

Truth Teller shot out and pain radiated up your arm as the blade cut neatly through your clothes and sliced open your skin. You tripped backward, landing with a thud on the street that rattled your bones. Your sleeve turned dark with blood. 

You whimpered, holding your ruined arm up to your chest. There was no feeling in Azriel’s eyes. No flicker of recognition. None of that warmth and kindness you were so accustomed to. Just a menacing, silent form towering over you and blocking out the sun. 

A pale boy stood by Azriel’s side with ice chip eyes and rectangular pupils. He grinned brightly and the stretch of his waxy cheeks was too tight. Too forced. He shouldn’t have been alive. He-he—

Andrian. 

You’d seen him in Henna’s memory. You’d heard the snap of his neck beneath Koschei’s hands. Even now the boy was bent awkwardly, his head left in a perpetual tilt that should have looked charming and inquisitive but instead made you want to retch.

Andrian smiled at you then plastered a practiced look of horror on his face before running away with tears streaming down his cheeks, shouting for his mother. A burly male grabbed his shoulders, alarm on his face as he hoisted Andrian into his arms and disappeared into the crowd. Because who wouldn’t stoop down to help a fragile little boy? Who would dare suspect that the daemati that had roamed the Day Court’s halls and slithered his way into Velaris was a child?

Azriel gripped you by the front of your ruined clothes, hosting you up in the air. Your feet kicked uselessly and grabbed onto Azriel’s arm, trying to alleviate the choking pressure of his hand so close to your neck. 

“No. Azriel please. It’s me,” you whimpered. “It’s me.”

There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes. There and gone. So brief you wondered if you’d imagined it.

His left hand parted the tatters of your robes, and you flinched when his fingers brushed against your hip before settling on the chain that kept the book tied to you. 

Panic seized your soul. 

You’d been chipping away at the book’s secrets for months and you couldn’t let Azriel — couldn’t let Koschei — get his hands on it. Not without you knowing what it was that made Beth’s story so special.

You flung a hand out, feeling the leather of the book beneath your fingertips like it was your own skin. Your magic called out to the book, desperate and powerful and familiar, and the barriers it possessed to hide its secrets melted away at your beckoning. You poured every inch of your power into it even as Azriel’s lips turned down in an ugly frown that didn’t belong on his face. 

Your eyes turned to gold, bright as the sun as you basked in the knowledge flooding your mind with the force of a tsunami. You didn’t hold anything back. Not this time.

You were so lost in the book — in the emotions and memories wrapping around your mind, sharp and brighter than the light of a thousand suns — that you didn’t feel it when Azriel gripped that golden chain. The metal flared, a high-pitched ring piercing the air as it snapped in two, giving way to Azriel’s power. Nothing should have broken it. And yet there it was dangling from your waist.  

You did feel it when he broke your wrist. 

When he forced the book from your grasp. 

And then stabbed you in the stomach. 

Cassian and Nesta winnowed to the street and watched in horror as your body was dropped to the ground. Your head cracked the pavement, hands twitching palms up at your sides. 

Nesta shrieked. The sound was harrowing. The mourning, dying screams of an animal.  

She charged forward, twin blades flashing in her hands, and silver light shot out of her chest, crashing into Azriel’s shields and forcing him back twenty feet. He gritted his teeth. The rubber soles of his shoes skidded and burned. 

Cassian collapsed on his knees beside you, peeling off his leather jacket and wrapping it around your head and neck to keep it in place. 

“Shit.” His hands came away bloody. RHYS! FEYRE! He screamed into the corners of his mind, hoping they’d hear. GET HERE NOW! 

“Thanatos.” Your voice was weak.

“It’s Cass. Hey, keep your eyes on me ok.” He pressed his hands against your stomach, wings flared out to protect you from the cold burn of Nesta’s power as she went toe to toe with The Shadowsinger. Magic sizzled in the air, raising the hair on the back of Cassian’s neck like a lightning strike waiting to happen. Blood pooled over his hands, thick and dark. “Eyes open,” he commanded, “On me.”  

Your eyes were open, and glowing strangely, but you weren’t staring at Cassian. No. You were miles outside of your body. 

“The Bone Carver. That’s it.” 

“Eyes on me, Y/n. Eyes on me.” 

“Thanatos,” your hand twitched, “The Bone Carver. That’s how she did it.”

Nesta screamed, flying overhead in a burst of blue light that had her back slamming into one of the marketplace towers. The white marble cracked viciously and Nesta dropped to the ground, dazed and distracted as blood dripped out from her nose. 

“NESTA!” Cassian roared, eyes narrowing into dangerous slits as Azriel waited at the bottom of the street. 

The Shadowsinger muttered something dark and revolting beneath his breath. Ancient, powerful words that were whispered in his mind. He held onto the book in his hands as it lit up in flames and then blew the ashes into the wind that would carry them all the way to Andrian’s master. 

Koschei.

The call of her mate sharpened her senses and Nesta rolled onto her feet, calling her weapons back into her hands and leveling a glare at Azriel that would have killed a lesser male on the spot. 

She was Nesta fucking Archeron. 

Lady Death. 

Queen of Queens. 

And she would be damned if she let Azriel hurt her or anyone else.

“I’m sorry for what I’m about to do, Az,” she growled. 

She’d been holding back before. She’d been holding back a long while. But no more of that. The power she let out burst through Velaris with light brighter than a dying star, crackling with an energy that knocked Azriel off his feet and sent him crashing into the river wall with a sickening crack that shattered the bones in his arm, his leg, and his wings. 

Rhys appeared at his side, violet eyes wide open in shock. He could feel the magic suffocating his brother’s consciousness, burying him so deep there was almost nothing left but anger behind his whiskey-brown eyes. 

Rhysand grabbed the sides of his head, shoving his way into Azriel’s mind even while he fought back. Rhys flinched when one of Azriel’s knives nicked his temple, drawing blood that dripped down onto his velvet dinner jacket and floated on the dense material like dew drops. 

“Stop. This isn’t you, Az.” 

Azriel seethed, teeth bared and bloody. He spit in Rhysand’s face and he winced. Rhysand would never be able to forgive himself for what he did next. But someone had burrowed themselves into Azriel’s mind so thoroughly, so viciously, that in that moment, it was the only thing Rhys could think to do. 

Rhysand’s talons dragged down on Azriel’s mental walls so viciously he screamed as they were torn to pieces. He dug in with brutal efficiency. Reaching, tearing, clawing to catch the curl of power that had infected Azriel’s mind before it could do any more damage. He latched onto its slithery, silver body and wrenched it out of Azriel’s consciousness. 

When I find you. You’re as good as dead. Rhysand promised. 

The daemati slunk away with a giddiness that sent a shiver through The High Lord’s bones. 

Azriel slumped, weak and boneless, against his brother’s shoulder. Sweat beaded his brow and he shook, blinking the saltiness out of his eyes. He felt like he’d been beaten within an inch of his life. His bones were broken. His wings twisted. There was a raging headache that a hundred shots of vodka paled in comparison to. 

But it was his hands that horrified him most. Red and slippery. 

His breath shook.

He couldn’t… he couldn’t remember… what…. 

His eyes shot to Rhys, then up the street where he could make out Feyre, Cass, and Nesta huddled over your still body. The bond sat deep within him pulsing with terror and pain. 

“Rhys.” His voice broke. Rhysand angled his body to hide you from view, but it was too late. Azriel was panicking now, body trembling uncontrollably. “What happened?”

Rhysand said nothing. His eyes shined with horror. 

“What did I do? Rhys, what did I do?!” 

“Cass. Cassian, I’ve got her.” 

His hands were shaking. There was so much blood. The smell burned his nose and made him want to throw up his lunch. Feyre covered his hands with her own, peeling them away sticky and red from Y/n’s stomach. 

Light flooded out from Feyre’s palms, warm and lovely and Cassian and Nesta breathed a sigh of relief as the flow of red slowed and then stopped, flesh knitting itself back together. 

“It’s ok. You’ll be ok.” Nesta’s words were commanding as she held your neck and head still.

Your eyes searched the empty sky, seeing and unseeing. Then your hands shot up, grasping Feyre’s shoulders and digging in deep enough to leave bruises. Your eyes were wide, staring at her with an intensity that spoke of a thousand years. An unfathomable wealth of knowledge that should have crushed you beneath its weight. 

“Y/n it’s ok,” she murmured gently, pushing more power into your body, willing you to heal faster.

“Look. Feyre you need to look,” your voice was thick. Wet. Blood coated the inside of your mouth bitter and metallic. 

“I’m looking. Y/n, you hit your head. It’s going to be ok. You hear me? It’s going to be ok.” 

“You need to look,” you said once more.

You trailed a bloody, weak hand down Feyre’s arm and pulled her fingers up to your temple, tapping once. Twice. 

Without any more direction, she slipped into your mind and gasped.

Feyre stood in a pool of mist, white fingers reaching up her legs and splintering outwards before they changed direction and started to climb up into the darkness like trees. Or rather… like bookshelves. The mist formed stacks that disappeared into the distance, endless hallways and shelves that wound around each other. Chaotic and orderly at the same time. 

She could feel your presence beside her. Or rather she was you. In that moment she felt the raging winds of your power, hot and ravenous. It wrapped around you, tugging you to and fro like that uncontrollable lurch when you stand too close to the cliff’s edge. The call of the void.

She needed to answer that call the same way you did whenever you used your powers, because somewhere in the halls of your mind stood the knowledge you’d worked so hard to obtain. The truth of how it was Bethsevah Mordeigh was able to trap Koschei, and how to end it once and for all. 

Feyre let your magic pull her in the right direction. In the mist she stumbled upon the final memories you’d absorbed from the book before it had blown away in the wind.

Bethsevah wept, “No. No. No. I won’t,” shoving away the reed thin body that held her so close. Thanatos grasped her face in his pale hands, begging her to listen to him even as she shook her head frantically. “I won’t do it.” 

“You must. Bethsevah, you must.” His pitch black eyes winked with starlight… or maybe it was his tears. 

This world and its people had changed him. He could feel it in his bones. Something very deep and cruel within him had been twisted into something sacred. Something that toed the line of kindness. 

Koschei thought it was this element that made fae and humans beneath the three of them. They were supposed to be pure. Powerful. Handing out life and taking it away like the gods they were. But now Thanatos knew better. Now he knew exactly what it was that made Koschei and Stryga worse than even him — they would never be able to care for anyone. Not the way he cared for Bethsevah. Not the way he cared for the world she loved. 

“I won’t do it,” she growled.

“Then they’ll die,” he said, with a tone of finality that could only belong to a death god. “Everyone. Everyone you love. Everyone you care about. I know my brother. Koschei craves attention and devotion above all else. He won’t let you worship your Mother. He won’t stop until you all kneel or until you’re ashes in the wind. Beth—” He wrenched her hands back from where she covered her eyes, refusing to even look at him. 

He tucked his crooked finger beneath her chin, coaxing her gaze up. Together they were storm clouds blanketing an eternal night. A lightning strike — brief and chaotic and electrifying. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking of me,” she whispered, steel laced in her soft voice, “You don’t know what you’re offering.” 

He smiled, sad and simple. “I know exactly what I’m offering up.”

“Once I lock you in The Prison, I won’t be able to let you out. No one will. You’ll be trapped there for eternity.” She shivered, closing her eyes. She wouldn’t wish that fate upon her worst enemy, but her mate? She shook her head. 

“I know.” 

“No, you—”

“I have seen the first fall of snow on a new world. I have seen entire cities leveled to dust with no survivors. I’ve lived thousands of years. I understand.”

“We’ll find a way. Kosch—” 

“Remember what I told you,” he whispered, “Back at the cabin? You were made to ruin me, Beth. And I will let you do it a million times over. Without hesitation.” 

You and Feyre felt Beth’s pain as acutely as if you shared the same heart.

“I wish she hadn’t done it,” Beth whispered, “I wish the Mother had never created me to be your mate.” 

“I don’t.” Thanatos leaned his forehead against Beth’s and got lost in her. “There is no other way, Bethsevah.” He kept saying her name, like just speaking the word and feeling the shapes it took in his mouth would prolong the time they had together. Would tie them together more surely than the bond that burned in their chests.

She felt the battleground slip beneath her feet and no amount of power, no amount of willpower, could change it. 

He brushed back her hair and trailed one of his slender fingers down the curve of her cheek ending one teardrop’s race to her chin. “Mating bonds are powerful things, Beth. Your magic — your blood — and yours alone will be able to cut through my defenses and sever me from my power. I want you to take it and lock me away. Once my magic is yours, Stryga won’t be able to see you coming and you’ll be able to take her power as well. So long as you leave Koschei for last it may just be enough power to rid him from this earth once and for all.” 

“You’d have me do this. Destroy you and your family. This is what you want?”

Thanatos hesitated. “I am not a good male. But this… this will have to be enough. This is what I want, Bethsevah. For you and your family to live. To be happy and safe.”

“I won’t be happy, “ she said, eyes now flat and dull as the silver coins they placed over the dead, “I won’t take anyone else.”

“I want you to,” he begged, “I want you to marry and to have children. I want you to grow your family so that one day, if I ever do make it out of that Prison, I’ll still see pieces and memories of you roaming this earth. That’s all I want, Bethsevah, and it’s already more than I deserve.” 

“I’ll find a way,” Beth promised. “I’ll find a way to get you out. I swear it.” 

“Don’t make any bargains with me.” He smiled sadly, thumb wiping away at her cheeks, “That’s what got us into this mess.”

Finally she laughed, just a little. “I don’t regret it.” 

“Neither do I.”

The memory froze. A moment in time trapped like a beetle in amber.

A hand grabbed Feyre by her shoulders and swung her around. You stood there cloaked in pale, golden light, your eyes shining like copper coins. When you opened your mouth, you spoke in Beth’s voice.

Thanatos told me that magic runs in blood — familiar, same. But mates are different. Powerful. Their magic can protect one another. Identify one another across space and across time. But they can also turn on each other viciously. A lock and a key. Madness and salvation.

What I could destroy in Thanatos, I stood a chance at destroying in his siblings.

Your face fell, hauntingly beautiful in the glow of your powers. 

But I couldn’t do it. Not in the way he asked. I took his power. I locked him in that Prison. I bound Stryga to her cabin in the woods. But I didn’t kill Koschei when I should have. When the power of three gods was coursing through my veins and stripping me down to my bones, when I had enough light within me to see the birth and death of stars and the face of the Mother, I couldn’t do it. 

I thought I would be capable of destroying Koschei and freeing Thanatos, but I couldn’t do either. I had only enough sanity left to take that power and bury it somewhere Koschei couldn’t touch. To trap him on the lake where he can live in madness knowing his magic is so close by and yet locked away. Unreachable. 

I’ve done my part. I’ve had my children. I’ve left my mark on the world, great and terrible as it is. If you’re reading this, my daughters, do what I could not. Take the power in the lake and destroy him. It will open for you, and only you. My power. My blood. 

And if you have any love for me at all, find a way to release Thanatos. That is what I ask of you.

Bethsevah’s calls had never been answered, at least not by her children. You knew this much in your heart. Thanatos — The Bone Carver — had freed himself thousands of years later only to die beneath the Cauldron’s power. 

You whispered a silent prayer to the Mother. You hoped the Bone Carver was at peace now. Now that he must be with his Beth. 

Azriel was screaming your name, broken cries cutting through the quiet of the marketplace. You’d never thought him capable of such a wretched noise. 

The High Lady sat shock still above you with tears streaming down her face. Grey eyes glistening.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

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Author's Note:

I apologize if you thought I'd forgotten about the plot with Koschei and was just writing cute, fluffy scenes between our favorite Librarian and our favorite Batboy. But you also should've remembered that I burned this girl's house down and had her kill a another character in self defense so... this was coming... sorry...

This is by far the chapter I've been most nervous about posting because it's where I start to tie together all the weird loose threads that have been accumulating throughout this story so I am very much open to feedback on how I can do things better and on how I can make things clearer moving forward. Or! If you thought I did a good job and are intrigued, I'd appreciate it if you let me know that too!

But anyway thanks for reading 😅.

[ackermansundercut]

Midnight Muse (Part 18)

Azriel x Reader [Art School AU]

Summary: You and your best friend Feyre have just moved into a new apartment for your sophomore year of college at art school. What you didn't know when you signed the lease is that you'd be living next to three rowdy boys.

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 2,762

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10] [Part 11] [Part 12] [Part 13] [Part 14] [Part 15] [Part 16] [Part 17] [Masterlist]

Notes: I'm sobbing btw.

_________________________________________

The exhibition is in full swing.

There had been a speech from Thesan, gushing over how long he’s wanted to host a showing for Azriel, and then he had to give one himself. Azriel kept it punctual and short and so like himself that you couldn’t help but smile.

The conversation is loud and people seem to be enjoying themselves, couples admiring the strokes of charcoal streaked across canvas, the picturesque drawings he’s made come to life. They are so realistic that they look like black and white photographs. You can see the way that his art resonates with people, allowing your eyes to wander after you pass over a short greeting to someone that wants to speak with Azriel.

A few times has he looked at you and caught you staring at the centerpiece of his exhibition, your intense gaze watching with a predatory glint as if protective over the artwork. He can easily tell that it is your favorite, and he finds himself itching to know why you seem so drawn to it, watching the patrons at the party ogle and comment, watching their reactions.

He notices, too, how you haven’t left his side all night, as if you somehow know that he needs the familiarity around this many strangers, who he’s allowed to come to his exhibition, judging not only his art, but him, and his hands.

Azriel doesn’t have to ask you, the brush of the skirt of your dress against his leg or the whisper of your arm against his is more than enough, even if his fingers twitch to reach out to cling tightly to yours. He keeps a firm hold on his full glass of champagne, not a single drop gone. It’s the same one he hands to you when you’ve downed yours during your glaring contest with the guest currently standing a little too close to his art for your liking.

Azriel doesn’t like feeling so exposed like this. It’s another thing that he and his therapist have talked about often, his need to open up more, to allow the uncomfortable to become comfortable.

He can’t hide in his room forever.

The night is slowly winding down, which is perfect because he’s exhausted from playing host. Tired of fake-smiling and laughing at shitty jokes, tired of people staring at his hands, staring at you, all pretty in your dress. He wants to kick everyone out and then kick himself for missing your reaction to every picture he hung in this gallery, if the response he’d gleaned from you over his centerpiece was as exquisite as you.

He’s never shown off something so private before, and to strangers nonetheless. Technically, he could consider you a stranger, too, because he knows next to nothing about you, but you’re more of a comfort in this sea of people than not.

He feels like a circus animal here, so vulnerable with the spotlight on him. People see him as a strong, confident, brooding man most of the time, not to be fucked with, but it’s not who he used to be, not before the accident. There was a time where he smiled more, was more extroverted, when he and Cassian and Rhys would wreak havoc across the university grounds, spraypaint buildings and party to their hearts content, but ever since that fucking night when his world changed, he hasn’t been the same.

He hasn’t been that boy in a long time.

He peeks at you again, because the man before him is talking numbers for one of his pieces and it doesn’t sound remotely close to what it is worth to Azriel. His heart stutters in his chest at your beauty, those feline eyes watching the room as if daring someone to try something, say something.

He can’t look away from you and you can’t look away from the artwork, completely entranced by the two hands, the two sides of him, split and unsure he’ll ever really be whole again. This entire exhibition is about it, about new beginnings, letting go of the old and trying to accept the new. How hard he has had to work to build up to this point in his life again.

And maybe someday he’ll share it with his roommates, his best friends, but for now, Azriel is more than content to only share this moment with you.

The longer you look away from him the more nervous he becomes, because he wants to talk to you, wants to figure out the unknown draw that itches his body when you’re around. He wants to be able to see this through your eyes, hear your thoughts on each piece even if it takes all fucking night, he won’t sleep anyway.

“Sure,” he responds lamely to the man in front of him. Some sort of art connoisseur, he claimed. Said that he could see the next big thing before it happened, and that Azriel was going to shoot up the ladder fast, and that he had to have one of his pieces. Too bad he doesn’t know that Azriel doesn’t want charcoal to be first priority, tattooing is. “Let Thesan know I accept.”

He doesn’t shake the man's hand, doesn’t shake anyone’s hand, but he places it on your lower back and there are those stunning eyes, pinned on him as electricity zips up your exposed spine. Those eyes make him a weaker man, even more so when he hardly had any use of his hands at all. Those eyes can tear him down with one glance, break his walls too quickly, so quickly that his only defense against them is to pretend he doesn’t want anything to do with you at all. To piss you off and annoy you so you can’t see what he truly wants.

He answers your questioning look with a nod of his head. He needs to offer his thanks for those attending, even more so for the ones that purchased pieces, and after that, the gallery will close and the night will come to an end.

Neither you nor Azriel want it to, but neither of you will speak it. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

“I’m sorry, you know,” he says after the gallery empties out and it’s just the two of you.

Even Thesan is gone now, allowing Azriel to lock up after he had requested a few final hours with the artwork he has created before it’s all packaged up and shipped out after the exhibition ends in four weeks.

You’re both sat against the wall opposite the centerpiece, staring at it, half a bottle of champagne in. You’d kicked your shoes off as soon as the last person had left the building, feet screaming in pleasure as you got off of them for a bit. 

You’ve let your hair down from its style too, complaining about the pins holding it tight to your head. You’re a few more glasses of champagne in than Azriel, having needed the liquid courage to both numb your feet and keep you from overthinking most of the night, but now, alone with Azriel, you feel more relaxed, slumping against the wall.

You blink up at him. His eyes are a little hazy from the drink but he’s staring down at you, gold eyes honest and raw. 

“You’re sorry?” you question in disbelief and he nods. You huff, nearly knocking over your glass of champagne sitting on the floor next to you when you throw your hands out, gesturing to the room. “I’m finally getting the apology that I deserve and there’s no one here to witness it?!”

A smile cracks his lips and your breath hitches slightly. You didn’t realize how close he was sitting to you, shoulders brushing with each breath. Your cheeks burn and you hope that for once the alcohol has done its job and they were already the color of an apple. You turn back to the picture before you, trying not to focus on the rapid beating of your heart, his gaze on your face and his breath dancing across your cheek.

“I was an asshole that night,” he sighs, tipping his head back against the wall. He drains his glass in long sips, throat bobbing with each swallow. If you look at it, you might take a bite.

“Yeah,” you giggle, because how can you not when you feel on top of the world. You’ve just gotten an apology out of the Azriel Teller. You could scream it from the rooftops. You would if your feet weren’t aching so badly. “You were.”

“Would you care to know why I was such a dick that night?” he asks so quietly you almost don’t hear it. The smile fades from your face and he’s already looking at you again, something like remorse and nervousness swimming in those gold pools. 

You swallow hard. 

Azriel wipes his suddenly sweaty hands on his pants.

“If you want to,” you answer, just as softly. You hadn’t been expecting this out of the night, especially not this, sitting in an art gallery with the one person who has made it their mission to annoy the fuck out of you from the start of the year.

You hadn’t been expecting to enjoy his company so much, either.

Azriel knows that he doesn’t need to do this. He doesn’t need to explain anything to you, but after tonight, he wants to. He wants to tell you everything, about the parking, his failed internships, the strained relationship he has with his father, his hands.

You look like you’re more than willing to listen to him, this time.

Azriel says fuck it, forgetting his empty glass in favor of bringing the champagne bottle to his lips for a deep swig. His tongue darts out to swipe a droplet from his pink lips and you lean forward without realizing it, nearly flinching back when he grimaces at the taste.

“You don’t really drink much, do you, Azriel?” you ask, and the sound of his name rolling off your tongue like that—all silky and smooth—has him shuddering. 

He wants to hear you say it again.

He shrugs instead, letting out a sad chuckle that makes your heart ache. He picks at the corner of the label with his nail, suddenly shy when moments ago he’d been ready to share this with you.

Azriel takes a deep breath, and answers. “I don’t drink that often anymore,” his voice sounds hoarse, like he’s been screaming for the past three hours straight. “It makes my hands shake more.”

He can feel the way you’re looking at them now, feel it as hot as the fires that had fried the nerve endings in them. 

Slowly, gently, but with all of the intention that you have, you pry his hand from the bottle, and intertwine your fingers with his.

He doesn’t flinch at the contact, but the action makes his heart stop. He can’t breathe as he stares down at your interlocked fingers. Your hand is soft against his, so dainty and perfectly sized against his that he doesn’t know what to do with himself, he no longer knows how to speak. 

“Then don’t drink,” you say, trying to take the bottle from his other hand with your free one. He refuses to let go, bringing it back up to his mouth for another sip.

“I need the confidence right now,” he mutters, still staring at your locked fingers. “But when I don’t,” he exhales harshly, throat tight. “It feels like my hands aren’t even connected to my fucking brain. Which is kind of why I was such an ass the day we met.” He sees the questioning look on your face and explains. “Not because I was drinking, but because of my hands. I was at an interview for an apprenticeship at a tattoo parlor and they said that my lines were too shaky. They turned me down, and it had been the third opportunity I didn’t get because of this fucking mess.”

Azriel’s chest heaves and he glares down at his marred fingers. Anger burns his chest. He shouldn’t even be touching you, not with the disgusting flesh stretched back over his muscle and bones.

He tries to untangle his fingers from yours but you hold firm, consoling him. “Hey, Azriel, stop it.”

“You don’t get it, (Y/N),” he’s frustrated, you know. “All I wanted to do is become a tattoo artist and now my dream is completely fucked because of my step-brothers,” he spits, and your shocked gasp and wide eyes have the story spilling from his lips. He holds so tightly to your hand that it almost hurts, but he needs this and you won’t let go. “That’s right, my own step-brothers poured gasoline all over my hands in my father’s garage because they found out I was lying about being a business student like he so desperately wanted me to be.” His voice is thick, wet, and tears well in your eyes. You bite your lip to hold in your sob, but Azriel can’t even look at you right now. “They fucking lit me up like the fucking fourth of july, and now i can hardly hold a tattoo gun for a long period of time, let alone draw a goddamn straight line.”

Oh my Gods. Tears spill over because this is the worst thing you think you’ve ever heard in your life. Your stomach roils, and the champagne might make a reappearance. How could anybody, let alone his family, do something like this? It’s utterly fucking evil, and vile and…and…you can’t even think of another word to describe what Azriel has gone through. 

The centerpiece of his exhibition suddenly makes sense. On the left, his hand before the accident, unmarked and perfect. On the right, how his hand is now, shaky and destroyed.

You don’t know what to do, what to say. Your tongue won’t form a single word because your brain can’t form any. You’re in complete and utter shock at his revelation. You can’t stop the ringing of his words in your head. Azriel is shaking like a leaf, his grip tight around your hand. His breathing is harsh, loud in the otherwise silence of the gallery, eyes squeezed tightly shut as if trying to block out the memories.

Azriel’s voice is tight, a low grind when he speaks again. “Those drawings,” he gestures vaguely towards the door. You try to blink your tears away, but each droplet that falls is replaced by two more. You don’t need to look, though, you remember his art perfectly. “I drew those ones as soon as I could pick up a piece of chalk after the incident. Hurt like fucking hell,” his chuckle is wet, false, “and even more so to clean the powder from my hands. It helped to wear gloves, but when they were still healing the tightness felt like I was being burned all over again.”

He doesn’t have any trouble with them now, often preferring to wear the latex to cover the devastating scars he will have to live with for the rest of his life.

“Azriel,” you croak, but he shakes his head and you go quiet. He’s not quite done yet.

“This exhibition is about new beginnings,” he explains, finally cracking those golden eyes open. They drag over every single piece of work that he’s created. The despair, anger, agony, slowly turning into something steadier, stronger, and happier. He’s not completely there yet, but he’s hoping that someday he can look down at his hands and be proud of what he’s accomplished.

He untangles his fingers from yours and pushes to his feet before helping you up. You stand, hand in hand once again, but instead of looking at the art on the walls, you’re looking at him. His life, on display for all to judge. Azriel might not be able to see it, but you think he’s the strongest person you know. He’s overcome these obstacles, and keeps working towards that goal daily. You are in awe of him.

Finally, his gaze slides to yours and the rawness in them is your undoing. It’s fitting, you think, that his exhibition is about new beginnings, and this feels so much like one. There isn’t anything to hold against him. He’s apologized, done much more than that. He’s let you in on something that not many people know about him. He’s trusted you with his past.

Which is what makes you breathe out a hasty, “I’m sorry too,” and pull Azriel in for a kiss.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

MM Taglist P.1: @going-through-shit @honeycriess @natashachelsea @thisisew @kennedy-brooke @cat-or-kitten @sourapplex @magical-mischief-makers @reiincarnatiion @ccucumbers @secret-ly-here @throneofsmut @cami26cami @torchbearerkyle @a-frog-with-a-laptop @sevikas-whore @endless-worldss @vellichor01 @bangtans-jagiya @kalulakunundrum @pinksmellslikelove @sakurafrost3-blog @imxnotxhere @bookishbroadwaybish @justdreamstars @i-am-infinite @whichwitchisthebitch @i-am-a-lost-girl16 @sia-r @homeslices @quinzzelx @carlandonorri-s @juniper-july19 @ssmay123 @blackthorngirl @haivenhoule @18crazybutcutealsopsycho @bloodicka @wilmalovegood @jw83

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Midnight Muse (Part 11)

Azriel x Reader [Art School AU]

Summary: You and your best friend Feyre have just moved into a new apartment for your sophomore year of college at art school. What you didn't know when you signed the lease is that you'd be living next to three rowdy boys.

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 4,032

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [Part 8] [Part 9] [Part 10] [Masterlist]

Notes: Holy crap, we've crested 35k words for this fic I'm so proud of myself. 🥰 (lol also i thin i over-explained what he's making for dinner but whatever)

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“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” You ask your reflection in the mirror. You’re currently locked in Azriel’s bathroom after he’d handed you a fluffy towel and offered you his shower, and now you’re staring into the mirror, fingers white-knuckled where they’re curled around the counter, totally freaking out.

You look like the mess you feel like. There’s a part of you that appreciates that Azriel hadn’t mentioned your state. Your mascara has run from the rain, streaking down your cheeks, pale from the chill. Your hair hasn’t fared much better—plastered to your head from the helmet you’d been wearing. It’s tangled in knots around your shoulders.

Azriel had the gall to look like a fucking God when he’d run his fingers through his own drenched hair. It had stuck up in all different directions but he’d only managed to make the hairstyle look even better. And worse, the black t-shirt that clung to his skin only showed off his impressive abdominals. You managed to keep your eyes on his face, covering yourself with the towel he offered you as you slipped out of his leather jacket. The fabric did well to hide your pert nipples, but it didn’t stop the shiver from raking down your spine and collecting between the apex of your thighs when he’d leaned over to stretch the jacket over a nearby chair, showing off the rippling muscles lining his back.

Now, you’re standing in the bathroom, completely beside yourself. You shouldn’t be here. You should’ve sprinted right past Rhys fucking Feyre into the couch and locked yourself in your room, shoved your headphones into your ears and turned your music all the way up to drown out the sounds of them having sex. It would’ve been way more mortifying for all of you, but at least you wouldn’t be in the situation you’re currently in.

Huffing a breath of frustration, you pull your phone from your pocket. The case sticks against your damp jeans and you nearly drop it onto the tiles below your feet. Your heart races as you catch it, clutching it even tighter in your grip. Thankfully, it has made it out of the rain unscathed, but the battery is running low. Quickly, you pull up Cassian’s contact and shoot off a text, asking when he will be returning to the apartment. After the message is delivered, you add that he’s missing out on some hot gossip right now because you know that it will draw him home like a bee on honey.

“Okay, you can do this,” you mutter to yourself. “Just take it one step at a time. A shower, first.”

There’s a pile of clothes that Azriel had found for you, folded atop the counter. Sifting through them quickly, you wonder if you should be thankful it’s not forgotten garments of the three boys’ conquests or items left behind from rowdy partygoers that may have been a little too drunk to remember all of their things.

Drunk. That’s what you need to be right now.

Snagging the wash cloth from the top of the pile, you twist the shower on until steam begins filling the small room. For a bathroom in a college boys apartment, it’s cleaner than you thought. There’s a black shower mat placed outside of the tub and they even have a shower curtain. 

Three towels hang on hooks around the room but that is the only unorderly thing about it. A violet one hangs on the back of the door next to a robe, and you remember it as the one that Cassian had worn to your drawing class the one day he modeled. 

It’s shocking that you actually remember what he was wearing that day.

There’s a crimson towel slung along a rod nailed beside the shower and a dark azure one hanging from a hook next to it. You wonder which belongs to which boy.

Stop distracting yourself.

Right. The shower.

You’re still shivering a little when you strip down, peeling your wet clothes from your body. It’s hard to wiggle out of your jeans and you nearly trip, biting back the noise of fright that tries to free itself from your throat as you stumble.

You’re able to right yourself, and you give yourself a moment to ease the racing of your heart. You pray that the hot water will relax your tight muscles and clear your head of all worrying thoughts.

The spray is delightful. Near scalding in temperature, you relax almost instantly under the perfect pressure in a shower you’ve ever had the pleasure of being under. They’ve clearly replaced the shower head because this it utterly fucking therapeutic. This one is heaven sent compared to the leaky one in your apartment. You release an enjoyable sigh at the way it warms your aching bones.

You eye the shelf of products. There’s enough to where you’re surprised, trying to discern which belongs to whom. Eyes roving over the three-in-one Azriel had mentioned was Cassian’s, you laugh, because with hair like his you wouldn’t expect your friend to be using that. But hey, whatever works for him.

There are three other bottles of shampoo, hair oils, along with expensive looking conditioners, razors, shaving cream, and face washes all lined up nicely—presumably in the order they’re used—on the shelf. Reading the bottles of each one as the water pours warmly down your back, you tentatively pick one up and take a whiff of the product. The label reads ‘hydrating,’ but the lavender scent that consumes your senses nearly makes you gag.

Next.

The second bottle smells like actual heaven. It’s deep, musky and manly. There are hints of pine and something you can’t really describe as anything other than a night-chilled mist.

It’s a little too masculine for you, but you use it anyway, lathering it in your hands and scrubbing it into your scalp. The heady scent fills the room and you breathe in deeply, letting it settle into your bones.

You try to shower as quickly as you can so Azriel doesn’t have anything to complain about except maybe the lack of hot water after you’re done because you just can’t help yourself. You’re cold and you want to marry this showerhead.

If it were detachable, you’d absolutely take it down to the courthouse right now. 

Your stomach twists at the thought that the products you’re using may be Azriels. They look expensive but the bottles are heavy in your hands. Hopefully he won’t notice if any of it is gone. Hell, you’d rather use Rhysand’s things because at least you’re on better terms than you are with Azriel.

After conditioning your hair and washing your body, you shut the water off and dry yourself off with the towel Azriel lent you. You feel much better already. You’re definitely warmer, that bone-chilling cold from the rain is gone, and only the chill of the room is left in its wake. 

The clothes Azriel left you make you look like you’re drowning in them. A pair of gray sweatpants that you’re thankful he’s not wearing right now because you simply might break this little feud you have with him if he were. They hang so low on your hips that even pulling the drawstring as tight as you could didn’t help them from slipping down your waist. Thankfully, the black t-shirt he’s given you hangs low enough to hide your exposed skin.

You don’t understand how it can fit him so tightly but be so loose on you.

You find yourself once again in front of the mirror. The steam from your shower has revealed a message written on the reflective surface that reads ‘hurry up fucker.’ It’s been left by Cassian, no doubt. Only he would have as scraggly writing as this. His whole attitude screams sneaking into the bathroom while his roommates are showering to leave them cheeky messages. 

If it was left for Azriel or Rhysand, you don’t know.

Rhysand seems like he takes his time in the shower. He’s most likely the owner of most of those hair and skin products lining the shelves of the shower. He looks like he enjoys primping, and he absolutely screams manscaping.

Azriel has more of an effortless look. One that gives you the inclination that it could be him who is using all of these products. He definitely seems anal enough to have a twenty step care routine. One shampoo for the mornings, one for nights. One face wash for after he’s been drinking, one for when he’s grumpy. Which would constantly be empty because he’s grumpy as shit everyday.

What he really needs is something with soothing scents, ones that might help him fall aslee—

And once again, you kindly ask yourself in the mirror, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Where you’d wanted to hide to avoid spending time with Azriel, the bathroom has now become nothing more than a void of thoughts about him. As if he might’ve slipped in on an unnamed wind beneath the crack in the door, steaming wisps carrying thoughts of him.

Enough, you scold sternly. It’s now or never. You only need to stay here as long as it takes for Feyre and Rhysand to stop fucking or until Cassian comes back so he can be the buffer between you and Azriel, even if he’s not being entirely intolerable right now.

Scooping your wet clothes from the floor and making sure your panties are folded as small as possible and tucked tightly in the middle, you exit the bathroom.

The smell that slaps you in the face is fucking incredible and your stomach agrees with a loud growl. 

The sight might be even better.

Azriel is standing over the stove, shirtless as he stirs something in the skillet that’s making the most wonderful sizzling sounds. Your mouth wets with saliva and you blame it on the aroma of whatever he’s making and not the fact that his back looks just as good as you’d imagined.

Two, large bat-like wings are tattooed across the expanse of his shoulder blades, dipping down to caress the tight line of his spine. They flex when he moves, reaching for the spices to his side and your knees wobble a bit as all of the warmth from your shower converges deep between your legs.

He’s changed his pants, you notice, into a pair of black sweatpants that hang so low on his hips that you can see the cutting lines of his hips where they triangle into the waistband of his underwear. The two dimples at the base of his spine call to you, and you just want to press your tongue into them.

Azriel turns, heading for the fridge, but he stops in his tracks when he sees you standing two feet out of the bathroom, staring at him. 

The gold of his eyes turns molten and your cheeks are so hot that you can probably fry an egg on them. He takes his time, looking you up and down, just as you’d been doing to his backside while he was cooking.

Of course, his chest looks even more magnificent than his back. You knew he was muscular but you weren’t quite picturing this. The cording of his muscles, arms bulging with little effort, the tight abdominals and taut waist. The expanse of tattoos littering his skin seem like they belong, an effortless addition to his beauty that even Monet would be envious of. You need to take a step closer, get a better look at them. He’s glorious, and it makes you want to drop everything and draw him, trace those lines with your pencils, your fingers and tongue—

“You can put your clothes in the dryer,” Azriel croaks, and his words startle the both of you into action. Your brows furrow until his words catch up with you, and then you’re looking down at the bundle of wet clothes that you’re holding so tightly to your chest that your clean shirt is wet with it. It also gives you something to lay your eyes on instead of his body. “If you want to.”

You nod once, shuffling quickly to the dryer. It’s placed in the spot opposite of where your apartment has it, like they had just reflected the layouts of the units. It takes you the amount of time to walk over and then some to remind yourself that you should not be ogling the noisy neighbor who just happens to be the most handsome boy you’re ever seen.

And he’s most certainly a prick, so there’s that.

“Thanks,” you murmur once you’ve started the machine. You dare step closer to see what he’s doing in the kitchen but when he glances at you from the corner of his eye you freeze all over again, like a fucking deer in headlights. “What are you making?”

“Tuscan chicken with pasta,” he says as if he’s making something as simple as a bowl of cereal. “Hopefully, you’re hungry.” Your brows furrow a little because you don’t understand why he's making you something extravagant like this but you also don’t want to complain about it. Azriel is kind of…pleasant when he’s not being an utter dick.

"It smells incredible,” you offer, testing the water with him. You’re not sure what’s going on right now, why he’s not snapping at you, nor you at him, and you still don’t like Azriel but you can try and be civil if he is. “Can I help you with anything?”

Azriel shakes his head. “I’ve got it, princess. Have a seat.”

You do as he says, ignoring the nickname he won’t stop calling you. Finding a spot at the counter, the both of you fall into a peaceful silence, you watching Azriel cook. He seems utterly focused on the task at hand, pulling cream and parmesan from the refrigerator. He’s as skilled as he is in everything he does, never second guessing his movements and a pinprick of envy pokes holes in your stomach. You shift uncomfortably in your seat the longer you think about it.

“Do you think Cass will be back soon?”

Azriel doesn’t even glance at you over his shoulder when he responds. “I’m not good enough for you, princess?”

“Considering you’ve been nothing but a grumpy prick, I’d say that that answer is pretty obvious. And I told you to stop calling me that. I hate it.”

Your request, of course, is ignored. The chicken he’d been cooking in the pan is removed and broth is added into the pan containing the onions and garlic. The smells are orgasmic, as is the view when he returns to the refrigerator and bends down to scrounge in the bottom drawer for the spinach. You receive another full view of the tattoo wings across his back when he straightens, along with the rest of the woman inked on his arm that you’d seen at lunch. There’s another, Icarus as he falls from the sun, curling across his ribs.

It’s a tense sort of silence, and it’s one that you can’t help but to overthink because Azriel doesn’t seem to feel it at all. Here you are, accepting a ride home from Azriel in the rain and now you’re sitting in his apartment while he cooks you dinner, allowing you to stay here until Feyre and Rhys are finished having sex. It’s weird, this little flip of his attitude. You’re not bickering but neither of you are apologizing, either.

You refrain from speaking what’s on your mind lest it break the semi-calm you’ve both fallen into. Plus, you really are hungry for his dish. 

One of Azriel’s sketchbooks sits on the counter and you have to force yourself not to reach over and take a peek at his work while his back is turned. That’s an invasion of privacy you wouldn’t want someone breaking with you, so you keep your hands to yourself, rubbing them down the legs of the sweats you’re wearing.

It isn’t until he sets a bowl down in front of you that you dare speak again.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” 

In what you’re learning is typical Azriel fashion, he lifts a brow as he takes a spot at the opposite end of the counter, so there’s a buffer of a stool between the both of you. “Do you prefer it when I’m rude, princess?”

You huff, cutting into the juicy chicken and twirling some pasta around your fork. You don’t even know why you asked, because of course he’s going to have a snarky answer as a response.

“You know, you don’t have to be so volatile all of the time—oh my Gods!” The moan that accompanies the flavor bursting on your tongue is completely unnecessary, but the dish Azriel has made is just that damn good. And surprising. You stare at him in bewilderment. “What the fuck? This is fantastic.” 

Azriel startles at the sound that breaks from your throat. It makes his cock jump in his pants and when he sees your eyes rolled into the back of your head he averts his gaze. He answers, working a tinge of smugness into his tone to mask the throatiness he suddenly feels. “What was that, princess?” 

You duck your head, embarrassment sweeping pretty strokes across your face. It makes Azriel want to dig out his barely used colored pencils, and he never adds color to his charcoals. With this, he finds himself intrigued.

“‘M not saying it again,” you grumble, taking another bite of the delicious food. The chicken is cooked to perfection, the meat tender and flavorful from how it had soaked up the sauce he finished cooking it in. The pasta is delicious and the savory sauce warms your entire body.

You don’t notice his shoulders shaking with silent laughter, but you can feel the self-satisfied charge to the air as it wafts off of him like cologne.

You disregard it, losing yourself in your dinner.

When your bowl is clean, you feel like you can fall asleep right there. The entirety of your day from your classes to the review you had with Alis about your first project to being drenched in the rain and the anxiousness of being in Azriel’s apartment are all catching up to you. Cassian still hasn’t answered your texts so you’ll have to grill him about where he’s been when you see him next.

You might also have to chew Feyre out for not warning you that she had someone over.

Or the fact that she decided to have sex on your couch.

Azriel takes your dishes, holding it out of your reach when you try to grab for it.

“I can clean up, you cooked!”

He shakes his head, dumping the dishes in the sink. “Don’t worry about it. I’m more than capable.”

You scoff, “Clearly. Doesn’t mean I’m rude, though.”

He tosses you a knowing look over his bare shoulder that makes you scowl in response. It prickles you, those looks he gives, like he’s baiting you. You really don’t want to start something after the civil dinner you’ve just shared, but the way that he acts like everything leading up to this moment is your fault irks you beyond belief.

“No, but threatening to have my bike towed wasn’t the nicest thing to do.”

“Neither was parking in front of the moving trust I was just about to move!”

You think that he mutters a ‘whatever’ under his breath and you grit your teeth. Standing from your chair, you swipe your phone from the counter. 

“I think I should leave now.”

“I think that would be best,” Azriel responds flippantly from the sink.

As you’re about to turn and gather your things from the dryer, a loud moan cuts through the room.

How the fuck are they not done yet?

Dumb fucking luck.

Maybe you can still leave and call Cassian out in the hall. Worst case scenario, you think Lucien might let you stay over at his place if you’re that desperate for a place to stay.

Stubbornly, you head to the dryer. Azriel doesn’t say a word as you pull the door open and he doesn’t look up from the sink when you gather your warm clothes into your arms, holding them close as you try to keep what remains of your temper. What is it about Azriel’s attitude that always has you reacting like this?

“Wait,” Azriel sighs, finally daring to speak when you’re about to snatch your wet shoes from the floor by the door. They’re still soaked and there’s no way you’re putting your bare feet into the cold fabric.

Pausing, you wait for him to speak, because really, you’re not all too sure you like your other options.

“I cannot, in good conscience, kick you to the street,” he says, shutting off the water and wiping his hands on the kitchen towel. You watch him as he does, once again drawn to the marred skin of his hands.

He catches you staring and his gaze hardens, but he doesn’t hide his hands. If it were a year ago, he would be hiding them behind his back, but that’s not who he is anymore. He didn’t go through months of trauma therapy to hide his emotions, even the bad ones. You feel scolded, caught, and you swallow thickly. 

He looks like he might just kick you to the curb, anyway. 

So, you roll your eyes, holding your clothes closer to your body, soaking in their warmth. You need to make the first move, but you can’t help your response to snark back at him. “You? A good conscience? As if.”

“I’m doing it more for Cassian than you. If he finds out I let you leave with no place to go he’ll pummel me into the ground.”

You study him for a moment. Azriel doesn’t break your stare, allowing you to search for whatever it is you’re looking for in his honeyed eyes. You don’t even know yourself what you’re looking for, but he welcomes your challenge.

“Afraid of Cassian?” you taunt.

Azriel shakes his head and it eases the tension a little. “Have you seen how big he is?”

Your shoulders slump a little in response, easing up as the pressure surrounding the two of you deflates. “Yeah, I have.”

His jaw flexes and he turns almost tentatively, like he might chase after you should you leave. Finally, he returns to washing the dishes and you stand by the door like a fool. You can bear it for all of one minute—which you pride yourself on—and then you shift on your feet, drawing his attention once more.

“You can sleep in my room. I’ll take the couch.”

He doesn’t look your way while he offers, and you’re thankful, because you feel like melting into the floor with how hot your cheeks surge.

“No, no,” you reply hastily. “I’ll sleep on the couch. I’m not all that sure I’ll be able to sleep with the image of Rhys’ ass in my head, anyway. Was that a tramp stamp I saw?”

Azriel bites back a smile and a cheeky retort. He doesn’t want to admit that he finds you far more entertaining than annoying, but perhaps it's circumstantial. The both of you can be civil if you want, your friends have no idea what they’re talking about.

“At least take Cass’ room. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“Are the sheets even clean?”

His quiet chortle startles you. It’s melodic, husky like he hasn’t laughed in years.

It’s quite nice.

“That’s a gamble you’ll have to take if you don’t want to sleep in my room.”

“Right,” you answer awkwardly, because now he’s offered you his bed twice. “Thank you again for dinner, Azriel. And the ride.” You inch towards Cassina’s room even if the urge to get a glimpse into his personal space is tempting.

“Pleasure’s all mine, princess.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Not a chance.” 

You shut the door to Cassian’s room with a frustrated noise that puts to rest the affable night.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Midnight Muse Taglist: @going-through-shit @honeycriess @natashachelsea @thisisew @kennedy-brooke @cat-or-kitten @sourapplex @magical-mischief-makers @reiincarnatiion @ccucumbers @secret-ly-here @throneofsmut @cami26cami @torchbearerkyle @a-frog-with-a-laptop @sevikas-whore @endless-worldss @vellichor01 @bangtans-jagiya @kalulakunundrum @pinksmellslikelove @sakurafrost3-blog @imxnotxhere @bookishbroadwaybish @justdreamstars @i-am-infinite @whichwitchisthebitch @i-am-a-lost-girl16 @sia-r @acourtofbatboydreams @hannzoaks @judig92 @ilikefictionalmen @harrystylesfan2686 @dr4g0ngirl @vellichor01 @hirah-yummar @girl-who-writes-stuff @lees-chaotic-brain @konaanaria13 @emiler-love @yourdorkiness @azrielsstarlight @saltedcoffeescotch @badpvn @prongslena @kalulakunundrum @slutforaz @reggieslifeboat @ren-ni @miluiel1 @ithan-holstroms-girl @nyx-the-alien @fussel9913 @anuttellaa @buckyandgeraltsupremacy @mandoslavender @illyrianbitch @applepie02 @chasebeth @secretlyhers @qinfeii @vellichor01 @nightcourt-daydreaming @fightmedraco

[ackermansundercut]

literally cannot believe i have 100 likes on a silly little fluffy fic/my first fic i’ve posted in YEARS?? yall im SOBBING