greenmandm

[greenmandm]

Bound And Discarded To Be Treasured And Known[*]

Azriel x reader

Day 3 of @acotar-omegaverse-week — All Tied Up: Oh, you’re tied up so you don’t do anything you’ll regret during your heat? Would be a shame if someone… came along and messed up that plan for you :)

a/n: my eyelids are so heavy—most of this is proofread but there are sections I’ll be checking over come morning

Warnings: smut; pussy-eating; technically dubcon since reader’s in heat; overstim?; bdsm themes; cockwarming; knots; soft Dom Az?; fluff; they’re kinda adorable; very light breeding kink; implied incorrect use of a dagger’s hilt

word count: 6,507

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“I could show you, if you’d like…?” 

Pause. 

Steady…

Deep inhale.

Okay, resume. 

Your throat rolls, wetting parched lips with a flick of your tongue as your eyes momentarily drop away from the alpha’s hazel set. There’s nothing inappropriate about what he’s offering, and yet… 

And yet.  

And yet your toes are curling in your boots and there’s molten syrup stirring in the pit of your belly. Any kind of heat is far from normal, living up here in the desolate Illyrian Steppes, and the kind that’s gently simmering within your abdomen is as normal as spotting two suns in the sky.  

“You mean…now?” That’s definitely a hint of breathlessness in your tone. A puff of mist uncurling from your lips and carried away on an icy wind slicing between you. 

Azriel rolls his shoulders carelessly, though you doubt he so much as glances about without intention. Pointed; decisive; certain. Centuries worth of lived experience and warrior training under his belt. Is there space for you to slip in, too? 

“We could meet tomorrow, if that would work better for you?” Hazel eyes rest over your features, his irises set and still. Taking you in like an expert sommelier, savouring his time distinguishing the floral notes from the bitter or sweet undertones. Swishing you around in his glass before tilting the flute upright and letting you flow across his tongue. He clears his throat. “After training, I mean. One requires a flight back up, so I’ll be here anyway.” 

“I’m not sure,” you hedge, teeth clasping at the interior of your lower lip, glancing away from what feels like an all-knowing gaze. “Starting next week I’m going to be pretty busy…”

“Busy?” Something in Azriel’s eyes changes. 

“Right.” You nod. “Baeril is flying North for a week so I’ll be cleaning things up while I have the chance.” But there’s no way he didn’t already know that. It was the General who gave him that task. Also the reason his mood has been so poor lately, given your heat is supposed to… 

You swallow, pushing the thought away. 

“I see.” The alpha before you dips his head once. “Another time, then.” He takes it smoothly, without complaint; you wish Baeril was more like him. If only he could have half the composure Azriel has, things would be significantly better. As it is though Azriel’s head dips slightly, lowering his chin to look properly at you, a smile softening the edges of his mouth. “May I walk you back?” 

You allow yourself to return his smile but it lasts for less than a second, realising where you’re going back to. “Thank you. That would be lovely.” 

“My pleasure.” 

————

There are no lingering touches on the doorstep of your home. No wash of heat where he’d usually wrap you to his chest, nor a last surge of warmth before the cool creeps in and you’re returned to the dim dampness of your house. Instead you give less than a tight smile, and it seems even Azriel’s lips contain ounces of strain as he yields you once again. 

Returning you to your husband’s uncaring grip. 

————

Busy, she had told him. Busy cleaning the house. 

Azriel knows her husband has been sent off to check in on his relatives throughout the inner camps, so by all means she should be going with him. Not that he’s complaining that her husband might be loosening his grip on the treasure that is his wife. Azriel’ll happily swoop in the moment he senses an opening. It’s not like he’s made it this far through hesitating. 

Though it is out of character for her husband to leave her. While there’s little romance between them, there is still possession. So why leave her? 

————

It’s been two days since her husband had initially set off, and three days since he’s last seen her. Ordinarily Azriel would have no cause for concern—there are days when one of them is busier than usual—but this is preciously unregulated time with her husband entirely out of the picture. 

Not that he’d had plans. The closest he’s gotten is a late night a month and a half ago, the sky having fallen to a dusky blue and the air containing the evening scent of woodsmoke. There’d been a celebration amongst the male Illyrians, cause for bonfires and ale and mead, salted meats with rosemary and indulging in crisped potatoes the size of one’s fist. Her husband had been out and both of them had known he wouldn’t be back for while. 

His fingers had found their way to her cheek, pushing at a stray hair, and then her eyes had fluttered shut. Her hands had been clasped before her chest and her chin had lifted ever so slightly. Then his head had dipped but their mouths barely even touched before a stray breeze had her eyes snapping open, a look of peril on her features. She’d taken a step back, and then another, and then she’d been muttering an apology under her breath and turning for her house. 

They haven’t spoken of it since. 

Azriel had thought he might have a chance to bring it up when he saw her next… Is she avoiding him? The thought doesn’t sit well in his gut. Surely she would have no reason to. And yet, as far as he can tell, she would’ve had no reason to pull away the night he almost kissed her. 

Wings shifting once at his back, Azriel steers his course to pass by her house. Evening is swiftly setting in, and if he isn’t quick he’ll miss his chance for the day—even he can’t deny it would be inappropriate to call in after dark, knowing she was on her own, and Azriel doesn’t want to bring any more trouble her way. Light is fading, the temperature steadily dropping with the dwindling of the sun, and the war camp is quiet as it hasn’t yet reached time for the males to sojourn down to an inn for post-dinner chatter. 

Her house is the one at the end of the street, plenty of space kept between builds to allow room for gardens where veg will spring in the summer. There are no lights on that he can see, windows dark and seemingly empty. His brow furrows. Did her husband have a change of heart and bring her along as a last minute decision? Surely he would have known. 

Keeping his pace steady, Azriel sends his shadows far on ahead, letting them curl around the back of the house, peering in dark glass to a darker interior. Empty. Strange. Surely, Azriel would have known if she’d ended up going with him… That’s her dressing robe hanging from the door; all her shoes by the front entrance, tucked between her husbands boots; the fleeced cloak she would take if she really was to travel deeper into the brutal terrain further north. Hair prickles at the nape of his neck. 

Azriel allows his shadows to sweep the area, senses on high alert as he scans for any watchful eyes. When he finds none, he walks to her front door. 

Locked. That’s fine.

Keeping his shadows aware, he calmly walks to the side, finding the large windows that let light into their living room—large enough for him to climb through, once the latch is…perfect. Shadows slip between the wood holding the glass and flip the latch open, pushing the windows ajar. 

No sooner than he’s inside, a thick scent nearly chokes him, so concentrated and sweet he has to cover the lower portion of his face at first. The window clicks shut, and hazel eyes scan the vacant interior of their sitting room. Nothing is out of place, no shattered vases or broken plates, no blood stains on the floor, but that scent. Cautiously, Azriel sniffs once, bringing it into his lungs, filling them up and spreading into his bloodstream. Whatever is producing that smell, he can feel as it courses through his body, pulse kicking up. It’s unusually hot for a house built in Illyria. It should be much more draughty, not toeing the line of sweltering. Where’s all this heat coming from? 

Not hearing any approaching footsteps, Azriel enters further into the enclosure, keeping his shadows ahead of him, patrolling corridors and doorways to keep himself hidden. 

The scent builds, so dense he wonders if he’s even breathing air anymore or whether it’s pure… His tongue shifts in his mouth, throat rolling. His mouth is watering. 

Azriel stiffens. 

An increase in temperature. Prickling skin. Excessive working of salivary glands. Blood rushing with increased fervour. …This strangely sweet scent. Azriel inhales sharply, a faint tremble in his knuckles as he wraps his hand around the bedroom’s door handle. The door opens. 

Azriel’s spine turns rigid…the scent is so much stronger. So strong his head is hurting.

But then his eyes find the bed, and his thoughts eddy away. 

Her wings are bound at her back, rendered immobile and useless; coarse, thick rope has been tied around her wrists, wrapping around her forearms so they’re pulled together at the base of her spine, so tightly snared her shoulders are taut where they’re being wrenched back from her chest; darkened fabric has been tied at the back of her head, biting into her cheeks where it’s been slipped through her mouth, wet with saliva; rope has been wound around her ankles, knees, and thighs, making it impossible for her to move save for light circles of her hips. 

The scent is coming from her. 

She’s gone into heat. 

————

How much longer? How much longer until it’s over? 

You can’t even rub your thighs together from how closely they’re bound, not even an ounce of friction to soothe the aches riddling your body. Your arms have long since turned numb, though the edges of your mouth are rubbed raw and sore. Heat swelters beneath your skin, temples dewy and a thick gleam coats your body where sweat has permeated through the pores of your flesh. 

It’s pure hell. 

Exactly what Baeril had intended when he’d tied you up before departing for the innermost camps set up in the frozen mountains of Illyria. After all, he wouldn’t be able to be with you after the task he’d been assigned with would take up almost all of his time, and if he was going to have to suffer through the absence of sex, then he was going to make it ten-times as torturous for you. No romance, no love; just pure possession. Your pleasure is something of his—something he wouldn’t allow you to have unless it was from him. 

A floorboard creaks behind you, and you whimper into the rag. Is he finally back? 

Your hips wind in a circle, weakly shifting in the bed as you try to do whatever you can to lure him closer, to relieve you of the ties, or at least remove the ones from your legs so he can slide between them. With the angle of your head on the pillow you can’t see him, but you try to lift onto your knees only to find yourself too weak to manage anything more than raising an inch from the mattress. 

The slicing of steel through coarse strands of rope snickers through the room and you find your ankles free, circling your feet as they tingle with feeling. You whine into the rag, squirming desperately beneath your bonds. Your knees part next, and the waves of heat increase the more freedom you’re allowed, the closer you come to being able to move and receive. A rough hand wraps around the top of your thigh, holding you in place as the blade slips beneath the rope, severing the final tie.

With a pained whimper, your legs press together, managing to half-roll onto your side, thighs rubbing against one another to invite more of that delicious heat to gather. A calloused palm wraps around your upper arm, probably to sever the ropes binding your upper body but you shift before he can continue. 

You don’t need any more freedom—you just need him to fuck you. 

————

Azriel’s back teeth might split beneath the tension that’s clenching in his jaw. 

Now her legs are free, she’s managed to work herself into what she deems an ample position: knees pushing into the cushioning of the mattress a little further than shoulder width apart, her spine curving to invite him closer, face pressing deeper into the pillows. He can’t imagine the rope around her wings or arms being anything less than painful, but it seems her heat is taking priority. 

He could instruct her to lie down, to let him cut the ropes on her body, but he doesn’t want to alarm her. She’ll be expecting her husband, not him. What if she doesn’t want him now she’s in heat? Fuck, they haven’t even had their first kiss, and yet he’s on his knees behind her and trying not to think about how perfectly they’re aligned. All he’d need to do is push her dress up, loosen the ties of his leathers, and that would be it. 

The only problem is that it would be unforgivably wrong. 

Her legs are open, her hips circling faintly, needy sounds pouring into that gag, but none of it is for him. He needs to cut her free. 

Gritting his teeth tighter, he leans over her enough to slide the cold steel of the blade between the first three coils of rope, severing them like fabric scissors through silk. No sooner than her arms are freed, her legs have wrapped themselves around his hips, her left shin and foot wrapping around his back so she can haul her right to lock at his back. Muscles flex in her wings as her arms push beneath her, lifting herself up as she squeezes with her legs, aligning his hips with her centre, thighs working to keep them flush tight together. 

Azriel exhales harshly, his palms working to disentangle her legs from his waist but it’s like she’s locked in, having grown impossibly strong in order to gain what she wants. She squeezes him once more, and her grip is tight enough he’s pulled forward, hands slamming down either side of her in the mattress, narrowly avoiding knocking her wings. 

He can hear the whimpers stuck in her throat, the way her body is shifting beneath her own, and he forces himself to get a grip. He has to keep steady. He’s working to help you, not take advantage of you. Shadows curl, and he retains enough control over himself to have the steel blade slicing through the ropes around your wings before pushing himself away, ripping from your grip. 

A pained noise moans from behind the rag, and Azriel watches as she tries to weakly shift upright, her upper arms shaking as pheromones filter through the already thickly sweet air. His mouth opens in preparation to explain, but she’s already turned around on her knees, fingers splayed delicately between the sheets, her pupils dilated and lips parted as they try to work around the gag. 

Both of them freeze when their eyes lock, neither having been prepared for the current situation. 

————

Azriel. 

His name alone provides more comfort and relief than you’ve received in the past week, a cool sweep of lightheadedness coursing through your body. 

It’s Azriel, and everything’s okay. 

You manage to sit back on your knees, hands trying to release the gag from your mouth and you could cry from frustration when your fingers fumble, being unfamiliar with whatever way he’d tied the pieces together. 

Azriel’s throat rolls once. “Here.” He says. “Let me.” 

Your hands fall away, shuffling closer so he can work on the tie. Your chest rises up and down, eyes flitting from his dilated hazel set to the inviting heat of his soft mouth, how good his lips will feel. 

The gag loosens, and Azriel meets your gaze, a deep apology already held on the tip of his tongue. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice thick and heavy, scratching at your ears, “I’ll find you some medicine, just—” 

Your arms lock over his shoulders, flinging your weight into his chest, mouth colliding with his own. Gods, if your eyes were open they would have rolled to the back of your skull, indulging in the heaven of his hair between your fingers, soft and smooth and silky. Clean and taken care of. Need pounds between your legs, pressing your hips tight to his front as your nails scrape up the nape of his neck, scratching just beneath his jaw as your teeth tug on his lower lip, dragging on it sultrily. 

Hazel eyes widen by an almost imperceptible margin, fingers enclosing around your wrists but not yet making any moves. Caught between pulling you away and pushing you into the bed.

“Azriel,” you pant, retracting enough for words to narrowly fit between your mouths. A shudder of pleasure zips up your spine from the taste of his name, a flutter of arousal spasming in your lower belly. “Azriel…” It comes out more high-pitched the second time, more desperate and hoarse. What a state you must be in. How long have you even been lying there? 

You don’t think about it. You just want to taste his name once more. 

But, “Wait,” he instructs, forcing himself to retreat. A noise of pure pain breaks from your chest, nails finding purchase in his well-muscled shoulders, trying to keep him from leaving as you shake your head. “Azriel, please. Please don’t…” You stare up at him, palms gripping onto him in supplication. “Please…” Hot water drips down your cheek, overwhelmed by wild hormones gushing through your bloodstream, making everything too much and so, so, confusing. 

“I just need to find you medicine,” he tries to reason but you can hear the unsteady inhale of breath, the heightened staccato of his pulse. “Then you’ll be thinking clearly again. A little.” 

“Fuck me,” you breathe, ignoring what he’s trying to tell you. “Please.” You push your bodies closer, certain he’ll be able to feel the full press of your breasts to his chest, the inviting softness of your body and… Your mouth opens in a moan when you feel the hard outline of him digging into your lower stomach. That needs to be inside of you. Right now. 

“I can’t,” he whispers, his eyes shining at the hurt you’re clearly experiencing. “I— That would be wrong. Let me find you—”

“There’s none in the house. No one will have any up here. It’ll take hours. Help me.” You don’t know where the reasoning comes from, but maybe the desperation is making your mind work more efficiently to provide a succinct, compelling argument. “You know me. I want you. I wanted you before this. I’ll want you after. Please.” 

“Are you—”

“Yes. Please.” 

His wings have lifted at his back—perhaps he’s not even aware of it himself—looming over the broad set of his shoulders, and you just know you need them to be flared while he’s on top of you. Holding you down in the bed. His weight keeping you pinned. 

Then you’re being forcefully pushed down into the mattress, his mouth atop your own, and heat bursts throughout your body. Your thighs part, legs eager to wrap around his hips, and you—ohh. That’s good. 

A moan spills from your lips when you managed to rub against him, the thick length of him pushing at the delicate part between your legs. “Azriel,” you pant, chest heaving up and down, “Azriel I need you. Now.” 

“Right now?” 

You swirl your hips, knowing it will feel torturous to him but he clearly needs the incentive of arousal to have him acting. “Don’t hold back,” you whisper, grinding up against him, already fantasising about how good he’ll feel inside of you. How full you’ll be. His wingspan alone is promising you pleasure, but he’s also an alpha, so… Your throat rolls, wondering if you might have bitten off more than you can chew. Alphas are notoriously…well off. 

Azriel pulls back as far as you’ll. Let him, looking down at you with colour high on his cheekbones. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he pants. 

“You won’t,” you assure, cupping his jaw, squeezing his hips. His throat rolls, and you want to bite him. Lick and nip and bite. 

“Give me a safe word,” Azriel demands, his voice rough and coarse. “You need to have… So I can be sure.” He’s just as breathless as you are. “Choose one.” 

You say the first word that comes into your head. “Knot.” 

Azriel’s head falls to the crook of your shoulder and neck, groaning audibly beside your ear, his hips lazily grinding against your clothed sex. Hot breath fans your bare skin, and you incline your chin for him to access your throat but his hands are fisted in the sheets, tension lining his powerful body. “Pick a different one,” he grits out. “You’re not having knot as your—”

Your hand has slipped between your bodies, cupping him before palming carefully at the large outline in his leathers. His tension rises, his whole body going rigid before he pulls far enough back to snarl, glaring down at you. Arousal floods between your thighs, squirming beneath the heated look. “Pick a godsdamned safe word or I’m tying you back up and getting that medicine.” 

The ropes had hurt. A lot. 

So why is your skin only growing hotter at the suggestion? 

“Rope,” you manage to get out. It doesn’t make much sense but as far as safe words go, it’ll do. Azriel seems to find it satisfactory, dipping his head once. “Say ‘rope’ if it gets too much then. I’ll stop.” 

“Mhmm.” You nod instantly, whimpering when he pulls back to untie his leathers. The whimpers turn into a moan when shadow crawl up your calves, looping around your knees to keep them spread, carefully pulling away the fabric of your skirts until you’re almost bare. 

Your head tips back into the cushions when the darkness swipes up the centre of your sex, flicking over your clit. They make to curl around the band at your hips but Azriel curses foully under his breath, hazel eyes so dark they’re nearly black as he gazes between your parted thighs. You’d gone into heat the day Baeril had left, cunt practically drooling slick every minute of every hour since then. The sheets are more than soaked, and your underwear is practically suctioned to your sex, strands of arousal webbing between your thighs. 

Azriel groans softly before both his palms are wrapping beneath your knees, allowing their underside to slot between his thumbs and second fingers. Your spine arches, thighs trembling as he buries his face between your legs creating a wild fluttering sensation in your lower belly, hips circling as you rub against whatever friction he’ll provide even if it means soaking his face in the process. If he likes it then you’re fine to adhere. Who are you to refuse pleasure?

The orgasm breaks across your skin with violent force, your breathing stuttering as your spine arcs off the bed, cunt fluttering around nothing as he licks up the wet mess between your thighs. His lips wrap around your clit, sucking tenderly on the sensitive part and you could cry from satisfaction. How relieved you are he innately knows where to touch. Even after the orgasm has finished washing through your body, it feels like only a few litres of pleasure have been released from behind a one-hundred foot tall dam. 

“Azriel,” you pant, tugging at his hair. “More. I need more. Please.”

“So quickly?” He drawls, though it comes out breathless. You squirm, trying to free your legs from his grip, your knees still practically shoved to your chest to make room for him. “You’re being cruel,” you cry, winding your hips, needing him inside. He seems to take pity on you there, releasing your legs to prowl up your torso, taking your dress with him, nearly tearing it clean from your body—you wouldn’t have minded. But now you’re naked and completely exposed save for the underwear at your hips, and Azriel’s looking like he might try and make you cum from licking and playing with your breasts alone. Then again with the aid of your heat, anything’s possible. 

Almost reverently, Azriel thumbs across one of your nipples, watching your reactions with a keenness that has a fire simmering in the pit of your stomach. But, “Azriel…” you whimper. “Not now…” 

Hazel eyes soften, then he’s nodding his head. Swallowing. “I’ll take care of you.” 

Breaths pant between you and your tongue wets your lips when you see his hand wrapped around his cock, the tip holding a bead of precum and your cunt aches as it swells with liquid before drizzling down his tip. You need to taste him. Gods he’s going to feel so good inside of you, and you hold your legs apart to make room for him. 

“You’re going to tell me if you need time, okay?” Azriel instructs, drawing your attention to his eyes. “We can go slower if it’s too much. Take as much time as you need.” 

“Put it inside,” you beg, hips shifting eagerly, ready to take him. “It’ll fit.” Azriel pauses, glancing at you doubtfully, “I’ve barely touched you. If it’s too much you’re taking my fingers instead. I’m not going to hurt you.” But you shake your head, need coursing through your veins, and he’s right there. 

“You wouldn’t have been made that big if you wouldn’t fit me.” 

Azriel groans, but it’s clear he’s struggling. Why is he struggling, he just needs to slide in. It’ll be fine. Why’s he waiting? What’s taking him so long? Why’s he not going in? 

His tip presses to your entrance and you freeze with anticipation. Almost there. 

Scar-roughened fingers lace with your own, gently pinning your hands to the bed as he leans his weight over you. 

He goes slowly as he’d told you he would. Inch by inch. Sliding deeper, and deeper. Air is pushed from your lungs, and even while he’s still you can feel his cock pushing upward against that spot. A few strokes of his thumb over your clit and you’ll be gone. Hazel eyes lock with yours, blinking before his brows raise, glancing lower as his hand slides between you. One. Two…

“Oh.” 

————

Azriel’s breath is trapped in his lungs as she flutters around him.

He hasn’t even moved yet and she’s coming on his cock. 

Her lips are parted and she looks like she’s in heaven right now. 

And she did say to not hold back. 

————

You don’t get a chance to hold onto anything when he draws his hips back and suddenly pushes back in before the aftershocks have even properly faded. 

You don’t have room to moan when he repeats the action but harder. 

You don’t have space for thought when he makes it a regular pace, fingers digging into your hips to angle them up from the bed so his cock can rub against that spot that had you coming so fast before. 

You don’t get a chance to fully acclimatise to the onslaught of pleasure. 

He’s perfect. 

Your hips lift in time to meet his thrusts, winding and bucking to take everything he can give, eager to have him filling you up until he’s making the sheets as wet as you are. Your spine arches as he holds your legs apart, roughly slamming into you over and over, hitting that spot again and again until you’re screaming with pleasure, head tipped back and mouth completely open, being fucked further up the mattress with every snap of his hips. 

“Is that better?” He asks and you’re astounded by the mild tone. He’s currently obliterating your world and yet he sounds completely in control. You manage a nod and he lowers his mouth to the hollow of your throat, halting the sharp thrusts but keeping you tightly pulled to his hips as he licks up the side of your throat. You feel more down-to-earth than you have over the past two days, and you’re approaching the peak of your heat right now. He’s keeping up with you. 

“Sit in my lap for a bit?” 

You hear the question but can manage little more than a series of dazed blinks. Then a vacant nod. 

His lips curve and hazel eyes twinkle, then his powerful arms are sliding beneath your back and hauling you upright, shifting the both of you so his back is against the headboard and you’re straddling his lap. Your knees sink down into the bed and his cock presses against your inner walls. 

“I can see you…you’re inside of me.” Your palm tentatively settles over the bump in your lower belly, shifting your hips faintly over his lap to feel him rub against you. “Az…you…oh.” 

His shadows wrap around your middle, stroking your sides soothingly as they squeeze your abdomen, the pressure having your eyes flutter with pleasure. “You feel so good,” you breathe, lips staying parted on the exhale, a blissed out heaviness to your half-open eyes. “So right, inside.” 

“You’re adorable,” he chuckles breathily into the crook of your neck, hot breath fanning ticklishly across the intimate expanse, fangs dragging teasingly along. His lips curve against your throat, and a small, needful hum simmers in your chest. “So perfect.” 

Teeth prod into your lower lip, fingers tangling in the silky strands of his hair. He smells delicious. Clean but distinctly male. Distinctly himself. “You’re perfect,” you argue back, hardly louder than a murmur. You pull back to look at one another, your skin heating with the strange intimacy. 

“Why’d you stop?” You ask, playing with the ends of his hair. Azriel doesn’t avert his gaze, palms spanning the sweep of your hips, thumbs stroking faintly. “Lift up,” he tells you, softer than a whisper; a gently uttered command. You flush at his low cadence, but obey. 

Try to obey. 

You’re stuck. 

Azriel groans softly when you squeeze him, fingers digging into your hips when you try to start riding him, instincts urging you to have him releasing. 

“Az, why-”

“Slow down. It’s okay.” His palm settles atop the crown of your head, stroking gently. “I should have pulled out before it formed. Just wait until it goes away then I promise we can start again.” 

“But I want to take it,” you insist, leaning into his chest. “I want your knot.” His throat rolls but he doesn’t relent. “I don’t regularly take a tonic, pretty thing.”

“That’s fine. I still want it.” 

“You want it now,” he stresses that last part, still remaining steady. You don’t feel like he’s chastising you. “What about when you’re not in heat?” 

“I’ll still want it. Please.” 

Azriel shakes his head, eyes still soft despite their hunger. “When your heat passes we can talk more about…what will happen between us. For now…”

“Us?” You ask, pulse spiking. 

“Is that… Do you not want an us?” 

“I want an us. What about-”

“Please don’t say his name right now.” You flush, tightening around him, shifting in his lap. “Well, what about that? I’m married…” 

“It’s illegal to confine someone in the way he did to you. Especially since I’m assuming he knew you were going into heat?” You nod your head, choosing not to think about what could have happened had Azriel not shown up. A muscle feathers in his jaw before he continues. “Then that’s a kind of torture. More than enough ground for departure.” His throat rolls. “If you…?”

“Are you sure?” 

He stares at you. 

You glance away. “You aren’t-…I mean, this isn’t lust speaking, is it? You’ll mean what you’re saying once you’re done with me?”

“Done with you?” 

“Once my heat is passed…” 

He’s still staring.

“Have I said something wrong?” You ask, once again shifting in his lap. 

Scar-roughened palms cup your cheeks, hazel eyes shining as he pulls you closer. “I’ve been hoping to take you from him for the past three years.” Your heart flutters in your chest, leaning into the solid heat of his chest. “Once your heat is passed, it’s your choice what to do, but know I’d like to be part of it still. In whatever way you might let me.” 

“Are you…”

“I’m serious.” His thumb swipes across the crest of your cheek. “I can tell you this all again once your heat is passed, if that will help. I want to… I want to be with you.” 

You’re too stunned to speak, heart about ready to grow its own set of wings and fly far away. Flutter to the skies and float away on a warm breeze. 

You shift in his lap once more, still able to feel his knot inside of you—not as big as before but definitely still there. Your tongue swipes across your lips. “Emerie…will have something. To prevent pregnancy, I mean.” His throat rolls, and your teeth tug at the interior of your lower lip. “So, as long as I can take that within the next day…” You roll your hips gently over his own, tightening around him as your hands slowly glide up his chest. 

“When I leave to get…a tonic.” He seems to be having a hard time getting through this one. “Will you be okay?” You blink, averting your eyes as you consider. You’d rather he didn’t leave…you don’t want to endure any more of that heat without reprieve, but you so badly want to take his knot. To feel him spill inside of you. You’re not sure you’ll be able to survive without that. 

Your eyes catch on a sheath strapped to his thigh. The smooth metal handle of the dagger he’d used to cut you free. Curved and cylindrical. 

You clear your throat, feeling the heat begin to return. “Is that clean?” 

Beneath you Azriel freezes. “…Yes.” 

“And…so…would you mind if I…” 

“No.” He tries to clear his throat. Swallows. “No, it’s fine. You can use it.” His voice strains over that last part. “I’ll clean it again, before leaving you. But yes. You’re more than- I mean, I don’t mind. If it will help you, then please-”

Your lips press to his, and the rigidity begins to thaw. Gently circling your hips, you want to entice him to make you move, to angle and direct you as he pleases. The thought alone of having him guide you has wild butterflies coming alive between your legs.

“Give it to me,” you whisper, nails scratching lightly beneath his jaw. “Let me take it.” Azriel nods, looking up at you as though dazed. His eyes are glazed, lips parted, fingers skimming over your skin. “I want…I want you to use me to get there,” you utter softly, unsure whether to be embarrassed over the admission. When he twitches inside of you, you decide you’re proud of your decision.

“You want me…? To…?”

Teeth prod at your lip, and you nod your head. “I want you… To…”

Azriel swallows thickly but nods nonetheless. “Okay.”

Hands readjust their grip on your hips, fingers spanning up to your waist before he lifts you from his lap—as far as you can go—then sliding you back down. His breathing stutters and you try to vaguely follow his directions, lifting up, then down, using the muscles in your legs to ride him as much as you can.

He’s growing bigger inside of you. Swelling at the base of his cock. Locking you tighter together until it’s impossible to slide much up or down. Instead he inclines your body into him, breasts pressing flush to his chest, your fingers scrambling at the hem of his clothes, encouraging them away so he’s bare.

Powerful arms wrap around your back, minding your wings while keeping you plastered to his front. It feels good, to be held like this during sex. The tenderness is something you hadn’t known was an option, but now he’s so freely offering it to you you’re taking it with both hands, arms wrapping over his shoulders.

A moan is pushed from your chest when he bucks his hips, his arms keeping you strapped to his torso, shadows delicately snaring your forearms to bind them as they’d been when he found you.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, lips tickling the shell of your ear. “It’s good,” you reassure, too caught up in pleasure to really think.

Azriel bites his lip as he holds you upright, letting his shadows roam across your front, his palms playing with your breasts, thumbing across your nipples before trailing back down to your hips. Bucking up into you. Guiding you to rock back and forth, your clit rubbing over his abdomen.

“Azriel…I’m…”

He nods. “Good.”

“But what about you…?”

“I’m nearly there…just keep…” He cuts himself off with a deep groan, one you can feel vibrating through your own body, sending tremors up your thighs.

He twitches twice, then he’s filling you up, knot swollen to its full size so it’s impossible to lift off him, locked together while he empties himself inside. Your lips part with pleasure, another orgasm rolling through your limbs, spreading to your tip toes and fingertips. It’s the most powerful one yet, ecstasy heightened by his own orgasm, feeling as he fills you up so perfectly.

Azriel holds you all the way through it, shadows stroking tenderly up and down over your body, putting soothing touches into your skin before eventually unraveling from your arms, allowing you to reach out for him. Fingers interleaf with your own, squeezing faintly.

It’s different knowing this isn’t temporary. That it’s not just sex. That there is romance, and it’s not just possession.

Maybe it’s more than just romance. He had almost kissed you before you’d run away…

You’ll just have to trust that he’ll keep caring after this immediate heat is passed. That he really does want to take you away, and be with you. And looking at him now…feeling the gentle touch, the light patterns he’s drawing on your skin, waiting patiently for you to signal whether you want more or a break…

You smile, inclining your head until your noses are brushing. Close enough to feel the stutter of air his lashes send your way. “I want you to stay with me. After this is passed.”

Hazel eyes blink, his lips softening at their corners. “I’d wish for nothing more.”

Your toes curl, a fluttery feeling in your heart, and you press a small kiss to his mouth.

His knuckles graze your cheek before cupping you jaw, indulging in the sweet press of you lips.

Perfection.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna

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[greenmandm]

roommate!simon riley realizing you've been stealing his clothes

simon didn't notice his clothes had slowly been disappearing from his closet. he was always gone on missions, and it wasn't like they didn't find their way back into his drawers at the end of the day.

there would be instances where he was looking for a particular hoodie that had disappeared without a trace, only to find it hanging in his closet the next day.

naturally, he was puzzled by this, but as long as everything returned to him, he didn't mind. he figured you had something to do with it, and to him, you were a harmless little bird. what harm was it to let you steal a shirt or a hoodie from time to time? especially if you needed something big and warm.

until he realised the harm it could cause when he found you in the kitchen with nothing, but his black shirt, 'riley' written across the back in big, white letters.

it was dangerous.

simon hadn't ever saw you in that light, hadn't ever imagined having any sort of claim on you other than being your roommate.

but now?

now you had his name over you.

now he wanted to see you with his last name after your first.

and he'd start making that happen by bending you over the kitchen counter, buried deep in your pussy after he pulled aside your lacy thong.

you'd gasp at the unexpectedness of his actions and keen to the feeling of his hands all over your body, his thick cock pounding your cunt. "fuckin' temptress." his gruff voice muttered into your neck, trailing sloppy kisses over your skin.

he'd knock every breath out of your lungs, make you delirious to where you didn't even question it when he muttered about giving you a ring and putting a baby inside you while rubbing your tummy,¨NBSP;feeling where the tip of his cock nudged your stomach.

simon riley knows what he wants, and when he does, he doesn't stop at anything until he gets it.

[greenmandm]

SJM would never do it but Azriel having an Illyrian mate would be so interesting. Mostly because he would have to come to terms with his heritage. If female and she’s clipped? What about a war widow? So many interesting possibilities that would dive into the world of Illyria.

[greenmandm]

I love the theory that Helion might be Eris’s father because they both have amber eyes, but I can’t help but think about how much more devastating it is if he isn't.

On the day of his birth, Eris's amber eyes shine up at the Lady of Autumn—such a familiar shade that her heart wonders.

But no. They're not the same gold. They don't hold the same warmth. Fire is no match for the sun.

Sometimes she pretends, though. She tells herself that his eyes are gold because his father's eyes are gold. It is easier to love him this way.

As he grows, traces of Beron etch themselves into his face. His jaw is sharp, his nose narrow. Cruelty drips like poison from his tongue. She holds room for him in her heart, but he will never be the son she would have chosen.

Centuries later, Lucien has come and gone. Sunrise, sunset. But Eris remains.

And when his amber eyes turn on her with anger, or hate, or—worst of all—the cold detachment she taught him, her pain is twofold. They're not the same gold, but they're close enough to rouse sleeping memories. Close enough to haunt her like a ghost.

[greenmandm]

Simon who read an article online about how having sex whilst on your period helps relieve the pain of cramps, and now he can’t but experiment with that theory.

I don't really like this, i had an idea and it just didn't come to life the way i wanted it to. 😞 cw: period sex

“Hey, luv.” Simon hollers from the top of the stairs.

“Yeah?” You answer, from your place on the sofa. 

“Is it true that having sex whilst you’re on your period helps with cramps?” He asks

“I don’t know, darling. I’ve never tried it. Why?” You reply.

“No reason.” He says shrugging his shoulders to himself before walking away. 

That was all he needed. Next time you were experiencing your monthly cycle he would put this theory to the test, as the pain you experienced when bleeding was always so difficult for Simon to watch. Especially when there's nothing he can do to make it any better. 

So when that time rolled back around and you were sitting in pain with a hot water bottle barely easing the harsh cramps, Simon scooped you up from where you were sitting and whisked you away upstairs, ready to put the theory to the test. 

Laying an old bath towel beneath the two of you, in hopes of keeping the mess to a minimum. Simon’s quick to strip you of any layers that restrict you of him and his eager desire to make you feel better. Quick to remove anything that would slow down his desire off of himself too. 

“I’ll make it all better, baby. Don’t you worry.” He coos as he lowers his body over the top of yours, his big meaty arms coming down on either side of your head cageing you in. 

Sliding himself in between your folds before pushing his length inside of you, slowly every inch of him disappears inside of you until there's nothing left. His cock nestles snuggly between the soft gummy walls of your pussy as Simon allows you to adjust before slowly dragging his hips backwards. 

His cock dragging against your walls has your mind clouding over, with all your focus turning to the pleasure that Simon’s cock is bringing you right now. And not the pain you were experiencing mere minutes ago. 

His tip rams against the entrance of your cervix as he rolls his hips in and out, your vision blurring as you allow yourself to swim in the pure painless bliss he is giving you. 

“Fuck, Si.” You curse.

“There we go, luvie. Feels good yeah?” He asks. 

“Pure bliss.” You say, earning you a chuckle from Simon as he continues fucking into you at a steady pace. 

With this knowledge now stored in Simon’s, mind that all you needed was a good fuckin, it now wasn’t uncommon for him to take you regularly whilst you bled.

On the bed with a towel to keep any mess contained as he rutted inside of you with deep precise thrust that has your pain simply melting away.

Up against the tiled wall of the shower allowing any mess made to be washed away by the steady stream of warm water, the warmth alongside Simon's cock buried deep inside you allows for a heaven like experience.

-Tag list

@chronicallyonline699 @angel4fics @iraaiitz @kieranduffysgirl

Let me know if you wanna be added to my tag list

[greenmandm]

some words you can only spell on autopilot. once you stop to think about it you've already lost the fight

[greenmandm]

Some days, I let myself believe that the series ended right after the war.

That right now, Feyre and Rhys are having a night out in Velaris, they’re at Rita’s, finally living the life they fought so hard for. They’re annoyingly sweet—so in love it makes the Inner Circle roll their eyes and smile. Mor’s dancing with Cassian as he spins her, while Azriel and Amren laugh darkly over something only they would find funny.

No looming threats. No fandom drama. No rushed pregnancy plot. No burden of caretaking on Feyre’s shoulders. No nonsensical medical problems.

Everything is finally as it should be.

It all ended with Rhysand hearing Feyre laugh in the other room and following the sound.

The reality they deserved.

Just joy. Just love. Just happiness.

[greenmandm]

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

based off a request i got - tispy simon riley x drunk reader. simon is a man of morals, even when you make it very very hard for him to exercise them. 18+. lots of detailed dirty talk.

————-

it’s honestly not even your fault.

you’ll blame it all on soap, if anyone asks - he’s the one who had a tab open, a devil on his shoulder, and kept pouring shots as if they were free. now you’re blackout-adjacent, stumbling through the hallway with simon’s arm wrapped around your waist in some makeshift tourniquet while everything spins like a goddamn carousel.

simon always gets stuck on clean-up crew. mostly because he’s the only one who can handle their fuckin liquor.

needless to say, he’s used to this by now. used to the way you’ve been rambling on about nothing for the better part of five minutes - doesn’t say much when you stop and get distracted by something stupid for the billionth time. doesn’t complain when you grab his arm and lean a little too hard into his side, as if he’s a lifeline in the sea that is the floor beneath your feet.

he’s tipsy, sure, but somehow still annoyingly steady. classic simon.

“jesussi—you’re big.” it’s slurred and breathless, broken by your own laughter as your head drops lazily onto his shoulder. “like, industrial grade. military-issued big.”

the corner of his mouth tilts. if you were sober you’d see the smirk he’s biting back.

“tha right?”

“mmm. like a fuckin tank,” you hum, fingers kneading the muscle under your palm. it’s involuntary - just like it’s involuntary when he twitches. “or an armoured vehicle. y’should come with airbags.”

simon bites his cheek. the devil in you is dancing in the waves of tension rolling off him.

maybe he’s not as used to this as he thought - because this isn’t just drunk-banter. this is you, murmuring compliments with all that heat behind them. personal. stupidly involuntarily honest.

hes not used to compliments. not ones that sound like that.

“you’re drunk,” he breathes.

you grin. “so’re you.”

“not even half as much as you.”

you let out a giddy little laugh that makes him glance down, at that. it’s quick and brief, the way his eyes flick over you, like he’s checking to make sure you haven’t stripped mid-hallway. it’s just the bickering that gets you. makes you warm inside.

“m’not that drunk,” you lie through your teeth with all the drunken confidence you possess. “i mean—i am, but not like…memory loss drunk. i’m still gonna remember how wide your shoulders are tomorrow.”

it’s only seconds after that and your fingers are moving again, crawling down his arm to where leather edge meets skin.

“..and how insanely big your hands are,” you sigh in continuation, unable to help yourself. “like—biblically destructive. ruin-her-life-in-a-single-night kind of hands. anyone ever tell y’that?”

and that might just be precisely when it starts - the feeling in his gut. brought to life through the filth you’re beginning to feed.

“don’t.” he says, and it’s torn. “not now.”

he’s all but begging you - and however miraculously, his pace doesn’t break. still steady as ever even as you switch from squeezing to tracing his tattoos with your finger. the only response he gives is a devastating clench of his jaw as he keeps you moving - steering past flickering lights and sterile walls.

“y’ever choke a girl out with them?” you press, unfettered. “not like, unconscious, but like. in bed?”

he exhales. slow. almost a growl.

“jesus. stop talkin’.”

“why?” you blink up at him, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, far too innocent for someone who’s very much not being innocent. “am i makin’ you nervouuus?”

his head tilts just slightly, just enough to peer down at you again.

“no,” he says, and even drunk you hear the grit in it. “you’re makin’ me hard.”

he says it like he hates himself for it. like it slipped out - cut from the meat of some deep place the inebriation in his veins simply won’t let him keep inside.

and you?

you blink slow, lips parting in surprise.

“fuckin’ finally.” you exhale with a smile. slow and crooked and dangerous. “thought i’d have to be on my knees and naked for you to admit that—“

he doesn’t let you finish that thought.

“fuck’s sake, y’little minx.” he’s dragging you now, as if he’s realizing the dangers that are surfacing the more this conversation continues. by this point he’s half-carrying, half-hauling your giggling form down the hall like you weigh nothing. “y’need to stop talkin.”

“you like it,” you slur between unsteady steps. “y’like me like this cause you’re a freakkk—“

his grip tightens. morals in tatters. control evaporating.

“i’d like you more if y’were unconscious.” he huffs, hard. “or duct-taped.”

that makes you giggle more. worse, it eggs you on.

“was that supposed t’be a threat?” you ask, lips glistening. “cause if so, it’s workingggg.”

he grunts - some deep, violent sound in his throat like that one hit a nerve. “bloody hell.”

by the time you make it to your door, he’s breathing heavy. less from exertion and more from sheer fucking restraint. it takes two seconds before he throws the hinges wide, kicks it shut with his boot, and all but drags you onto your bed.

and you hardly even realize you’ve reached it until the cotton caresses the side of your cheek. but that feeling is quickly forgotten when simon, the gentleman that he is, leans over you - one knee braced on the mattress as his hands go to work on the laces of your boots.

your thighs tense. he notices.

“fuck, simon.” you can’t stop yourself. not even god himself could, at this point. “i’ve been into you for ages, y’know.”

he pauses. boot in hand.

“…what?”

he says it low. like a warning - like a don’t you fuckin start. but you’re too drunk to care - especially when all you smell is him and all you see are those shoulders, leaning over you while you’re flat on your back beneath him.

your lashes flutter.

“jus sayin- since, like. you’re in my room, on my bed above me like one of my codeine fever dreams.” you slur, brain sloshing. the room spins with it. “thought y’should know.”

he looks at you like you’ve hit him with a brick.

your head lolls. glassy eyes dragging up over the length of him. “used to think about it—you—when i couldn’t sleep.”

he swallows, and you watch his throat work with it. the grip he’s got on your ankle could shatter bone.

“….you tellin me y’think bout me when y’touch yourself?” he asks.

“god yes.” you don’t even realize you’ve said it. “you. your hands. bending me over the sinks. in the showers while muttering filth in my ear, tellin me to behave—“

“—fuck.” it punches out of him like it hurts.

the silence falls heavy. he doesn’t blink, breathe, or move for what feels like forty minutes, when in reality, it’s like forty seconds - just long enough for him clamp the leash back on whatever beast is tearing through him.

not fully, but enough.

you stretch like a cat, oblivious to it. arch your back. sigh. “d’you think about it?”

he doesn’t answer. not at first. then—

“only when i breathe.”

your stomach lurches. your thighs twitch. “you mean that?”

he looks at you, finally - eyes darker than the devils deal, filled with filth and heat from the fire you started without even trying.

he shakes his head, his jaw clenches with the effort of keeping the beast at bay. “i mean, if you don’t stop talkin, m’gonna fuckin’ fold.”

the alcohol in your blood just roars, at that. fuel to the flaming fire inside you.

“tell me.” you murmur. “you think about fucking me? what i’d sound like moaning your—“

before you can finish that thought, his hand is over your mouth. it swallows your face, makes you twitch in all the wrong places — and he sees it.

“enough.” it’s barely a whisper. “christ. fuck. you’re gonna make me do somethin’ stupid.”

you moan against his hand - it spills out of you, vibrates against his fingers. he curses.

“y’wanna know what stupid looks like?” he mutters, head dropping down until his lips near your jaw. “you, wakin up with my fuckin dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

his palm silences everything but your pulse, which is roaring, at this point.

your fingers come up, shift a few of his digits until your voice finds room to leak out. “please.”

his eyes snap shut.

“y’dont know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart,” he mutters, grabbing the edge of the blanket with his free hand and yanking it over your hips. “ain’t gonna wake up with you hatin me.”

even drunk you realize he’s a man of morals.

“you think i’d regret it?” you whisper. stars in your eyes. he doesn’t respond. “simon. i just told you i’ve fantasized about fucking you. i wonder how big you are, if it’d hurt—“

his palm tightens over your lips again.

“one more fuckin’ word and i’ll forget every goddamn reason why i shouldn’t touch you right now.” he spits. “if y’even remember this tomorrow, y’come say it to me sober. promise on every grave i’ve ever stood over i’ll bend y’over on the spot and fuck the idea of regret right outta you.”

then he pulls back, moving slow like it hurts, and you smile.

“guess i’ll see you tomorrow.”

“mhm.” he hums, take a step or two toward the door. “fuckin hope you will.”

[greenmandm]

It's kinda sad to see Cassian branded as a dumb himbo happy go lucky boyfriend, when he's really very intelligent and has a lot of emotional depth. My man reads books on war strategy!! And he is so adept at reading a situation and adjusting do it, not to mention how much he loves his family and how much guilt he feels over Rhys. There's genuinely so much to unpack, and it's especially sad that his character didn't shine in acosf, where he kind of came across as a horny idiot

[greenmandm]

simon knows something is wrong as soon as he comes home. (a little 18+, f!reader)

you're sitting on the floor of the living room. there's acrylic paint in your hair, and you're crying, eyes red and puffy cheeks wet. you're sitting around a floor of strewn about toddler toys, and you're rubbing your chest in the way that simon knows means your breasts are sore.

he shuts the door behind himself. there's dishes piled up in the sink. he smells something that's burnt. the kitchen table is littered with remnants still from breakfast, and there's clean laundry still piled up in the basket, forgotten next to the couch.

"wot the fuck is happenin'?"

you jump a little when you hear his voice, as if it's the first time you've noticed something in your house is different. you want to smile at him, but it falls short. simon kicks his boots off, hanging his jacket up, and he lets out a deep breath as he kneels down in front of you.

"hey, baby," he murmurs. you sniffle, wiping your face, and simon cups your cheeks to make you look at him. "wot happened?"

"he hates me," you whisper. "h-he hates me, simon, h-he said it."

"who hates ya, swee'eart?"

"joe," you whine. "i told him...i told him you wouldn't be here for supper, and he..." you start to cry. "he said he hates me. he wants you, he only wants you. he hates me..."

simon sucks on his teeth under the mask, shaking his head.

"mm...and where's our sweet girl then?"

"s-sleeping."

"havin' a nap?" he kisses you softly. "olright. time to pump, huh, love?" he cups under your breast tenderly, rubbing over your sore nipple. you sigh, nodding, and he nudges his nose against yours. "olright. you 'ave a go. take a nice bath. have somethin' ta eat."

you collapse against his chest in a fit of soft tears. he wraps an arm around your shoulders, holding you close, and he rubs your back gently.

"we'll 'ave a chat," simon murmurs. "sort this out."

"i-i'm sorry, simon."

"no need ta be sorry, baby. i've got it."

"i...i wanted to have it, too. i wanted..."

simon rubs a thumb over your face gently.

"you do, baby. you've got it. i know you do. there now, that's a girl..."

it takes a few minutes to get you to go into your shared bedroom. when he sees you relaxed as you get your breast bump, he makes his way down the hall, to where your son's bedroom door is just ajar.

when he pushes it open, it creaks. simon sighs as he sees your little boy sitting on the carpet, playing with his trains. he's quiet, which is unusual; when he comes home, normally his son is bounding towards him, jumping up and down, so happy and excited to see his father. now, he looks shy, and he won't acknowledge him.

"oi," simon murmurs gently. "that a way to greet me, lad?"

his son just shrugs. he looks up at him, the picture of shame, and simon closes the door behind him as he takes a seat on the little bed. it creaks under his great weight, but it holds up. simon looks positively funny—he takes up most of the bed, and he has to hunch over to get closer to his son.

"i missed you very much. been gone awhile, haven't i?"

his son just shrugs again.

"'n i come home, and i see y'r mum covered in rubbish, very upset. would y'like ta tell me wot tha's about? huh, joe?"

his son, predictably, just shrugs.

"y'r mum thinks y'hate her," simon continues. "tha' true?"

shrug.

"oi," simon's voice hardens, but it's still gentle. "i'm havin' a conversation with you, lad. i'd like it very much if y'gave me y'r attention."

joe finally stops touching his trains. he sniffles, looking up at simon, and simon tilts his head to the side. when they meet eyes, simon tries to be less intimidating. he wants his son to know he's done something wrong, but he doesn't want to scare him.

"y'r mum thinks you hate her. tha' true?" he asks again. when joe shakes his head, simon narrows his eyes. "then why'd ya say it?"

"wanted a lolly."

"uh huh. but mummy said it was supper time, didn't she?"

"yeah."

"so you hate her?"

"no."

"then why'd ya say it?"

"i dunno," joe shrugs. he frowns a little, thinking, and simon is satisfied with this reaction. punishing joe never works; taking away his toys, his coloring books, playtime, it never works. joe is like you—too smart for his own good. he learns when he's confronted with the truth. "i wanted..."

"ya wanted to hurt her," simon finishes. "like you think she hurt you."

joe turns back to his trains. simon sits up, taking a deep breath.

"one day," simon murmurs, "y'r gonna love someone the way i love y'r mummy."

"i am?" joe is interested. he turns his head a little, blinking up at his dad, and simon just nods. realistic. honest.

"right," simon tells him. "y'r gonna love them 'n y'r gonna wanna protect them, like i want to protect y'r mum. you can't stop everyone from hurtin' them, but i would hope that at least it...wouldn't be family. tha's y'r mum, mate. i remember when y'were the size of a tiny bean, inside of her tummy, yeah? she was so happy. 'n when y'were born, she cried so much. said y'were the most wonderful thing, said she would love you more than anythin', more than me." simon chuckles. "was a bit jealous of ya for a bit, won't lie. 'n she does. loves you with all of herself. tells me all the time."

"she does?" joe's eyes are big and bright now. he feels bad. he's sad.

"tha's right," simon mutters. "'n when i'm gone, i'm not here to protect y'r mum, so i thought you'd be a big help, but here we are, joe. 'n y'r mine, mate, all mine, but y'r mum is special to me, y'hear tha'? she's my special girl. my special girl tha' loves you more than herself, so i need you to go tell her y'r sorry, and i need you to mean it."

joe stands up onto his little legs, and simon watches as he toddles over to simon. simon scoops him up into a big hug, and joe wraps his arms around his neck and buries his face into his shoulder.

"i'm sorry," joe whimpers, and simon rubs his little head gently. "i-i don't hate her, i-i got...m-mad..."

"tha's olright," simon whispers. "you can get mad. but ya can't hurt y'r mum. she does oll the heavy liftin' when 'm gone, and...can't do tha'. won't 'ave it."

"i-i won't. i-i won't anymore—"

"good lad..."

when it's quiet in the house, and the babies are sleeping, simon is rubbing lotion into your hands gently. you're tired from feeding the baby, and you're tired from scrubbing the paint out of your hair, but now simon is home, and he's here, and your son sobbed in your arms blubbering about how much he loves you, how he's sorry.

"you come home, and everything..." you sniffle, "everything just gets better again. i-i...why am i so bad at this, simon?"

"you're not bad," simon tells you. "i'm the bastard, baby. the one leavin' ya here...all alone..." he sighs. he pushes your hair out of your face, thumbing at your cheek. "work so hard, love. make my life so easy."

"easy?" your eyes water. you reach up and clutch his forearm, leaning into him. "what you do is so hard, simon. a-and...and so scary."

simon shakes his head, meeting your eyes. you look tired. you look beautiful, but you look tired, and he feels it—he knew one day he would feel it, but he didn't realize that day would come so soon. it's time. it's time for him to come home. it's time to put the papers in, to stomach the desk job, to bite the bullet, because he won't leave you and come back like this. not again. he can't do it. not to you.

"my pretty girl," simon mutters. he licks over his teeth, moving his hand lower to cup your jaw in a big palm. you arch up to meet him, fisting his shirt, and you open your mouth as he bends to kiss you. his tongue is hot against yours; he devours you from the inside out, kissing you wet and eager. you whimper softly, sinking into him, and he smiles into the kiss when he feels you nearly liquefy underneath him. "open, swee'eart."

you do. you let your jaw hinge and mouth fall open, and you accept his fingers easily. you tongue at the pads of his fingers, closing your mouth around them and sucking softly. when he removes them, he slips them under the shirt you wear, where he finds you soft and warm and wet between the thighs. he tucks his fingers under the gusset of your panties, and he feels all the blood swell into his cock when he has to feel between a nearly full bush to find your puffy clit.

"didn't want to touch it while you were gone," you whisper.

"yeah?" simon smirks, slipping two fingers inside of you. his thumb keeps its place on your clit, and your toes curl as you leak onto his palm. "why's tha', love?"

"b-because...because..."

"cause why, baby?"

"cause...c-cause it's yours, simon. your pussy."

"tha's right," simon hums. "my pussy."

[greenmandm]

au where obi wan gets yoinked off of geonosis. like. everything else is the same, anakin and padmé come to save obi, get captured, go into the arena, etc. etc. but dooku just stole obi wan and brought him to serenno w/ him

i fully believe dooku would do that. nobody in the galaxy, not even sheev palpatine knows where obi wan is (palps is panicking over this important variable being nowhere to be seen) and obi is just tied to a chair while dooku is having a power point presentation on why makashi is the best lightsaber form

[greenmandm]

The one thing Andor did that had me cackling is showing how utterly ridiculous Bail Organa is. Like Luthen has 8000 secret identities and Mon Mothma is tweaking out all the time and meanwhile Bail is rolling up with C3PO and R2D2 and his multiple Jedi contacts and his force sensitive daughter and his rebel cell that keeps blowing up star destroyers and literally no one in the empire ever does anything about it I love him

[greenmandm]

Pure Love

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: soft!azriel (this is toothrotting fluff, so yes it's a warning), language, tending to minor wounds

word count: 6.8k

synopsis: You were in love with Azriel. It was inevitable, really. Who could blame you for falling for the kind and gentle male?

or

A series of moments that show your blooming love for Azriel, who was too busy cultivating his own love for you to notice.

my masterlist

~ ~ ~

I love you.

The words swam in your head as you stared at the beautiful male across the training room. His wings were tucked in tight behind him and his shadows were out of sight as he gently coached a tentative priestess. She was the newest recruit from the library, and she was a skittish little thing. It had taken Gwyn months to convince her to join you all for training.

Emerie and Gwyn had balked when Nesta suggested she start her training with Azriel, but you knew there was no one better to coax confidence into the nervous female. You understood Gywn and Emerie’s bewilderment. Really, you couldn’t blame them after watching Azriel and Cassian push them past their limits every day in training. It wasn’t too long ago, though, that you had been in that priestesses shoes, and the very same shadowsinger had helped you grow into yourself. He recognized your strength long before you learned to see it in yourself.

You felt like a fool the first day of training. A naive, fumbling fawn that had wandered into a lion’s den. You were an Illyrian female with no money or skills to your name, and you felt so stupid for thinking you could be like Emerie. Emerie, the Illyrian female from your own camp that had won the Blood Rite, alongside the two other females you admired. She had found you cornered by a group of males just a block from your home, somehow scaring them off. Something inside of you snapped then, and you knew you would do whatever you could to get out of that hell hole.

You begged her to take you with her to Velaris. To ask the General to train you alongside them. You really didn’t need to do much to convince her, for she understood your struggles and desperation better than anyone. Cassian was convinced easily enough as well, and hope had bloomed in your chest at the prospect of training with Valkyries. That hope withered that first day, when you couldn’t even muster the strength to hold a wooden sword, or find the coordination to follow the intricate footwork of sparring.

You had slid out of the training room while everyone was chatting during a water break, and walked blindly until you found a long, dark stairwell that seemed to stretch down for miles. You numbly walked down the stairs until you stopped to slide down against the stone wall, sitting dejectedly on the step. Tears silently slid down your cheeks as your heart pounded and you thought about going back to that gods forsaken camp with those bastard males. 

The door to the stairwell had slowly creaked open, and the sound was followed by slow and heavy footsteps that made your back straighten and skin prickle with nerves. Your stomach twisted once you made out the silhouette of the large winged-male a few steps above you, and your mind fell back to the last time you were alone with an Illyrian male. As if he could read your thoughts, he stayed back, not daring to come any closer, and slowly sat on his own step. Moments of tense silence passed between you, before he finally asked, voice quiet and gentle, “Are you okay?”

You didn’t know how to answer him. You weren’t okay, but you didn’t know if you wanted to admit that to the Night Court’s Spymaster.

Azriel kept speaking, his tone hushed, “I didn’t know how to fly until I was eleven.”

You couldn’t help the shock that roiled through you. Eleven? How could it be possible for an Illyrian boy to go so long without giving into his instincts to fly? You had been able to fly since the age of three, until the males in your camp stole that joy from you a decade later.

“It’s a long story,” he said, his quiet voice bouncing off the stone around you. “But I learned eventually, and now I’m here.”

You still said nothing, prompting Azriel to keep talking. “No one here is going to judge you for trying,” he murmured. “For learning to defend yourself. Everyone starts somewhere, and we all understand that. Better than most.”

“I don’t want to go back to that camp,” you croaked.

A beat passed that seemed to crackle with a new tension, and you wondered if you had managed to say the wrong thing, until Azriel swore, voice hard, “You don’t have to.”

“But if I can’t—”

“You are welcome here in Velaris for as long as you wish,” he cut you off. “You can stay here in the House of Wind however long you need. Emerie is about to move in as well.”

You mulled over his words, and your chest tightened as you thought about training again. “I’m nothing like those females in the training room,” you whispered.

“How so?”

You floundered. “They are all so magnificent. They are brave, and strong, and courageous. They are confident, steady. I am none of those things.”

“You are a female who has survived the horrid treatment of Illyria,” Azriel argued, voice resolute. “You endured that wretched culture and are still here, still wanting to fight. That alone makes you brave. It makes you strong. Don’t let your mind trick you into thinking otherwise.”

You couldn’t believe he spoke of Illyria with such disdain. This fearsome Ilryian male that sat on the High Lord’s court with swirls of Illryian ink snaking up his neck and down his arms spoke of his culture with such hatred you nearly recoiled, and you wondered what happened to make him despise his own culture so much. 

He let out a breath. “I will help you train,” he murmured softly. “We can meet for extra sessions if you would like.”

You had known that you really would be a fool if you passed on his offer, if you jeopardized the freedom he was offering you on a silver platter. You jumped at the opportunity, and that’s how you ended up spending the next five months training with Azriel. He was kind and gentle and respectful with every word he spoke, with every direction he gave to you. He pushed you to your limit every night, limbs wobbly with exhaustion by the time you crawled into bed, but he never asked you for more than you were capable of.

He taught you how to trust yourself. To be sure of your movements and your thoughts. To rely on your instincts in every situation. You carried yourself with confidence now, head held high and back straight when you walked into a room or down the bustling streets of Velaris. He would argue with you, but you knew you owed it all to Azriel.

Yes, he truly was the perfect person to coach the new and timid priestess. You knew of the terrifying reputation he held across Prythian. You had known of it long before you ever met him, but he quickly proved to you that he was nothing like the rumors painted him as. He could be ruthless, yes, and you were sure he was terrifying to whoever ended up on the other side of his dagger, but he never held that persona around you or his loved ones. Never around the citizens of Velaris. Azriel was sweet and gentle, patient and understanding, and could anyone really fault you for falling in love with the male after spending so much time with him?

His hazel eyes locked with yours across the room. Your face flushed at being caught watching him, but you offered a small, sheepish smile, to which he returned. Your heart fluttered, and you dragged your attention back to the females around you, avoiding Nesta’s curious gaze.

~ ~ ~

I love you.

You watched from afar as Azriel crouched down in front of a small girl on the bustling streets of Velaris, his wings creating a pocket of safety around the teary eyed child. She had a scrape on her knee that she was cradling to her little chest, and her eyes were wide as saucers as she stared up at Azriel. You inched closer, hoping he knew you were there if he needed you. If she wanted a female’s help.

He didn’t need your help, of course. You watched him hold his palms out for the little girl, and she slowly placed both of her tiny hands in his scarred ones. You saw her eye his hands curiously as he helped her rise to her feet, but her attention was quickly diverted by the new trail of blood trickling down her shin. Her lip started to wobble, and Azriel looked around frantically. You quickly pulled out the handkerchief you kept in your pocket and held it out to him.

His eyes clung to the embroidered cloth dangling in front of him before they snapped up to you. “Use this,” you murmured quietly. He gently took the cloth from you, dragging his eyes away to look back at the little girl.

He cooed softly, the girl clinging tight to the fingers of one of his hands. He softly told her not to worry, that they would get her all cleaned up in no time as he gently wiped the blood from her pale blue skin. Her cheeks were wet as she watched Azriel in awe, her tiny hand still gripping his fingers.

He stuck the cloth in his pocket, hiding the blood from her sight as he told her softly, “There. Like it never even happened.” He grinned at the little girl, whose cheeks turned a darker shade of blue. He squeezed the hand she still had wrapped around his. “Is your mother around, honey?”

Your insides melted at the sweet term of endearment that he cooed to the little girl. Falling in love with such a kind and gentle male, beautiful inside and out, was inevitable, really.

She shook her head, dark curly hair disheveled from her fall bouncing around. “I lost her back there.” She pointed in the direction of the Sidra, where shops and cafés lined the bustling boardwalk.

Azriel slowly stood up, keeping his hand in hers. He hummed softly, “Let's see if we can find her.”

He briefly glanced at you, and you took that as your cue to follow. Azriel and the girl walked hand in hand down the busy cobblestone street, with you trailing closely behind. “My name is Az,” he told the girl, then he pointed over his shoulder to you. Her eyes followed his motion so that they landed on you curiously. “This is my friend Y/N.”

The girl took you in with wide eyes, and you smiled softly. “You’re pretty,” she said in awe.

Your face flushed, and you caught Azriel’s smirk before you cleared your throat. “Why thank you,” you said animatedly, forcing yourself to accept the young faerie’s compliment. “You are beautiful,” you returned. “You glimmer like the brightest star.”

The little girl bashfully looked away, stepping closer to Azriel to hide behind his arm. Azriel chuckled softly. “Can you tell us your name?” he asked.

Before the girl could respond, commotion in the street made you and Azriel halt. He tugged the girl close to him as you flanked her other side. A female was yelling in the street, frantically moving from person to person. Her eyes were wild and frantic as she scanned the bodies on the street, her pale blue skin glimmering in the sunlight. You looked down at the little girl. “Is that your mother?”

She twisted to look around the towering bodies surrounding her, but Azriel quickly scooped her up in his arms so she could see. She giggled at the dramatic change in height for her, resting her little hand on his broad shoulder. He pointed to the female up ahead, and the girl nodded excitedly, wiggling in his hold.

“Hang on a second, love,” he murmured, holding her in place. The three of you moved closer to the female, the crowd of bodies parting easily around you at the sight of Azriel.

Once you neared closer, the distraught female’s eyes snagged on the Illyrian male carrying her tiny daughter. Her face visibly crumpled with relief as she hurtled to meet the three of you. “Molly!” she cried with her arms outstretched, the girl easily leaping from Azriel to her mother.

The girl stuffed her face in her mother’s neck. “You can’t run away from me like that,” she chided, voice wobbly with fear and relief.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” the little girl whined into her mother. Her mother sighed and ran a gentle hand over her head before her eyes drifted back to Azriel. They went wide.

Azriel shifted on his feet, his arm brushing against yours. You glanced at him out of your periphery and noticed the faint pink hue that coated his cheeks. The female sputtered before stammering out, “Thank you, Spymaster.”

Azriel moved his hands behind his back. “Not necessary,” he said softly. The female was at a loss for words as she stared at him. Her eyes briefly passed over you, and you smiled softly.

“She has a bit of a scrape on her knee,” you told the female after Azriel had grown stiff beside you. “Azriel cleaned her up, but it should probably be washed.”

The female nodded, holding her daughter tight. “Thank you,” she said again, clearly still intimidated by the male beside you. “I’m sorry for the trouble,” she added, and then hastily moved away and disappeared into the busy street.

Your gaze lingered on where she vanished for a moment before you returned your attention to Azriel, who was still thrumming with tension beside you. “Azriel?” you asked softly. “Are you okay?”

His throat bobbed and he blinked a few times before glancing at you. He tilted his head in the direction of the Sidra. “Let’s go,” he said, voice cold. You frowned. “We’re going to be late.”

He stalked off in the direction of the River House, and you had to hurry to match his pace. You watched him closely for a moment, taking in the twitching of his jaw and the agitated shadows that pulsed around him. His hands were clenched into tight fists, and when you reached for his wrist his whole body locked up.

You quickly dropped your hand, and tried to suppress the flare of hurt that erupted at his reaction to your touch. He stopped on the street, looking at you expectantly. You wetted your lips, searching for the words that you had wanted to say. “What’s wrong?” you asked softly.

He clenched his jaw and started walking away again. Your nostrils flared as you followed him, irritation replacing your hurt. “Azriel,” you snapped, voice demanding his attention.

He halted again, and turned to look at you. His eyes were cold and sharp, and you frowned at the absence of his usual warmth around you. “Tell me why you’re upset,” you prodded, voice more gentle.

His eyes bounced between yours, and you braced yourself for his rejection, for him to tell you to fuck off and mind your own business. Instead he shocked you by gritting out, “She was afraid of me.”

Your brows furrowed. “Who? The little girl?”

He nodded tersely. “And her mother.”

“Az,” you said in disbelief, the nickname slipping from your lips. “Of course the girl was scared of you, at first. You’re an Illyrian warrior. You’re naturally intimidating.”

He scowled at your words and you hurried to continue. “But as soon as you showed her kindness, she trusted you. She practically clung to you, Azriel. You made her feel safe.”

He looked down at his hands, at the scarred tissue covering them. “She held onto your hand for dear life, because she knew you were good. She knew you would take care of her.”

His face softened slightly and his shoulders dropped. “Her mother was distraught and frantic looking for her little girl, and then she found her in the arms of a member of her High Lord’s court,” you continued softly, taking a step closer. His hazel eyes locked with yours. “She was shocked, and intimidated, yes, but she wasn’t afraid you would hurt her or her daughter. I guarantee it.”

Azriel’s breath caught in his throat as you took another step closer, only inches separating you. You swallowed your nerves, needing him to hear this, to understand. “You are a good male, Azriel.” Your voice was whisper soft and laced with reverence.

A shadow brushed your hand as his chest moved with his heavy breaths. He looked at you like you were a puzzle, an enigma he couldn’t figure out. He pulled his gaze away, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you.” Then he turned and started walking in the direction of the River House again.

Your shoulders deflated and you let out a disappointed sigh. You trailed behind him, the words I love you swimming in your head, begging to reach the sullen male just a few feet in front of you.

~ ~ ~

A generous slice of chocolate cake appeared in front of you. Your eyes trailed from the cake to the scarred hand that held the plate up the eyes of the male offering it to you. Your brows furrowed in confusion, but you took the cake nonetheless. You glanced from the cake to Azriel again, who folded his hands behind himself as he towered over where you sat in the oversized armchair.

“Thank you?” You smiled softly. “Was my lust for some cake that obvious?”

Pink tinged his cheeks, and your heart fluttered in your chest. Your friends were all chattering loudly throughout the living room of Rhys and Feyre’s house, but it all faded to a dull buzz as you stared at Azriel.

“I may have caught you looking once or twice,” was his quiet response.

You grinned, then picked up the fork he had rested on the plate for you. You stuffed a too large bite in your mouth, relishing in the taste of the chocolate on your tongue. “I also wanted to apologize,” Azriel said quietly, and his voice made you rush to swallow your food.

“Apologize?”

“For yesterday.”

You frowned. “That’s not necessary.”

“It is,” he argued. “I was rude to you, and you didn’t deserve that.”

“Hardly,” you scoffed. Yes, your feelings had been hurt by his cool demeanor and his aversion to your touch, but that was hardly an offense to hold over his head. “You were upset, Azriel. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“But—”

“Nope,” you cut him off before taking another bite of your cake. You gestured to the arm of the sofa you were sitting on. “Sit down and share this cake with me.”

Azriel hesitated, but he relented when you cut him a pointed look. He moved to the other side of the chair, sitting precariously on the arm. He shifted around a bit to get comfortable, and in the process his wing brushed against your own, the feeling sending a shiver up your spine. The two of you froze, and he looked at you with alarm before he stood up hastily, “I’m so sorry—”

“Azriel,” you sighed, feigning nonchalance when your entire body felt like it was on fire. “Just sit down. It’s okay.”

His throat bobbed, his wide eyes staring at you before returning to his perch on the arm rest. His wing brushed your arm this time, and he went rigid. “It’s okay,” you said again softly, his eyes locking with yours. 

His mouth opened and closed, and his cheeks were flushed. “I don’t want to make you—”

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” you assured him. The tension melted away from his body, but you still added, “You don’t have to sit here if you’re uncomfortable, though.”

“I’m not,” he was quick to say, and he settled in a bit more until he was comfortable enough on the plush armrest. He was tall enough that his feet rested flat on the floor, and you knew it probably wasn’t the most comfortable position, but at least he wasn’t just standing and watching you and his family from the side. His wings relaxed slightly, and they brushed yours again lightly.

He watched you carefully, and you forced your face to stay neutral, to not reveal that there was a torrent of butterflies fluttering in your chest. He reached for the fork in your hand, his fingers brushing yours, and your mind was fuzzy from all the physical contact. Even during your training sessions Azriel did his best to refrain from touching you. You knew it was to make you comfortable, to make you feel safe after coming from the Illyrian camps, but sometimes you longed for his touch. Now you were sitting here sharing a piece of cake with him while his wings gently brushed against you.

He raised the fork to his mouth and then handed it back to you, his eyes crinkling slightly in a smile while he chewed his cake. I love you, you thought, and the words sent a strange warmth through you that seemed to settle in your chest. The feeling was strange, and you stared at Azriel a bit awestruck. Home. It felt like you finally were home after searching for one for half a century.

~ ~ ~

“We know you’re in love with Azriel.”

The words clanged through your intoxicated mind as you stared at Nesta and Feyre in the booth across from you. Feyre glared at Nesta, who was looking at you expectantly.

You stammered out a pitiful, “What?”

Nesta rolled her eyes and Feyre’s soft ones landed on you. “By ‘we’ she means her and me. No one else knows.”

Nesta hummed, “That we know of. But if we figured it out…”

You blanched, and Feyre swatted Nesta’s shoulder. “Ignore her,” she told you. Her eyes were soft as they looked over your slightly swaying form in the wooden booth. The music pounding through Rita’s was making you a little nauseous at this point. The throbbing at your back and the alcohol you had downed also wasn’t doing you any favors. You suddenly wished you could winnow.

“Do you really love him?” Feyre asked softly.

Your hands were clammy as you stuffed them beneath your thighs. Your gaze bounced nervously around the tavern, desperate to escape this situation.

“Y/N,” Feyre said softly, dragging your attention back to her. “We’re not trying to make you uncomfortable.”

Nesta’s eyes had considerably softened as she said, “We just want you to talk to us. We’re your friends.”

You bit your lip, anxiety thrumming through you at the thought of admitting your feelings for the Illyrian male aloud. You blamed the alcohol coursing through your veins for answering with, “I’m so in love with him.”

Their eyes widened, then slow smiles broke out across their faces.

The slightly slurred words tumbled out of you. “It’s pathetic how much I love him. But how could I not?” Your eyes were wide as you flung your arms out in exasperation. “How could I possibly be expected to not fall in love with the kind and thoughtful male that took time out his night to train me for months?” you exclaimed. “He’s so beautiful, and intelligent, and gentle.”

Feyre and Nesta were grinning with amusement as you unleashed the torrent of thoughts you had kept pent up about the male for the last six months. “I love him so much it hurts,” you whined, clutching your chest dramatically.

The two sisters shared a glance before Feyre asked slowly, “Have you thought about sharing this with Azriel?”

Your mouth fell open. “Of course not!” you exclaimed.

Nesta frowned. “Why not?”

You faltered. “Why the hell would I?”

Her frown shifted into a scowl. “Maybe he feels the same, Y/N.”

You scoffed. “As if he would ever love me.”

“Why would you say that?” Feyre asked, bewildered.

“Because I’m me! I’m just a poor Illyrian female that he took pity on because he’s kind.”

Nesta’s glare was icy. “You are far more than that to him, to all of us for that matter. You’re our friend, Y/N,” she snapped. You flinched slightly. “If you don’t recognize that, I don’t know what to tell you.”

A tense silence fell on your table. Feyre eventually decided to break it. “Azriel is a good male who loves his family fiercely,” she said softly. “But I’ve never seen him…soften the way he does around you.” 

Nesta nodded her agreement. “He practically glows when he sees you, Y/N.” Then she added with a pointed look, “And vice versa.”

You flushed. You were done with this mortifying conversation for tonight. You had said far too much in far too little time, and it was time for you to go. You might have to sleep on the stairs to the House of Wind if you left without one of your Illyrian male chauffeurs, but we all had to make sacrifices.

You stood up from the booth, a bit unsteady on your feet. “I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

They both protested as you turned and made a beeline for the door. The cool night air was refreshing on your flushed cheeks, and you giggled to yourself as you walked on unsteady feet down the stone street. Gods, you were really drunk.

In some part of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t be walking by yourself in the middle of the night, especially drunk. You were pretty sure any self defense tactics Azriel had taught you had fallen right out of your head tonight. You would be lucky if you could run in a straight line.

You smiled to yourself at the thought of Azriel. He was so beautiful. You missed him. You loved him. That’s what you had told Nesta and Feyre tonight. The reminder turned your stomach sour.

“Y/N.”

You spun around at the sound of your name, wobbling slightly. Your eyes widened and a grin spread across your face at the sight of the male in front of you. “I was just thinking about you!”

Azriel’s eyebrows went up, and an amused smirk stretched his lips. You bet they were soft. “Sweetheart,” Azriel murmured, taking a step closer. “How much did you drink?”

You shrugged, the motion making you sway a little. Azriel quickly reached to stabilize you. His hand on your waist felt electric.

“You were supposed to wait for me to take you home,” he said softly. “Feyre was a bit frantic that you just walked out.”

You blinked. His eyes were so bright under the light of the moon and stars. “Sorry,” you mumbled.

“Did something happen?” he asked, voice gentle. “Why did you just leave?”

You thought about Feyre and Nesta’s interrogation and the word vomit that spewed from your mouth. Even drunk you knew not to tell Azriel that, so you simply shrugged again. You leaned a bit closer to him, exhaustion creeping in. “I’m tired, Az,” you whined.

He chuckled, and you smiled at the sound. “Let’s go,” he said, tucking you into his side. You leaned heavily on him, and you barely noticed your wing touching his. Azriel didn’t mention it either. “I think we should go to the Town House,” he said. “I’m not sure flying or winnowing is the best idea right now.”

You nodded, mumbling out an agreement. Your eyes caught on the bright blue cobalt of his siphon that adorned the hand on your waist. You perked up a bit, grinning. “Hey!” you yelled, startling Azriel a bit. “Your siphon matches my skirt!” You pointed to the cobalt satin that draped down your legs.

Azriel laughed as he continued pulling you along toward the house. “It’s my favorite color,” you babbled. “I’ve always liked blue, but then I saw your blue, and I knew it had to be mine too.”

Azriel squeezed your hip gently. “I’m flattered,” he teased. You knew you were likely talking nonsense, but you grinned at his indulgence.

You continued rambling about anything and everything, with Azriel nodding or humming his acknowledgment. Eventually you reached the Town House, and Azriel guided you through the gate and up the stairs slowly, holding onto you tight. You fell into him a bit once you stood in front of the door. He managed to open it without letting go of you, and then shut it behind him.

The house was warm and smelled like cedar. “I’ve never been here,” you mumbled.

“We usually go to the River House, now” he explained, guiding you to a staircase that made your head swim. “But I still stay here a lot, to get some peace.”

Azriel. It smelled like Azriel. You clumsily stepped for the first stair, missing it completely. You would have collided with the floor if not for Azriel hanging on to you. “I think I’ll just stay here,” you murmured, moving to slide out of his hold, but he held you up firmly.

“You’re not sleeping on the floor,” he grumbled. “Let me carry you up?”

You certainly had no protests. Azriel scooped you up effortlessly then started climbing up the stairs. You rested your head on his chest, closing your eyes as you listened to his heartbeat. I love you, you thought, then, remembering Nesta and Feyre’s claims, Do you love me?

Warmth bloomed in your chest, and you nuzzled into his neck. He pushed open a door that led to a bedroom that smelled even more like him. He sat you down on the edge of the massive bed. “Is this your room?” you asked.

He nodded. “You can sleep in here. The other guest rooms don’t have beds as big. I’ll sleep in Rhys’s old room.”

You nodded, a bit dazed. You winced as a particularly sharp pain shot from the middle of your back and through your wing.

“What is it?” Azriel asked worriedly.

Your eyes burned a bit as you started to recognize the pain again. “I think I hurt my wing,” you whimpered.

“What?” he asked, alarm clear in his voice. “When?”

“Today,” you whispered. “I went to the beach and fell down some rocks.”

“Did you clean them?”

You shook your head. “Couldn’t reach.”

“Well then did you go to a healer?” he asked, exasperated.

You grimaced, shaking your head again. “I don’t like healers.” You didn’t like anyone touching your wings. 

Azriel sucked in a sharp breath. A beat passed. “I know healers in Illyria can be…inconsiderate,” he settled on, voice dripping with disdain. His voice softened then, “But Madja, our family healer, is incredibly kind and gentle. Everyone in her practice is. She’s worked on all of our wings many times.”

You were trembling, the idea of him making you go see a healer right now, when you were drunk and vulnerable—you couldn’t. “Please,” you rasped, “please don’t make me.”

His eyes were so soft as he said, “They need cleaned, sweetheart.”

“You can clean them,” you rushed out. His eyes went wide, but you continued on, “Please? I trust you, more than anyone. I just, I can’t—”

He shushed you softly as he reached to wipe a tear from your cheek. “Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll do my best.”

You relaxed instantly, sinking into the bed. “Lay down for me,” he murmured. “I’ll be right back.”

You did as he said, laying down on your stomach with your head resting on Azriel’s pillows that wrapped you in his comforting scent. He returned quickly, the bed sinking as he sat down beside you. “Can I,” he paused, “Can I touch?”

You nodded against the pillows, a mumbled yes escaping your lips. Azriel gently undid the slats of your sweater, his fingertips brushing your sensitive skin at the base of your wings. You shivered, and he stilled. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.

“Yeah,” you rasped.

He continued his examination, then said, “I think it’s just the right one. The left looks fine.”

He gently prodded the base of the left and then did the same to the right, the motion making you hiss. He apologized, then told you, “These scrapes are still raw, Y/N.”

“Ever since they clipped my wings,” you murmured, “They don’t heal as fast as they should. I don’t know why.”

Azriel’s silence was loud. He rustled around with whatever supplies he collected, and you heard the light sloshing of water. “I’m going to clean them now,” he murmured softly. “Okay?”

You nodded, and he gently ran a warm, damp cloth over the wounds. You tensed from the burning that spread through your wing, but his gentle movements made it bearable. He then unscrewed a cap from a small tin, and told you, “This is a healing balm Madja gave me. It should speed up the healing and dull the pain.”

You nodded and closed your eyes as his gentle fingers spread the salve over your wounds. You let out a sigh of relief as the salve seeped in, quickly taking effect. “Do you have pain anywhere else?”

“I don’t think so,” you mumbled, mind still swimming from the alcohol and now the relief of your pain.

“Can I check?”

“Be my guest,” you said, voice muffled into the pillow.

Azriel gently skimmed his fingers up and along the ridge of your wing, following it all the way to the talon at the tip. Goosebumps littered your skin and you held your breath as he made his careful ministrations. Never had you let anyone touch your wings like this. The sensations were glorious and vulnerable all at once, and you thought you would stay there forever if you could, with Azriel gently stroking your wing in the comfort of his bed.

His fingers brushed against an especially sensitive area of the inner membrane, and a soft moan escaped you. Azriel froze, and you tensed once you realized what you did. “Did that hurt?” he asked worriedly.

You bit your lip, cheeks hot with mortification. “No,” you choked out.

“Oh.” You swore there was a faint shift in his scent, but your muddled mind couldn’t decipher it. “I think the rest of your wing is okay,” he said, voice strangled. “We’ll check your wounds tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” you mumbled, your embarrassment quickly being overcome with exhaustion.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said softly. “Do you want to change your clothes?”

You shook your head, nestling into the silk covered pillows. You were so comfortable. Your pain was gone, you were surrounded by the scent of the male you loved, and sleep was quickly beckoning to you.

You heard him chuckle softly, and then felt him gently remove your shoes from your feet. He draped a blanket over you, and you thought you might be dreaming as he tenderly brushed your hair behind your ear. “Get some sleep, my love.”

You were definitely dreaming.

~ ~ ~

I love you.

“I love you.”

You went still as death, yanking Azriel to a halt. The music from downstairs continued to flow around you, and your one hand was still resting in his while your other was on his shoulder. “What did you just say?” you asked breathlessly.

He gave you a sheepish smile, his cheeks tinting an adorable pink. He lowered your hands, but didn’t let go, his other staying put on your waist. His hazel eyes reflected the glowing spirits that shot across the sky as he looked at you reverently. “I love you,” he said again.

You shook your head, baffled. “You can’t—”

He lifted your hand to his chest, holding your palm over his heart. “Listen to me,” he said gently. “I love you. This—” He squeezed your hand. “This is yours. My heart is yours.”

Your eyes started to sting as tears pooled in them. You were still shaking your head when he squeezed your hand again, and a familiar warmth flooded your chest. “I need you to listen to me,” he cooed. His breath gently danced across your face as his shadows stroked against your neck. “I need you to feel me,” he begged. Your eyes widened at what he was implying, and he smiled slightly.

His own eyes shined as he continued talking, “A couple weeks ago, I went to Nesta for advice.” He swallowed and took a breath. “I told her I found my mate.” Your head was spinning. The world was tilting. “And that I was in love with her. I asked her–” He let out a shaky breath. “I asked her how to get my mate to fall in love with me.”

Your lip was wobbling as you listened intently, and he lifted his hand from your waist to wipe your tears from your cheeks. He chuckled softly. “She laughed at me. I was baffled, really. I couldn’t fathom what she thought was so funny about my turmoil, until she assured me that my mate was already in love with me.”

His hand drifted back to your waist before slowly curling around your lower back. You leaned in closer, unaware you were even doing it. He leaned down so that his cheek brushed against yours, and he was talking softly into your ear. He started gently swaying the two of you to the music again, as he said, “I didn’t believe her, not at first. I didn’t understand how she could possibly know who my mate was, let alone know that she was in love with me.” You let out a shaky breath. “But last week, when I took you home from Rita’s, and I carried you up the stairs? You were practically shouting your thoughts at me across the bond, and I felt it. I felt your love, and I felt your doubt of mine, and it nearly crippled me.”

Nesta’s little intervention that night made more sense now. Your lingering irritation over that whole ordeal withered away with Azriel’s confession, and it was replaced with gratitude for the meddling female. Azriel’s voice drew you back to him, “I knew I couldn’t say anything then, but I tried to push my love for you down the bond, to ease your doubts and anxieties. Then you let me…you trusted me to take care of you, and I knew I had to tell you how I felt, that I wanted you in my bed, letting me take care of you for the rest of my life.”

A soft sob broke free from your lips, and you leaned back to meet Azriel’s own silver-lined eyes. “I love you,” you whispered. The words you had been thinking for months finally out in the open. Azriel smiled at you in awe. “I love you so much. I never thought—not once did I think you could ever love me—”

He pulled you in close, leaning his forehead against yours. “Please don’t say that,” he pleaded, voice anguished. “You are the most beautiful person, inside and out, that I have ever met in my five centuries on this planet. You make me feel warm, and you make me feel safe. You make me feel at peace, and I’ve never had that.”

“Neither have I,” you admitted shakily. “Until I met you.”

Azriel gazed at you adoringly before his hands came up to cup your face. His eyes flicked down to your lips before returning to your eyes, and you gave the tiniest nod before he pressed his lips to yours. All of the love you felt for each other was put into the kiss, the two of you savoring the taste and feel of each other. Your lips moved slowly against his, relishing in this moment, in the warmth that filled your body. You finally recognized that warmth for what it was, the mating bond tying your two souls together, the glow of your love for each other a living, breathing thing.

You broke apart, chests heaving. You stared into his warm honey gaze, your insides melting at the vision of this beautiful male, your beautiful mate. “I love you,” you breathed.

Azriel brushed his nose against yours, his hands still cupping your face. “I know,” he whispered back, and then pressed another tender kiss to your lips. “And I love you.”

You glanced at the crowd of people dancing down below, then looked back at him. Heat flooded you, and his darkening eyes said the feeling was mutual. “Do you want to go somewhere more private?” you asked quietly, a bit nervous.

He pressed a kiss to the skin below your ear, and you shivered at the delightful sensation. “I plan to keep you to myself for weeks,” he growled into your ear. The next thing you knew, he scooped you up in his arms, flying up and out of the House’s wards, and then winnowed the two of you far, far away from the prying eyes and ears of Velaris.

~ ~ ~

a/n: thank you to everyone who has been supporting my writing and sharing such kind words. I know I don't do well at answering comments, but I do see them, and they mean so much.

I've decided to try taking requests, so if you have an idea for a fic, feel free to send it along. I'm fairly busy and writing is my way to decompress, so I can't promise that I will write it nor that I will write it quickly, but please don't hesitate to send me your ideas.

[greenmandm]

it would take a lot to make a clone stir-crazy, but it is worryingly common among the Coruscant Guard, so Fox and his Commanders had created several over complicated challenges, weird rules, and straight up obstacle courses that they update every so often, and sometimes make up problems on the spot that their more antsy men need to solve immediately, like “you need to (spins wheel) MAP OUT all the (throws a dart at a board) MID-LEVEL FOOD STALLS with (pulls name out of hat) YOUR ANGRIEST SERGEANT within (rolls dice) ONE HOUR or else!!!!!”, because they can’t just send the men off world for no reason. the Commanders have to reach out to the GAR sometimes to get ideas about what to have the men do next that can get more adrenaline out, and usually try to recreate battle/recon scenarios inside of their own training rooms from what they hear back, which i imagine instills some pride and amusement in the GAR troopers learning about that. and the Guard tasks usually get adopted by GAR Commanders when they have misbehaving or bored troopers that want something to do since Fox and his Commanders would need to explain why he wants this extremely detailed battle information.

[greenmandm]

After order 66, the surviving Jedi gained the habit of watching the Most Wanted list (expect those that can’t access the holonet). (No one has ever beat Obi-Wan as number 1, but a few came close).

Now imagine one day when Kanan is checking it, seeing if anymore names have disappeared or even the very few times that new names were added, he sees a name and face pop up, one that he knows. Just imagine the relief of knowing that a fellow padawan, an age mate was alive, and then the immediate confusion on what the hell did Cal do that got him that high on the most wanted list.

[greenmandm]

Soul Inked

Azriel x female!reader

Summary: Y/N is a gifted tattoo artist whose enchanted ink reveals truths about a person’s soul. When the rest of the Inner Circle have already received tattoos from her, Azriel remains the lone holdoutuntil a trip to Windhaven and a reunion with Y/N force him to confront old scars, both literal and emotional. As they reconnect through ink, memory, and quiet understanding, buried feelings rise to the surface, and Azriel finally allows himself to be seen, not just by her, but by himself. What begins with ink ends in transformation, healing, and one very steamy bath.

Warnings: slow burn romance, emotional intimacy, tattoos, angst, soft boy Azriel, post-canon setting, trauma, mutual pining, emotional healing, mature content (18+), bathtub sex, fingering, p in v, unprotexted sex, multiple orgasms, comfort

Word count: 12.6k

A/N: Thank you so much for reading this story. English is my third language, so please be kind if anything sounds a bit off.. Thank you for being here, and for giving it a chance. Every comment, reblog, or kind word means more than I can say. P.S. I firmly believe Azriel’s tattoo would glow like a love confession every time he thinks of her. That man is made of longing and secrets and I will not apologize.

masterlist

The sun was starting to dip over Velaris, casting long, golden streaks across the House of Wind’s sprawling terrace. Wind tugged lazily at Cassian’s hair as he leaned back in a chair far too delicate for his bulk, booted feet propped on the stone railing, a half-finished bottle of wine within reach.

“I’m just saying,” he said, twirling a goblet between his fingers, “…it’s suspicious that Azriel is the only one of us who hasn’t gotten a tattoo from Y/N.”

Rhys looked up from the report in his lap, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “All of us have been wondering when someone would bring that up.”

“I wasn’t wondering,” Amren said dryly from her perch near the firepit, examining her newly polished nails. “I already assumed it’s because he’s emotionally constipated.”

Azriel didn’t look up. He sat apart from the rest, half in shadow, meticulously sharpening a dagger with rhythmic precision. Shhhk. Shhhk. The sound was oddly soothing.

“I have no need for magical tattoos,” he said simply, tone cool and unreadable.

“None of us needed them,” Mor chimed in, lounging on a velvet chaise with a slice of peach cake in hand. “But we got them anyway because they’re gorgeous and personal and, let’s be honest, Y/N’s magic is incredible. Mine literally glows when I lie. It’s very inconvenient.” She grinned, clearly not sorry.

Cassian held out his arm, twisting it so the black ink shimmered into a pattern of wings and flame across his bicep. “Mine lights up when I’m about to do something reckless. Which is... constant.”

Rhys chuckled. “Feyre’s changes color depending on her emotions. It’s saved us from at least three arguments.”

“Saved you,” Amren muttered.

“I don’t see the point,” Azriel said, still not looking at any of them. Shadows danced around his shoulders like restless birds.

“Oh, come on,” Mor groaned. “She’s been your friend for centuries. She did all our tattoos for free. You’re literally going to Windhaven tomorrow and you still haven’t let her ink you? It’s insulting.”

Azriel’s jaw ticked.

Rhys caught the shift. “You’re avoiding it.”

“I’m focused on the mission.”

“Please,” Cassian said, clearly delighted now. “You’ve been dodging her studio like it’s a battlefield. Is it because her tattoos reflect your soul?” His voice dropped dramatically. “What if it reveals you’re just a big softie under all that brooding?”

Mor howled with laughter. Even Amren smirked.

Azriel set down the dagger. Slowly. Carefully. “I don’t want magic crawling beneath my skin,” he said, quiet but firm. “Especially not magic that... changes.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Rhys said gently, “You trust her, don’t you?”

Azriel met his High Lord’s gaze. His voice dropped even lower. “With my life.”

“Then maybe it’s time you stop hiding behind shadows and let someone actually see you.”

Cassian whistled low. “Damn. Rhys came in therapist-mode today.”

Azriel ignored that. He stood, sheathing the dagger with a sharp motion, wings rustling as he adjusted his leathers. “I’m not afraid of her ink,” he said. “But it’s not a joke. That magic marks you in ways you can’t always predict.”

“She’d never hurt you,” Mor said softly, her laughter gone.

“I know.”

Rhys gave him a look, steady, quiet. “You’ll have a little time before the meeting in Windhaven. She still keeps the studio near the cliffs?”

Azriel nodded once.

“Then go. Get something small. Let her choose.”

Azriel’s throat bobbed. The shadows curled tighter around his shoulders, like they were shielding him from something he hadn’t admitted aloud yet.

“She’ll make something beautiful,” Mor said, smiling now. “She always does. Even when people don’t think they deserve it.”

He didn’t answer.

Cassian, leaning back smugly, raised his glass in salute. “Just don’t cry if it’s a heart with wings or something. Or worse… flowers.”

Azriel moved so fast the others barely saw it. The dagger whistled through the air and embedded itself in the wall just above Cassian’s head.

Cassian blinked, looked at the blade, then grinned. “That was a yes, I think.”

Amren didn’t even look up from her book. “He’s definitely blushing.”

-

The wind in Windhaven had a bite to it. Not the crisp kind he’d grown used to in Velaris, this was harsher, edged like broken glass, still carrying the echoes of bloodied training fields and bone-deep obedience.

Azriel didn’t slow his steps as he passed the barracks, though the scent of sweat and iron clung to the air like ghosts. The males training below barely glanced up. Once, he might’ve stood among them. Once, he might’ve bled here, too.

He tugged his leathers tighter around him, wings shifting as he moved through the narrow streets that wound down toward the cliff’s edge.

He hadn't wanted to come early. And he hadn't wanted to come here.

Windhaven had always sat wrong in his chest, not just because of the memories, but because of what it represented. What it had tried to make of him. Of all of them.

Being Illyrian had shaped him, yes, but it wasn’t something he was proud of. Not like Rhysand’s court. Not like the changes they’d built with blood and sweat and battle cries. He wasn’t ashamed of where he came from, not exactly... but he sure as hell had no desire to celebrate it. To wear it carved into his skin.

That’s why he’d never gotten a tattoo in Windhaven. Until now, maybe. Maybe not. He still hadn’t decided. He told himself he just wanted to see her.

The studio sat perched at the edge of the cliffs, just as he remembered. A modest building of storm-grey stone and high glass windows, its painted sign swinging gently in the wind: INK & SOUL. The door was cracked open to let in the salt air. Faint music drifted from within, a soft, lilting melody played on vinyl. Of course.

His shadows curled tighter around his shoulders, whispering that she was inside. Alone. She always was, this time of day.

He stepped inside quietly, letting the door shut behind him with a gentle click.

The studio hadn’t changed.

Clean lines. Light floors. Ink pots organized by both color and magical resonance. A long workbench cluttered with sketches, half-finished charms, and three cold cups of tea in varying states of abandonment.

And there, seated in the soft, golden light that spilled through the western window, was Y/N.

She was barefoot, legs tucked under her as she worked on something delicately precise, brow furrowed in that way he remembered too well. A smudge of silver ink marred her cheek. Her hair was pulled up in a messy knot, and strands had fallen loose to frame her face.

He didn’t say her name. He didn’t have to. Her head snapped up the moment the door clicked, eyes locking with his across the room. A beat of silence. Then she smiled, not surprised. Not teasing. Just soft. Familiar. Real.

“You’re early,” she said, setting down her stylus. “The meeting isn’t until tomorrow.”

“I know.” His voice came rougher than he meant it to. He cleared it. “Thought I’d walk the cliffs. Check the perimeter.”

“And thought you’d just happen to walk into my studio on the way?” she asked, arching a brow.

“I remembered you make good tea.”

That earned him a snort. “Liar.” But she was already rising, moving towards him to wrap her arms around him. Azriel immediately relaxed as he felt her cheek pushing against his chest. And still, wrapped in Azriel’s arms, she asked, “You still like the cinnamon bark one?”

He hesitated and then let go of her “Yeah.”

A pause.

“Where are your companions?” she asked, turning to the stove as she boiled water with a flick of her fingers.

“They’re outside, keeping watch. They don’t like Windhaven.”

“Neither do I.”

That made his lips twitch, almost a smile. He watched her move with that same fluid ease he remembered, like her body always had one foot in magic and the other in steel. She hadn’t changed, not really. Older, yes. More powerful. More certain of herself in a way he’d always envied. But she was still her.

He’d missed her.

They used to be inseparable. Two ghosts in a court of stars. She was Mor’s friend first, yes, but she had always made space for him. For his silences. For his darkness. And he had clung to that without ever asking why.

“I almost didn’t come,” he said quietly.

She handed him a mug, then leaned against the counter beside him. “Because of Windhaven?”

He nodded once. She didn’t press. Didn’t prod. Just sipped her tea and let the silence settle comfortably between them.

And that was why he had come.

Because she didn’t ask him to be more than he was. Didn’t ask for answers he wasn’t ready to give. And because, even now, centuries later, with magic singing beneath her skin and power laced into every breath she took... she never looked at him like he was broken.

“But I came because I knew I’d get to see you again,” Azriel said, quietly.

Y/N stilled beside him.

Not dramatically. Not like she didn’t know what to do with his words. Just a slow pause, the kind that said she heard them. Felt the weight of them.

Her eyes stayed on the swirling tea in her hands. “It’s been a while.”

He nodded. “Too long.”

She gave a small smile. “You could’ve written.”

“I could’ve.”

He didn’t explain. Didn’t need to. They both knew what letters between them would’ve looked like, all restraint and formality and things neither of them were brave enough to say.

She curled one leg beneath her, shifting to face him more fully. “How have you been?”

Azriel stared down into his tea for a moment, watching the way the cinnamon strands swirled like smoke.

“I’ve been... busy,” he said. “Missions. Court politics. You know how it is.”

Her eyes flicked to him and then softened. “That’s not what I asked.”

He looked at her then. Really looked.

There was a time, long ago, when she had been the only person who ever asked him that. Not what he was doing, or what he’d accomplished, or how useful he was. Just how he was.

“Some days are easier than others,” he said after a pause.

Y/N reached for a jar of honey on the counter and stirred some into her tea, slowly. Thoughtfully. “That sounds like an honest answer.”

“I’m trying.”

“You don’t have to try so hard around me.”

That made his throat tighten. She always knew where to press, not to hurt, but to remind him of what he kept buried.

“I know,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Outside the window, the cliffs blurred with gold and grey as the sun lowered, and gulls called in the distance. The studio had gone quiet again, the record having long since finished its song. But neither of them moved to change it.

“Things have been strange lately,” she said after a moment. “The magic’s been... off. Not dangerous, but different. The inks are reacting stronger than they used to.”

Azriel glanced over. “That’s why you didn’t come to the city?”

“Partly,” she admitted. “And partly because I needed time away. The Inner Circle is a lot of energy, even when I love you all.”

He gave a dry chuckle. “We’re exhausting.”

“Especially Cassian,” she said with a smirk.

That got a real smile out of him, brief, but honest. “He’s gotten worse.”

“I believe that.”

They fell into a companionable silence again, the kind only centuries of shared history could afford. Azriel let his shoulders relax by degrees, drinking in the quiet, the warmth, her.

“You used to sit right there, you know,” she murmured, gesturing to the worn cushion beneath him. “Back when I was learning to charm the inks. You'd come back from training, half-dead, and just sit and watch.”

“I didn’t have anywhere else I wanted to be.”

Her breath caught, barely. But he heard it. And she didn’t look away this time when she said, “I liked having you here. I always did.”

Azriel didn’t know what possessed him then, maybe the fading light, maybe the scent of cinnamon and ink and her. Maybe just that ancient ache that had never really left.

He reached out, brushing his fingers gently against a streak of silver on her cheek.

“You’ve got ink on your face.”

She smiled, soft and amused. “I always do.”

And still, neither of them moved. Not away. Not closer. Just sat there, suspended in a moment too long in the making. And for the first time in months, maybe longer, Azriel felt like he could breathe.

Azriel’s hand dropped slowly from her cheek, but he didn’t lean back. Didn’t retreat like he normally would. Instead, his fingers flexed once in his lap. Then again.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he said finally, voice low and raw. “The tattoo.”

Y/N blinked, surprised, but not shocked. She never was with him. She just... waited.

“I’ve been debating with myself for months,” he went on. “Every time I see the others’ marks, I wonder what mine would be. What yours would see in me. But the thought of letting it happen...”

He shook his head slightly. “I never wanted another tattoo,” he admitted. “Not since I left Windhaven. Not since the ones I earned back then.”

Her gaze drifted, briefly, to his forearms where old Illyrian markings lay half-faded beneath layers of shadows and scar tissue. He didn’t need to explain. She’d seen them before. She knew what they meant.

“They were branding more than art,” he said. “Marks of what I was supposed to be. A soldier. A weapon. Property of a warband that didn’t give a damn about who I was, only what I could kill.”

His voice had gone quiet, nearly lost to the growing wind outside. Shadows stirred around him, flickering like candle smoke, but didn’t lash out. They weren’t angry. Just… present.

“Even after Rhys became High Lord, after everything we’ve changed, I still look at those old markings and remember what it felt like to be nothing. Just another disposable Illyrian bastard they could mold into something obedient. I never wanted anything permanent again.”

Y/N’s tea had gone cold in her hands. She set it aside gently, then looked back to him. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“You don’t have to be.”

“I am anyway.”

Azriel nodded once, eyes distant. “But when I think about you doing it... It’s different. You’re different.”

A pause.

“I trust you,” he added, like it cost him something. But it was also a truth, the kind carved deep and carefully guarded.

Something flickered in her eyes. Not pity. Never pity. Just something deep and warm and steady.

“If you ever decide you want a tattoo,” she said, her voice gentle but unwavering, “I’ll make you one that doesn’t remind you of Windhaven. Not the barracks. Not the old marks. Not the orders they gave you.”

Azriel’s throat bobbed. He didn’t speak. She leaned slightly closer, her knee brushing his. “It’ll be yours,” she said. “Yours alone. Something that reflects who you are, not what they tried to make you.”

Another breath passed between them. Then he murmured, almost afraid to believe it, “Would it still change?”

“If you wanted it to. If you don’t, it won’t.”

Azriel looked down at his scarred hands. Then, softly: “I think I want something that changes.”

Y/N’s brows lifted just slightly, but she didn’t smile. Not quite. Just said, “Then when you’re ready, you know where I’ll be.”

He met her gaze, and there was something fragile and burning in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with ink or war or shadows. Something that looked a lot like hope.

-

The fire had burned low in the hearth by the time the studio door creaked open again.

Y/N didn’t look up right away. She was curled in the old, paint-splattered armchair near her workbench, sketchbook balanced across her knees, the page half-filled with something wild and winged and still unfinished. The room smelled of ink and wind and lavender oil, the familiar scents of her solitude.

But the shadows told her before he said a word. They slipped in like mist, soft and curious, brushing against her shelves and the worn velvet curtains, pausing briefly at her ankle as if to ask, Is it safe to come home?

And then she felt him. Not his power, not the blade of his strength or the sharp edge of his silence. But the way his presence always wrapped around her like dusk, like the hush before the stars came out.

She glanced up.

Azriel stood just inside the threshold, still in the same leathers he’d worn to the Windhaven meeting earlier that day. His hair was wind-tossed, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and he looked like he hadn’t paused once since flying out from the war camp. There was a smear of ash on his temple, half-forgotten, and his eyes…

Gods.

His eyes were fixed on her with a kind of quiet reverence that made her breath catch in her chest.

“You’re back,” she said softly, closing the sketchbook on her knee.

“I never really left,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges. “Not from here.”

Her heart stumbled, just a little, but she didn’t let it show. Instead, she nodded toward the hearth. “You want to sit?”

He moved without a word, crossing the studio in a few silent strides. The stool by the fire was where he always sat when he came, the one with the indents from his weight and the little cracks in the varnish from her leaving her teacup there too often. He lowered himself onto it now, wings folding carefully, his posture taut with something that hadn’t yet settled.

For a long moment, they just sat in the low glow of the firelight, surrounded by the faint hum of old magic and half-finished designs.

And then he said, “I want the tattoo.”

Y/N turned her head toward him slowly.

She hadn’t expected it. Not tonight. Not after everything, not after centuries of him dancing around the idea, brushing it off with a scoff or a shadow or a clipped subject change. But there was no hesitation in his tone. No guardedness in his face.

Only truth.

“You’re sure?” she asked, gently, no teasing, no push.

Azriel nodded, and the motion was as much surrender as it was confirmation.

“I want something that reminds me of this,” he said, and his voice was softer now, vulnerable in a way that was rare from him. “Of you. Not Windhaven. Not the boy I was before Rhys pulled me out of the war camps. Not the ink they forced into my skin when I was barely more than a weapon.”

Y/N’s gaze dropped to his arms, to the faint, rough lines of the Illyrian warband markings, nearly lost now under centuries of scars and shadows. She remembered what they meant. What they had cost him.

“I hated them for years,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed on the empty spot just below the crook of his elbow. “I still do. Those tattoos weren’t art. They were orders. Reminders of how I was made to obey, to fight, to bleed for people who saw me as nothing.”

Y/N’s heart ached with the weight of it. She said nothing, letting the silence stretch, the kind that made space for grief without rushing it.

“But you,” Azriel went on, and now his voice was steadier, warmer, “You make marks that speak. That feel. Every one of theirs was about control. Yours...” He looked at her. Really looked. “Yours are about freedom.”

She swallowed once, hard.

“If that’s what you want,” she said, standing slowly, “then I’ll make you something that belongs only to you.” Her voice gentled as she crossed to him, fingers brushing along the edge of his rolled-up sleeve. “It’ll be yours. And it won’t remind you of Windhaven. I promise.”

Azriel’s throat worked, his gaze following her hands as she traced a pattern on his arm. His shadows withdrew politely, like they knew, like they trusted her just as much as he did.

“I want it somewhere I can see,” he added after a pause, voice quieter now. “A place I can watch it shift. I want to see your magic work.”

She looked up, meeting his eyes. “Then we’ll put it here,” she said, gently touching the inside of his forearm, just beneath the last of the old markings. “Let it overwrite what came before.”

He nodded once.

The room had quieted.

Azriel sat on the low stool near the fire, his wings folded tightly, tension pulled taut through his shoulders like a bowstring. But he didn’t speak again. Didn’t move. Just watched her.

Y/N stood for a moment, letting the silence wrap around her as she looked at him, really looked. The dim light threw golden shadows across his face, softening the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the harsh set of his mouth. There was something vulnerable in the way he was sitting, as if just being here — being willing — had already cost him more than he’d ever say aloud.

So she didn’t rush it. She never did, with him.

“I’ll need a few minutes to set up,” she said, her voice gentle, steady. “And you’ll need to stay as still as you can once I begin. The magic doesn’t like second-guessing.”

Azriel gave a slow, deliberate nod, but his eyes tracked her every movement.

Y/N turned to her workbench and began the familiar process. She lit three candles first, each one a different color, each flame steady and slow-burning. They weren't for light. They were part of the spell, part of the grounding. Gold for clarity, blue for protection, and the deep violet one, her personal signature, for truth.

Then came the ink.

She chose it from the row of enchanted jars, not the showy ones, but a small sealed vessel she only ever used for a few people. It was silent ink, her magic’s oldest blend, the kind that didn’t speak until it touched the skin, until it knew the soul beneath. She popped the lid and let the scent rise: rain, cedar, something like burnt sugar and wind.

Azriel tilted his head. “It smells like the cliffs.”

She smiled faintly. “That’s you, not the ink.”

Next, she rolled her sleeves up past the elbows and moved toward the basin in the far corner. The water was cool, laced with juniper and salt, and she washed her hands slowly, methodically. Not just to cleanse, but to center.

Behind her, she could feel Azriel’s shadows pulling back, not retreating, exactly, but making space. As if they recognized this moment. As if they didn’t want to intrude.

When her hands were clean and dried, she returned to him. “I need to speak the binding words before I touch you,” she said softly, kneeling before him. “They’re not a promise. Just a... permission. Magic works better when it’s honest.”

Azriel didn’t flinch. He only nodded, the firelight catching in his eyes.

Y/N looked down at his exposed forearm, at the bare patch of skin just below the last of his old Illyrian markings. She laid her hand just above it, not touching, but close enough for the heat of him to meet her palm.

Then she spoke. Her voice was low, almost a whisper, the words more felt than heard.

“By ink and spell, by breath and bone, I ask permission to mark you. To write truth on skin, To let magic remember what soul cannot speak. I will not wound. I will not take. I will only give what you allow.”

The moment hung between them, suspended in something deeper than silence. Azriel looked down at her, and nodded. A single word, spoken barely above breath. “Yes.”

It was enough.

Y/N picked up the needle, her old one, carved from shadowglass and silver, humming faintly in her fingers. It thrummed like a string being plucked, her magic waking in response.

She dipped it into the ink. The mixture shimmered immediately, shifting in color as if it already knew him. Already sensed who he was beneath the centuries and the scars and the silence.

Then she looked up at him once more.

“Are you ready?”

Azriel’s eyes never left hers. “With you? Always.”

So she touched the needle to his skin.

The first stroke bloomed into a line of quiet light, not glowing, not screaming, just living. It curled across his skin like breath, like smoke, like something pulled from the heart of the night sky. She worked slowly, deliberately, letting the ink listen, letting it learn.

And as it grew, as the pattern revealed itself in real time, Azriel sat still, utterly still. The only giveaway was the slight parting of his lips, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. Awe was a quiet thing on him. But it was there.

She could feel it in the stillness. In his trust. In the way he let her carve beauty into a place that had only ever known war.

When the last curve was finished and the final drop of ink sank into his skin, Y/N drew back just a little, careful not to break the moment.

Azriel looked down. And stared.

The design shimmered faintly, a shifting echo of wings folded in flight, of starfire trailing through dusk, a piece of him, yes, but also her. Her magic. Her knowing. The parts of him she’d always seen and never spoken aloud.

“It’s beautiful,” he whispered.

Her heart ached at the way he said it, like he didn’t think he deserved something beautiful carved into him at all.

“It’s you,” she said gently. “Not the part they branded. The part you never let anyone name.”

The ink pulsed then, just once in time with his heartbeat. And then again, when she said, “It’ll shift when you feel something. When you remember. Or when you forget.”

Azriel’s eyes met hers. “And if I miss you?”

Her throat tightened. But she didn’t flinch. “It’ll show that, too.”

He nodded once, then looked back down at the mark and didn’t look away for a long time. Azriel didn’t speak for a long moment.

His gaze stayed on the mark etched into his skin, the shifting lines and gentle flickers of light, the subtle threads of magic winding through the ink like it was alive. It didn’t glow exactly, but it breathed. As if it was a living memory of the moment it had been made.

Then, quietly like he was afraid of breaking whatever this was, he said, “When does your magic show up?”

Y/N tilted her head slightly. “It already has.”

He looked at her then, eyes dark and steady. “I mean… you. When does your part of it show?”

Her lips curved at that, a small, honest smile. “It depends,” she said, standing slowly to stretch out her legs, then settling beside him on the low cushions, close but not quite touching. “Every fae reacts differently. Mor’s tattoo, for example, it glows when she lies.”

Azriel blinked. “Does it really though?”

Y/N huffed a soft laugh. “Mm-hm. Drives her crazy. She says it flickers every time she tells Rhys she definitely didn’t steal the last piece of cake.”

He let out a low breath that might’ve been a laugh, something warm and tired at the edges.

“I didn’t choose that for her,” Y/N added, more serious now. “That’s what the magic gave her. I only channeled it.”

“She’s always been a white liar,” Azriel murmured.

“I know,” she said, voice gentling. “And she’s also honest in the ways that matter. The magic doesn’t judge, it just sees what’s there. Mor needed something to remind her that her truth was enough.”

Azriel was quiet for a beat. Then: “So what will mine do?”

Y/N glanced down at his forearm, at the dark ink still settling, its edges cooling, the spell binding as softly as silk.

“I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “It’ll change with you. It listens.”

He stared at the mark like it might whisper to him, even now. “Will it hurt?” he asked, not of the magic. Of what came next. Of being seen.

Y/N shook her head. “No. But it might surprise you.”

Azriel looked up, something raw and open flickering across his face. “And if it shows something I don’t like?”

Y/N didn’t flinch. “Then we’ll cover it with something new. Or we’ll sit with it until you see it differently. It’s not a verdict, Azriel. It’s a conversation.”

He exhaled, almost shakily. Then, slowly, he turned his forearm in the firelight, and the tattoo shimmered faintly, a flicker of red just beneath the linework, like embers banked under ash.

It hadn’t done that before. His eyes widened. “Did you see?”

“I did.” Y/N’s voice was soft. “That’s you. Already changing.”

Azriel went still again. But this time, it wasn’t the stiffness of fear, it was reverence. A silent awe that crept into his posture, quieted the restless shadows around him. Like something ancient and aching had been given shape and for once, it didn’t weigh him down.

It anchored him.

“Thank you,” he said at last, his voice hoarse.

Y/N looked at him, really looked and her own magic thrummed in response, warm and steady. “You trusted me,” she whispered. “That’s all I ever wanted.”

And beside the fire, beneath old stars and older memories, the ink on his skin pulsed once more. Alive. And listening.

The House of Wind greeted Azriel like an old ghost, quiet, familiar, a little colder than he remembered. Not in temperature, but in stillness.

Velaris was always full of life. But here, high above the world, there was space to breathe. Space to think. And gods, after two days in Windhaven, he needed that.

The meeting had gone as expected, tense, brittle, filled with puffed-up Illyrian warlords trying not to choke on the new world they'd been dragged into. Rhys had done most of the talking. Azriel had simply watched. Calculated. Endured.

But it was the moment before he left, her hand brushing his forearm, a soft Let me know if it changes whispered like a secret between breaths, that lingered now, echoing louder than any threat in that war tent.

He didn’t head straight to his room. Instead, he found himself drifting toward the training balcony where Cassian was cooling down, sweat-slick and breathing hard, swords glinting on the rack behind him.

Cassian looked up and grinned when he saw him. “Back already? And here I thought you’d find an excuse to avoid the flight back and hole up in Windhaven.”

Azriel raised a brow. “It’s a miracle I made it out without punching anyone.”

“Pity. I was hoping for gossip.” Cassian slung a towel over his shoulder. “But damn… what’s that?”

Azriel blinked. “What’s what?”

Cassian stepped closer, motioning toward Azriel’s forearm, which was bare where he’d rolled up his sleeve against the wind. “That’s new. That wasn’t there before you left.”

Azriel followed his gaze and froze.

The tattoo. It was pulsing softly, slow waves of light moving through the ink like tides under a full moon. Faint but distinct, like shadows stirred by thought.

Cassian leaned in, brows raised. “Wait, is this what I think it is? Is that Y/N’s work?”

Azriel didn’t answer immediately.

He turned his arm over in the light. Watched how the curves of the ink shimmered and curled like smoke. It wasn’t glowing outright, but it was... active. Breathing, almost. Alive in the way her magic always felt. Like her fingers were still ghosting across his skin.

Cassian’s grin widened. “You actually let her do it.”

Azriel finally nodded. “Last night.”

Cassian let out a low whistle. “And how’d it feel?”

Azriel thought for a moment. The hum of her magic. The way her voice wrapped around him during the binding words. Her touch, not hesitant, not afraid, steady as always.

“Like I was coming home,” he murmured.

Cassian’s teasing faded for a moment. Something softened in his expression. “Yeah,” he said. “That tracks.”

Then, ever the menace, he smirked. “So... what does it do? Mine nearly burns when I’m about to do something reckless. What’s yours?”

“I don’t know yet,” Azriel said, but even as he did, the ink on his arm brightened again, just faintly.

Cassian narrowed his eyes. “Wait. That... that just reacted.”

Azriel stiffened.

Cassian’s smirk deepened. “What were you thinking about just now?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. Try again.” Cassian crossed his arms. “Say I think about Nesta, mine glows red because apparently that counts as reckless and impulsive.”

Azriel rolled his eyes. “It’s not that simple…”

“Y/N.”

The name dropped like a stone between them. The tattoo flared.

Not blinding, not loud, just a swell of shadow-threaded light. A silver curl unwinding like breath, the pattern blooming slightly outward. Almost like wings shifting beneath skin. Like longing.

Azriel looked down at it, jaw tight. He hadn’t even said anything. He’d just heard her name.

Cassian blinked. “Well, shit.”

Azriel said nothing.

Because now that he saw it, really saw it, he realized the pattern had shifted even more than before. Where it had been steady on the flight back, now it pulsed gently, as if stirred to wakefulness. Her magic responding to him. To his thoughts. To his feelings.

Cassian was watching him now, all that smugness gone, replaced by something quieter. “It’s her. Isn’t it? That’s what it’s showing.”

Azriel swallowed hard. “It reacts when I think about her.”

“And you’ve been thinking about her a lot.”

The silence said everything he didn’t.

Cassian let out a slow breath. “You know… maybe the magic’s not just listening to you. Maybe it’s trying to show you something you haven’t said out loud yet.”

Azriel didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

The mark on his arm shimmered again, soft as moonlight on water, steady as a heartbeat. Alive. Still changing. Still listening.

And somewhere far from here, he knew, without question, that she could feel it too.

Later that night, long after the House of Wind had gone still and even the shadows seemed to sleep, Azriel sat by the window, the cool breeze threading through his hair, eyes fixed on the city below. But his thoughts... they were somewhere else entirely.

His fingers brushed the edge of the tattoo again. The ink moved faintly, shadows and light dancing beneath the surface like it was breathing. Like it was listening.

He’d been thinking about her all evening. About the way her hands had been steady, deliberate as she cleaned her tools. About the warmth in her eyes as she spoke the binding words. How she hadn’t flinched when she’d asked, "Do you trust me?"

He had. He always had. He hadn’t fallen for her because of magic. Or beauty. Or any one reason, really. It had just... happened. Quietly. Like sunrise bleeding over a battlefield.

One day, she was Mor’s best friend, a steady presence with ink-stained fingers and sharp comebacks, who could drink Cassian under the table and scold Amren without blinking. The next... she was more. A comfort he hadn’t asked for. A warmth he didn’t know he’d missed until she gave it freely.

It wasn’t a bond. There was no thread pulling him to her, no cosmic sign or glowing tether tying their fates together. Just love. Simple. Earned slowly, stubbornly, over years of watching her live, watching her fight for her place, for her craft, for her people.

He loved her because she didn’t ask him to be anything other than what he was. Because she didn’t fill silence with questions. Because she saw past the shadows without needing to name them. And maybe that was why he’d never told her. Because love like that was fragile. It had no magic to anchor it. No bond to make it inevitable. It was something he had to choose.

And gods, he had chosen her again and again in a thousand small, quiet ways. But he’d also let her go. Because Windhaven wasn’t a place he wanted to stay, and she, for all her travels, for all her rebellion, still called it home. Her roots were tangled in its cliffs and pine-slick hills, in the family she’d carved out and the work she’d built with her own hands.

Azriel had spent most of his life trying to escape Windhaven. And he hadn’t known how to love someone who stayed. So he held back. Told himself she deserved more.  Someone whose silences didn’t come wrapped in trauma. Someone who didn’t disappear into missions and shadows.

But when her magic bloomed on his skin, soft and steady, changing shape with every thought of her… He began to wonder if maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe love didn’t need to be shouted, or fate-marked, or promised by the Cauldron to be real. Maybe it just had to be felt. Chosen. Again and again. And maybe it was time he stopped loving her in silence.

Azriel looked down at the tattoo one last time before rising from the window bench, the ink still glowing faintly, not because of magic. But because he was finally, finally ready to stop hiding it. Not from her. Not from the others. Not from himself.

-

Windhaven was quiet tonight. The storm that had threatened all afternoon had passed without incident, leaving the air sharp with pine and the earthy scent of rain on stone. Y/N sat curled up on the worn armchair in her small apartment above the studio, sketchbook balanced on her knee, charcoal smudged across her fingertips. A single candle flickered beside her, casting soft gold across the cluttered desk and half-drawn designs scattered across the floor.

She had been sketching absentmindedly, lines more emotion than intent, when the warmth started. A low pulse beneath her skin, faint but unmistakable.

She stilled. Her gaze drifted to her arm. The tattoo, one of the earliest she’d ever done, a band of intricate sigils and night-blooming flowers, shimmered faintly. Nothing unusual at first. But then… the shadows came.

Dark tendrils, delicate and slow, coiling lazily through the ink like smoke through glass. Not threatening. Not violent. Just… present. Alive.

Her breath caught. It hadn’t moved in decades. Not since she’d inked it on herself during a reckless night of youth and magic, the kind that leaves scars in the best way. It had always been dormant. Her magic, like her emotions, was usually still, precise, controlled.

But now, shadows laced through the design like veins. Her magic stirred with it, humming low in her bones. She didn’t need to guess why. She knew. Azriel.

No one else moved like this. No one else felt like this. His magic wasn’t fire or wind or ice. It was subtle. Patient. Ancient. She’d known it like a second heartbeat for most of her life.

And even now, after all this time, it recognized her ink. Just as she’d always recognized the silence he wrapped around himself like armor.

Y/N stared at her arm, heart thudding softly in her chest. He was back in Velaris by now. She knew that. The meeting had ended yesterday.

She hadn't expected anything more. He had said goodbye the night before, not with words, but in that quiet, reverent way he had of lingering just a little too long at the door. Of looking at her like he was memorizing the way she stood in the light.

And now this. The tattoo shimmered again, the shadows growing bolder, weaving in and out of the petals like breath.

Her pulse sped. She reached for a piece of stationery, inked her name at the top, then paused, fingers hovering above the page.

Was she imagining it? No. Her magic never moved like this without cause. Without a reason. And Azriel had always been the one person it never got wrong.

She dipped the pen again and began to write. She sealed the letter with a practiced flick of her wrist and sent it with a whisper to the wind, the small, enchanted winnow she kept for private post vanishing with a spark of ink and pine-scented air.

And then she sat there in the silence of her apartment, fingers still smudged with charcoal, her heart heavier than she wanted to admit. She didn’t know what she expected. But she knew this: her magic was changing and somehow, so was his.

-

Azriel,

I hope you made it home safely. I was going to give it a few days before checking in, but something… shifted tonight.

One of my tattoos is acting up, one that’s never done anything like this before. It’s moving. Breathing. And there are shadows in it.

Yours, I think.

Don’t worry, I’m not alarmed. Just curious. It’s probably nothing. But I thought I should ask: Are you alright?

Yours, —Y/N

Azriel read the letter once. Then again.

The shadows on his shoulders curled closer, as if reading over his arm, peering at the graceful slope of her handwriting , that neat, elegant script he could’ve recognized with his eyes closed.

He sat in the library of the House of Wind, the fading light of dusk pooling around him. No fire. No wine. Just the hush of parchment and the tattoo on his forearm slowly shifting shape again, coiling into a pattern he hadn’t seen before. One of her favorite flower sigils, if he wasn’t mistaken. Something soft-bloomed, fragile. Gentian, maybe. Or hellebore.

It didn’t matter. They kept changing. Because he kept thinking about her.

He lifted his arm and watched it for a long moment. The way her magic stirred when she came to mind. The way the lines shimmered softly beneath his skin, shadows dancing through them like light through silk.

It hadn’t stopped since he’d left Windhaven.

She hadn’t done it on purpose, he knew that. Her magic was sensitive, yes, and intuitive in a way that still unsettled him. But it didn’t lie. It responded only to what already was. No manipulation. No spell to coax it. Just truth.

And now, apparently, it was responding to him. Or maybe… to how he felt.

Azriel leaned back against the chair, jaw tight. He wasn’t sure if he liked it. The unpredictability. The exposure. He’d always prided himself on being unreadable. Silent. Controlled.

But this thing, this inked window into his thoughts, it wasn’t silent at all. And now hers was acting up too. Somehow tethered. Somehow aware.

He should have expected it. She’d always seen more than he meant to give.

“Are you alright?” she’d written.

No. Not really. Not since the moment he left her studio and realized the only thing he wanted to do was turn around and walk back in. His fingers curled around the letter, thumb pressing into the fold.

He wasn’t ready to explain everything. He didn’t know how to explain it, how her presence had settled into him, how every breath since he'd left Windhaven felt like it carried her name. But he could give her something. A reason to come closer. Not too close. Just close enough.

He reached for fresh paper, shadows quiet for once, as if holding their breath.

Y/N,

Thank you for the letter. I arrived home safely, though I admit I haven’t quite stopped thinking about the studio.

The tattoo you mentioned… might be reacting to mine. I don’t know what that means, or why it’s happening, but my mark hasn’t stopped shifting since I left.

If you’re curious  or if you’d like to see it for yourself,  you’re welcome to come to Velaris. I wouldn’t mind if you looked at it. Or even changed it, if you think that would help.

It’s behaving… oddly.

But it’s beautiful.

—A

He sealed the letter and sent it with a whisper to the wind, not through magic, but through the shadows themselves. They scattered with the message, low and fast, slipping into night like birds toward a familiar home.

Azriel sat back in the empty room, heart steady, gaze on the soft swirl of ink across his arm. He didn’t know what she would say. Or whether she would come. But for the first time in a long while… he hoped she would. And he didn’t dare ask himself why. Not yet.

-

Velaris welcomed her like an old song.

The wind off the Sidra was warmer here, fragrant with summer blossoms and river stone. Even the hum of magic along the city’s ley lines felt gentler, finer like silk pulled tight across harp strings. Y/N stood near the cliffs, close to the House of Wind, one hand gripping the strap of her bag, the other pressed briefly to her chest as if to still the quiet thunder of her heart.

It had been months.

Longer since she'd been here without reason, without a task or meeting. But this… this felt different. Not because of the tattoo. Not entirely. Because of him.

A familiar pulse moved through her magic, low and grounding. Shadows. Soft as a memory. She exhaled and stepped down into the city.

Rhysand was already waiting near the House of Wind, his dark hair swept back, violet eyes kind in the afternoon light.

“Y/N,” he greeted, arms open as she walked toward him. “You’ve been away too long.”

She laughed into his chest as he hugged her tightly. “You’re just saying that because Mor complains every time I miss a wine night.”

“Well, there’s that,” he said, pulling back to look at her. “And because it’s good to have you home.”

Home. She wasn’t sure when Velaris had started to feel like that, maybe always. Maybe because it was the only place outside Windhaven where no one asked her to be more than she was. Rhys had never treated her like a lesser Illyrian. Neither had Feyre or Cassian. Or Mor, of course. And Azriel… well.

She tucked that thought away.

“You look tired,” Rhys said softly, guiding her toward the townhouse steps. “Have you been working too hard again?”

She smirked. “I’ve been tattooing war generals. You tell me.”

His grin turned rueful. “Fair.”

But his gaze flicked to her bag. “Did you come because of the letter Azriel sent?”

Y/N nodded once. “The magic in my mark hasn’t settled. It’s... still moving.”

Rhys studied her for a breath longer, that High Lord stillness settling over his features. Not as a ruler, but as a friend. “You don’t have to tell me more. Just know you’re safe here. Always.”

“I know.” Her voice softened. “Thank you.”

And then she felt it. Before she turned. Before she even looked. A familiar shadow brushed against her ankle, like a greeting.

And when she turned, Azriel was already there, just a step down the path, wings tucked, shadows slinking along his shoulders in quiet arcs. His eyes caught hers like a thread pulled taut.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. She crossed the space between them in three strides.

Azriel folded her into a hug without hesitation, arms wrapping around her as if this was the only place he’d been waiting to be. It wasn’t a hurried thing. Not a polite, passing embrace.

He held her like she was real, like her presence had the power to anchor something he hadn't realized was drifting.

“I see you missed me even after a few days,” she murmured into his shoulder, smiling against the dark leather of his tunic.

“I always do,” he replied quietly, voice just for her.

Y/N pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him, to see the soft flicker in his eyes that he probably didn’t know was there.

Her fingers brushed against his arm, just above the cuff of his sleeve. “How’s your tattoo behaving?”

“Unpredictably,” he said with a breath of wry amusement.

Her eyes sparkled. “Good. Then before we sit down for dinner and you all try to fatten me up with wine and cake, I’d like to take a look at my patient.”

Azriel’s lips twitched, a rare, real smile and something in his chest loosened.

Rhys chuckled behind them. “Feyre will be thrilled you’re here. She’s already set the table.”

“I’ll be there soon,” Y/N said over her shoulder. But her eyes were still on Azriel.

The man she had known since she was young. The shadowsinger who had always looked at her like she wasn’t an Illyrian misfit or a magical oddity, but someone worth waiting for.

And this time, maybe… she wouldn’t make him wait so long.

Upstairs, the shadows peeled back from the walls, as if giving them space.

Azriel led her to one of the guest rooms, the one she always used when she stayed at the House of Wind. It smelled faintly of lavender and old paper. Someone had left a vase of wildflowers on the writing desk, her favorites. She smiled at that, brushing her fingers over the petals.

“It hasn’t changed,” she said softly.

“It never will,” Azriel replied, watching her from the doorway, arms crossed. “Rhys said this room is yours for as long as you want it.”

Y/N turned to face him, warmth in her eyes, but she didn’t speak. Instead, she set down her satchel and pulled out a small velvet pouch, supplies. No magic, not yet. Just the tools she always carried with her.

“Let me see it?” she asked.

Azriel hesitated for a second, then moved toward the chaise by the window and sat, tugging off the sleeve of his tunic. The shadows scattered at her approach but lingered close, like quiet sentries. As if they trusted her as much as he did.

And there it was, the tattoo she'd created for him. Only now… it looked nothing like it had two days ago.

The lines shifted in subtle, delicate movements, blooming, curling, re-shaping with a grace that wasn’t hers, not exactly. Her magic had simply responded to something in him. His thoughts. His heart.

Y/N crouched in front of him, elbows resting lightly on her knees as she studied it. “You weren’t exaggerating,” she said after a beat, voice low with awe. “It’s almost… alive.”

Azriel didn’t respond. His gaze was steady, trained on her, not the tattoo. She cleared her throat, looked away. “I could make some changes,” she offered, fingers brushing the air just above the ink. “Dampen the sensitivity. Slow the reaction time.”

Azriel’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t look away. “Do you want to change it?”

She blinked. “What?”

He shook his head slightly, voice quiet. “You made it. With your magic. If I asked you to change it now, would it feel like… rewriting a truth?”

Y/N stared at him. The way he said it, so careful, so reverent. Her heart gave a slow, uneven beat.

“I can make it quieter,” she said finally. “But it will still be yours. Still from me.”

Azriel nodded. “Tomorrow then. After dinner.”

She raised a brow. “You’re sure?”

“I am.” His voice deepened, almost like a challenge. “You’ll need the night off. I heard Mor’s already planning to drag you to that new rooftop lounge.”

Y/N huffed a laugh. “Of course she is.”

Azriel’s smile was faint but real. “I’m not the only one who missed you, you know.”

Her throat tightened a little at that. The honesty in his tone. The affection wrapped in simplicity.

“I missed Velaris,” she said quietly, rising to her feet. “More than I thought I would. Every time I leave, it’s harder to stay away.”

Azriel stood too, and for a moment, they were close enough that their shadows nearly touched.

His voice dropped lower. “Maybe that means something.”

She looked up at him, and the tension between them sparked again, unspoken, steady, ancient. Like something old and soft and waiting. Her fingers twitched at her sides, aching to touch him again, to see what the magic would say if she did.

But instead, she smiled gently, ruefully and stepped back.

“I’ll let Mor steal me for a few hours,” she said. “But tomorrow, I’m all yours.”

Azriel didn’t smile. Didn’t tease. He only nodded once.

“I’ll be here.”

And gods help her, she wanted him to be.

Her fingers hovered just above his skin again, the tattoo alive and quiet for now, though it had flared once when she’d first entered the room, before Azriel had even spoken. Y/N pretended not to notice.

“I take it you’ve figured out what it’s responding to?” she asked lightly. Her tone was casual, like they were just talking about the weather.

Azriel kept his eyes on her hands, on the curve of her wrist where faint ink shimmered under her skin. Her own old tattoo, the one she’d done centuries ago. The one she’d never touched again.

“I haven’t figured it out yet,” he said evenly.

A pause. A half-second beat too long.

Y/N didn’t lift her head. Didn’t call him out. But something in her magic whispered differently.

Because ever since she’d inked him, since she’d poured part of herself into his skin, since his shadows had curled so trustingly around her wrist mid-ritual, her own tattoo had been restless. Not reactive like Mor’s or Cassian’s. But unsettled. Shifting. It never had before.

The first time it moved was the night she got home to Windhaven. She hadn’t been thinking about anything special. Just unpacking her satchel. And then, suddenly, shadows had stirred at her skin. Like they missed someone. Like he had been thinking of her.

So now, when he said, “I haven’t figured it out yet,” Y/N only nodded.

“Interesting,” she murmured. “Sometimes the magic keeps its secrets. It’s not always meant to be understood.”

Azriel said nothing to that.

She glanced up at him, saw the way his jaw tensed, how the shadows pooled a little tighter around him. That tattoo, the one she’d etched into his skin with so much care, flickered faintly again, almost like a heartbeat.

She didn’t call him on it. Not yet. Instead, she smiled and reached for her travel bag.  “All right,” she said, rising to her feet. “Let’s head to dinner. I bet they’re all wondering what we’re up to in here. And once I come back with Mor, you’re mine for a few hours.”

And as she left the room to go freshen up, she placed a steady hand over her own arm, right where her oldest tattoo had started to hum again. The shadows were back. And no matter what Azriel said… she knew.

-

The House of Wind was quiet when Y/N slipped back inside, the distant city lights of Velaris shimmering like scattered stars below. Mor’s laughter still echoed faintly in her ears from their night out, a warm buzz settling in her chest. The wine had loosened her usual careful restraint, made her braver than she expected.

She moved silently through the wide hallways, her footsteps soft on the polished stone floors. The faint glow from the crescent moon filtered through the tall windows, casting silver ribbons across the walls.

She paused at the door of the great bathroom, a cavernous space, tiled in deep blues and greens, with a tub large enough to fit the entire Bat trio comfortably. Through the small opening in the door, she could see the water shimmered quietly, a scattering of bubbles drifting lazily across the surface.

Azriel was there, half-submerged in the enormous tub, water rippling around him, shadows clinging to his skin like living smoke. His dark hair was damp and plastered back, his eyes catching the moonlight with that unreadable intensity she’d known for centuries.

The wine was speaking for Y/N, as it seemed. Her hand found the fancy looking doorknob, pressing the door fully open. He looked up as she entered, brow arched in surprise but with no real surprise in his expression. No defense, no walls raised.

“You’re home late,” he said, voice low, calm.

Y/N smiled, a little wickedly. “And you’re exactly where I thought I’d find you.” She sat down beside the tub, dipping her fingers into the water and playing with the bubbles, watching them burst softly at her touch.

Her eyes met his, sharp and warm all at once. “I think I might know when your tattoo changes.”

Azriel’s gaze darkened, but he said nothing.

“You can be honest with me,” she teased gently, voice soft but firm.

He watched her for a long moment. The shadows around his arm, the tattoo, flickered faintly, subtle ripples of magic that no one but her could see.

“Not yet,” he finally said, voice barely above a whisper.

The silence stretched between them, soft, pulsing, heavy with the kind of weight that wasn’t burden but pull.

Y/N didn’t speak. Neither did Azriel. But his eyes never left her. They traced over her, the edge of her jaw where a strand of hair clung from the night breeze, the way the moonlight kissed her cheekbones, and lower still… the sweep of the midnight dress she still wore from her outing with Mor. It clung to her curves like it had been painted on, riding up her thighs just enough to make his breathing tighten.

Y/N noticed. She saw the subtle twitch of his jaw, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. She saw the flicker of movement under the skin of his neck, his pulse, beating just a little too fast.

And gods, she couldn’t stop staring at him either.

The bubbles in the water were beginning to thin. The surface cleared in slow, lazy swirls of disappearing foam, and bit by bit, more of him was revealed. His chest, broad and carved with muscle, shimmered under the shifting water. The tattoo on his arm pulsed faintly, dancing shadows stirring across inked skin.

Y/N’s breath caught somewhere in her throat.

She let the wine speak for her. Without breaking eye contact, she shifted slowly, purposefully, and swung both legs over the rim of the bath. Her dress rode higher as she settled on the ledge, knees bent, feet dipped into the warm water. The silk brushed her thighs, clinging a little too tightly now that the steam was curling around her.

Azriel didn’t look away. Not when her legs entered the water. Not when the hem of her dress hiked higher. Not when her toes bumped gently against his thigh under the surface.

Her voice was barely a whisper when she finally said, “You’re staring.”

His lips parted, not in apology, not in denial. The heat in his gaze was unmistakable now, simmering beneath the careful mask he always wore.

“You walked in here,” he said, voice low and rough, “dressed like that, sat there like that... and you expected me not to?”

Her heart fluttered, no, soared, at the sound of that voice. The honesty of it. The tension curled thick in the air, tighter and tighter, wrapping around her spine like a cord ready to snap. She tilted her head, her voice velvet-smooth. “Maybe I was hoping you would.”

His eyes darkened. The water shifted around him. The tattoo on his arm pulsed once, bright enough that the shadows nearby trembled.

The silence between them stretched taut, every breath crackling with something ancient, something that had lived quietly for centuries in the spaces between glances, in the brushes of hands that lingered a second too long.

Azriel’s gaze dropped to her legs in the water, then back to her face. Shadows curled lazily around him, stirred by something more primal than caution now.

Y/N opened her mouth to speak, maybe to challenge him again, maybe to say his name like a question, but she never got the chance.

Because in a fluid motion, fast and unhesitating, Azriel surged forward and pulled her into the tub.

A sharp gasp tore from her lips as the warm water soaked through her dress, the silk clinging to every inch of skin it touched. She barely had a moment to register the shock of it before she was in his lap, his strong hands on her waist, holding her there like she belonged.

Water sloshed around them, and laughter, real, breathless laughter bubbled out of her chest.

“Azriel,” she choked, batting water from her eyes. “You absolute menace, this dress…”

“Will dry,” he said lowly, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. His voice dropped, thick with heat. “You’ve been driving me insane all night.”

“Oh, just tonight?” she asked, raising a brow, trying, and failing, not to lean into him. Her soaked dress was plastered to her body, but she didn’t care. Not when his hands were sliding up her back like he’d mapped her in another life.

“No,” he said, eyes flicking to her mouth. “Since the Summer Solstice festival. The one where you dared Mor to enchant my boots to squeak every time I walked.”

Y/N burst into laughter, the memory crashing over her like a wave. “I forgot about that!”

“I didn’t,” he muttered, voice full of mock indignation and something else beneath it, something softer. “I had to walk through a High Lord’s meeting sounding like a bloody duckling.”

She was grinning now, utterly undone, water dripping from her hair as she reached up to brush wet strands from his forehead. “You looked so serious, too. Every time someone turned to look, you scowled harder.”

“I was trying to impress Thesan,” he growled.

“You failed so hard,” she giggled, settling more comfortably in his lap, thighs bracketing his hips now. “But I laughed so hard I cried.”

Azriel’s fingers tightened at her waist.

“That’s the moment I knew,” he said quietly, his voice suddenly rawer. “That I was never going to be able to stop loving you.”

The laughter stilled in her throat. Her breath caught.

She searched his face, his golden-brown eyes, the soft parting of his lips, the vulnerability in the way his shadows had gone completely still around them.

“Az…” she whispered.

He didn’t give her time to answer. Just leaned in, slowly, reverently, and kissed her like he’d been waiting centuries to do it. Like he couldn’t bear not to anymore.

And when she kissed him back, drenched in moonlight, silk, and magic, everything inside them both finally, finally quieted.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, Azriel’s mouth moving over hers like he’d memorized the shape of her want. Water sloshed gently around them, the city lights shimmering through the glass as if Velaris itself was holding its breath.

When he pulled back, it was only to look at her, really look at her. His hands stayed at her waist, thumbs brushing bare skin just beneath the soaked edge of her bodice. His eyes flicked down, lingering on how the silk clung to her chest, her ribs, the perfect lines of her legs still half-submerged. His breath caught.

“Gods, Y/N,” he rasped, voice gone hoarse, reverent. “You’re…” He shook his head slightly, like the words failed him, like his vocabulary had narrowed down to just her name. “I was brooding in here, hoping that no other male would take off that dress of your body.”

She didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Her hands found the collar of his bare shoulders, sliding down the planes of his chest underwater, and when she shifted in his lap, his grip flexed, sharp and possessive at her hips.

“So glad, that it’s going to be me,” he murmured, and before she could answer, his fingers found the hem of her soaked dress and began to lift.

She raised her arms for him, breath hitching, and he peeled the silk up, inch by slow inch. The fabric clung to her like a second skin, reluctant to leave. When it finally slipped free over her head, he cast it to the side of the bath without a glance.

And then he just looked.

She sat there, bare before him, glistening with water and moonlight, her chest rising and falling in shallow, stunned breaths.

Azriel didn’t touch her.

Not yet.

His gaze roamed over every inch of her skin, slow, worshipful, devouring, and shadows curled up his arms like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to join in or give her privacy.

“You have no idea,” he said softly, almost to himself, “how long I’ve wanted to see you like this.”

Her pulse thrummed in her throat. She felt it, felt the way he was holding himself back, barely, the tension radiating from his stillness. Like she was something sacred, something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch, but would gladly spend eternity memorizing with his eyes alone.

“You can touch,” she whispered, emboldened, her voice a little shaky.

But Azriel only smiled, slow, aching, full of something deeper than want.

“I’m not in a rush,” he said, voice gravel and shadow and heat. “You deserve more than hurried hands and stolen breaths.”

And gods, if that didn’t make her heart catch fire.

Her hands started to roam across his chest, her fingertips tracing the pattern of his tattoo. Y/N could feel him shifting beneath her, his heartbeat was rising, pulsing stronger every second her fingers traced lower and lower.

Azriel’s hands wrapped around her wrist right before her hands reached the surface. He looked smug, his hands holding Y/N’s against his chest. She’s messily sprawled across his naked body when he pulls his legs closer, causing her to glide closer to his already hard member.

“You feel this?” he rasped with a smug smile on his lips, shifting until she sat like a fitting peace of puzzle on his hips. “That’s how crazy you’re driving me. And if you let me, I’ll make you feel so good.”

His soft command made her heart flutter and Y/N’s thighs squeezed subconsciously under the water. A rush of anticipation flowed through her veins, wondering what he had in store for her. Azriel pulled at her wrist harder, her breasts pressing onto his chiselled chest until there was no more space in between them

Azriel let go of her wrist and dipped one hand into the water. Y/N watched it disappear under the soapy water until his voice made her look back him.

“Eyes on me, little one, I want to see your pretty face.” He smirked when she let out a pretty little gasp as his fingers glazed over her clothed folds, taking note of the water shifting as her body jolted slightly. Grinning from ear to ear as his fingers found her pretty little clit through her soaked underwear and gave it a few little circles, eliciting soft moans from Y/N.

“Keep those pretty eyes open,” he cooed as her head tipped back.

Y/N’s hand flew to his shoulders, holding on while he was slowly riling her up. She really tried, but it was impossible when this male was rubbing her bundle of nerves sinfully slow, making her mind go berserk.

“Please,” she moaned and gripped his shoulder harder, probably leaving some marks on his that’d be gone in a few minutes. “Just… please take it off.”

“Begging now, are we?” he smirked and hooked his fingers around the delicate piece of clothing. “I really like this little piece on you, if I’m being honest.”

“Azriel,” Y/N warned him as she grinded her hips against his erection. Azriel hissed, holding her down with his hands on her hips. But his eyes were showing no mercy.

A loud moan erupted from her throat when Azriel didn’t waste another second and pushed the panties to the side, sliding two of his thick fingers through her tight walls. Y/N’s right hand gripped onto the edge of the tub as support while arching her back. The water splashing a little as her body reacted.

“This feeling better, love?” he grunted while pumping his fingers in her tight cunt, softly groaning as her walls clench around his two digits.

“Y-yes, oh my-” a moan slipping past her lips when his palm rubbed on her clit. “Gods… Azriel.”

Azriel admired her blissful expression, how beautiful Y/N looked while experiencing immense pleasure, how those full lips of hers formed in an “O” shape, letting out the prettiest sounds ever that are pure music to him. He couldn’t believe that he finally had her right where he always wanted her.

Y/N dropped her head on his shoulder, the pleasure she was feeling almost too much. Azriel reached for her cheek with his free hand that was holding her against him the entire time and made her look back at him. Her forehead was glistening, not only from the warmth of the water.

“I want to see your face when you cum on my fingers,” Azriel whispered sweetly, pulling Y/N closer until his lips were brushing her, grinning at her blissful expression while pumping his fingers.

Y/N softly mewled when he switched from his palm to his thumb, rubbing her clit. The slow, sinful circles on her sensitive clit were driving her insane. She pulled him closer by the shoulders and wrapped her arms around them, needing to feel more, needing to feel him more. All she craved was this beautiful male right in front of her.

“I’m close… don’t stop.“

“Come for me, my love.”

Y/N nodded dumbly, too consumed by the intense pleasure his fingers were providing. That familiar warm sensation in her lower belly approaching fast, a few more pumps of his fingers and flicks to her clit, had her gushing around them with a moan of his name right against his lips, tugging him closer by the neck to smash her lips against them.

Azriel kissed her back with such an intension, he almost forgot he still had his fingers buried inside of her until she began squirming, pushing his hand away from her sensitive spot. “Too much,” she mumbled against his lips.

Their lips collided again, her fingers digging through his soft dark hair then dragged down to his back, close to his wings, while Azriel gripped onto the edge of the tub preventing him from going all berserk on her. He groaned at the addictive sensation of her nails lightly dragging down his muscular back, almost causing him to break the damn tub.

But he couldn’t hold back anymore, not after hearing her soft whimpers and her moaning his name into his ear. The way she was grinding against him, made him crazy. His hands found her hips again and in a fluid motion, he had her turned around. Facing the beautiful night lights of Velaris, Y/N was holding onto the edge of the tub now with Azriel right behind her. She turned her head to take a better look at Azriel and he was standing there right behind her in all of his glory. Wings spread wide with pride, looking down at her with his lower lip between his teeth.

His hands caressed her back, one hand travelling down her spine until it landed on her cheek. He grabbed a handful and squeezed, making her jolt in her position with a tiny squeal. His other hand landed on her hip, holding her tight while he was pumping his hard member.

Y/N licked her lips as she watched him, his cock barely fitting in his big hand, moans slipping past her lips as she imagined him burying that thick cock inside her. He revelled in her pretty moans, using his hand to stroke and line himself up with her cunt. He antagonizingly but carefully pushed his cock through her folds, stretching her open. She winced and gasped slightly when he reached halfway,

"I know it’s a lot, just a bit more, you’re doing so good for me, Y/N.” He stroked her waist with one hand before bringing his other the front of her until it reached her clit, rubbing soft circles on it while he pushed in some more. The pain melted away quickly as the feeling of fullness overwhelmed her senses.

He continued to bottom out and moved deeper as she got accustomed on the new sensations, the feeling of him filling her to the brim by pure size and the gentle pleasure from circling her clit. Her whimper was loud as he bottomed out, the tip of his cock brushing against her cervix, she felt impossibly full from his thick and long cock.

Her hands tried to hold onto the ledge of the tub as he set a slow yet punishingly deep pace at first.

“Love, you are so tight, squeezing me so well.” A groan fell from his lips as he threw his hand back as her warm walls hugged his cock. His slow deep pace settled into a faster more desperate one, pounding her cunt, jerking her forward and backward by her waist. He didn’t care about the water splashing all over the floor.  

“Such a good girl for me, so small but taking me so well,” he grunted, as she let out needy moans, desperate tears falling down her cheeks as she cried out his name. Azriel watched her through the reflection of the window right in front of them with a slight smug grin feeling himself getting even harder.

That delicious heat in her lower abdomen quickly build up as Azriel continued fucking her harder with each thrust. Y/N let out a high pitch moan when a sensation hit her like lightning, making her shake and shiver as she clenched around his cock, her legs trembling, almost giving out as the orgasm hit her hard. Your reaction pushed him to his climax as he pushed one last time balls deep into her tight hole, twitching and filling her with his release to the brim.

Azriel caressed her back gently, before he pulled her up, her back pressing into his chest, holding her close. “You did so good for me, my love” he whispered and left kisses from her neck down to her shoulder. Y/N was too exhausted to move so she closed her eyes as she sank into the full feeling and put her hands on top of his on her stomach. “I don’t think I can move.”

That made his chuckle, leaving another kiss on her neck before he moved them a few steps back, sliding out of her while doing so and sat back down on the step that they were sitting on before. Y/N slumped against him and dropped the back of her head on his shoulder.

The two of them remained in that position for a few minutes, her head resting on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around her, fingers caressing her soft skin, relishing in the quiet, peaceful night.

“We should probably get out before we get all pruney.” Y/N broke the silence with a little joke. “And probably clean up the mess we made.”

“The house will take care of the latter,” Azriel replied with a smile on his lips. “But let me take care of you and get you to bed.”

[greenmandm]

imagine if illyrians babies could sleep fly the way humans can sleep walk. rhys didnt do it but his sister did when she was a toddler and he forgot it was a thing until nyx started doing the same thing. feyre nearly lost her shit after walking in on the kid fucking floating above his crib while asleep in the middle of the night and rhys just goes "oh yeah thats a thing we do sometimes" and feyre's like are you joking