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hannzoaks · 7 months ago

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Vampire!Rhysand x reader: Mercy, Devil

A/N: I meant to write this for October since it sounded spooky, but honestly I’m happy I didn’t because now I get to write something supernatural in the lead up to Christmas!

Warnings: blood, vampirism, eventual poly relationship

Word Count: 5,064

-Part 2-

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You’ve always had a strange fixation with the phantasmal night of all hallows eve. Something particular about the thought of ghastly apparitions being freed to sew discord and chaos through the monotony of everyday life entices your pulse to spike dangerously. Blood thrumming in your veins.

Clouds seal the full moon to the sky, casting shadows throughout the already dense and dark woodland. Twigs snap and crackle beneath your feet as you continue along the path through the ancient forest. Gnarled branches reach into your way, like talons of some malignant beast stretching to grasp you in its claws. Heart bumps against its cage, pale robes swishing provocatively in your wake, a pale glow of white contained within the darkness of night.

Before you, the abandoned castle looms, cutting a towering silhouette as it’s lit by a crack of lightening, splitting the heavens in two. Ravens caw and crow, taking sudden flight to the stormy skies, wind picking up as it whips the leaves from branches, thunder and rain coming on in an abrupt onslaught, seemingly out of nowhere. The water lashes at your skin, thoroughly soaking your robes, slicking the thin fabric to your skin.

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to follow the tug toward the old castle site, a chill running up your spine as you’re lured closer, path quickly muddying beneath your feet as you stumble through the howling wind and screaming rain, reaching the base of the entry way. Hurriedly trample up the carved steps, passing by the large carved gargoyles hunched either side of the case. Lightening crackles again, bursting across the thundery sky and you dive for the cover of the hewn-rock archway, seeking shelter from the torrent of heavy droplets.

Plaster yourself to the looming door, the skull knocker digging into your shoulder as you rest against it. The wood gives way, and you yelp as you stumble back, tripping up over your feet, cloak getting caught as you’re sent falling onto your ass. A stray wind whips through the interior, door slamming shut before your very eyes, locked in darkness. Tendrils of hot breath curl before your face in the low temperature of the castle, and you hurry to your feet.

Flinch as the room comes alight, allowing your eyes to sweep across the grand entrance: rich, polished floorboards bathed with blood-red rugs, a glass chandelier hanging like an abnormal spider above the room, the two sets of large winding staircases, and the dark figure at their peak. Candle light warms the castle hall, and you press back into the locked door, breathing heavily.

“My, my,” the character calls softly, “what has the storm brought in?”

Blink quickly, returning to your senses as reason and rationality are returned. You hadn’t known the castle was occupied… “I’m so sorry, Lord,” you call, hoping your voice carries to his looming perch. “I was out in the forest when the rain came on out of nowhere,” you explain, “I came seeking shelter, but the door wasn’t closed properly, and I fell in.” Heat flushes your cheeks, and you self-consciously step back from the rich rugs, trying to keep the mud from the spotless fabric.

“Fell in?” He echoes, and you could swear you hear the faintest laugh. “There’s been many a grand entrance in these halls, and yet none quite as theatrical as your own.” Suck in a quiet inhale of embarrassment, smoothing down the cloak in attempts to look vaguely presentable for the young aristocrat. “If it’s not too much to ask,” you call out, thankful for the evenness of your voice. “I would like to request shelter until the storm passes, then I promise I will be on my way.”

“Of course,” he replies, “be my guest.” His arm sweeps across the grand hall, encompassing the room with a deliberately relaxed gesture. “What’s mine is yours. Stay as long as it pleases you.”

Almost immediately, your shoulders lose their tension, relieved to not be forced back out into the horrific storm—it really had broken out of nowhere. You dip into a light curtsey, the least you can do to demonstrate your gratitude. “My deepest thanks, lord…?”

“Rhysand,” he calls, voice smooth as velvet, sinful as silk. “You may call me Rhysand.”

————

Strangely, you hadn’t seen another soul since you had arrived, which can’t be right, since the place was clean enough you might have thought it unlived in. Missing the mess of life, a strange deathlessness stalking the flame-lit halls.

Perplexities aside, the lord—Rhysand, as he’d informed you with that strange smile��had been more than welcoming, offering a spare bedroom larger than your home, with clothes to change into. You’d had to fight to keep your mouth from parting in awe from the decadent luxury at his fingertips, the sheer mass of wealth he’s shrouded in. How blasé he is about the display of opulence, immune to the shock and wonder of it all.

“You are free to stay as long as you please,” he’d reminded, glancing over to you from where he stands on the threshold. “Dinner will be served at eight. I’d be delighted if you joined me,” he says, offering the invitation graciously. Brows raise on your forehead, grateful for your stroke of luck. Dip your head in confirmation. “That would be wonderful,” you answer sincerely, “I can’t thank you enough for your generosity, my lord.” He waves his hand dismissively, yet it comes across as charming rather than arrogant. “Rhysand will suffice perfectly,” he replies, sharp eyes cutting to you, lips fashioning themselves into a distinctly feline smile. “Rhys if you feel otherwise inclined.” There’s a suggestive lilt to his honeyed voice that has your hairs standing on end, toes curling in spare slippers.

Dip your head again. “Thank you, Rhysand.”

Something pleasured passes through the darkness of his gaze, but it’s quickly covered as he nods, turning to leave, but pausing. “Feel free to adorn yourself as you please,” he adds on, framing it as an after-thought, despite embodying the antithesis of someone who would speak without thinking. He inclines his head toward the vanity, various sparkling gems strung together, contained within the jewellery armoire. Lips part to politely refuse—he’s already offered so much, it would feel wrong to take advantage of such an opportunity.

But he beats you to it, giving you a smile that suggests he knows exactly what you were about to say. “God turns a blind eye to my castle,” he purrs, lips sinfully curved. “Indulge as you like.”

Then he’s gone, striding away down the blood-red corridors, disappearing out of sight and leaving you alone in the offered room. Completely out of your depth, on unfamiliar ground.

Glance at the grandfather clock—you have a quarter hour to swiftly change into clothes of his taste. You waste no time, hastily closing the door before heading to the armoire provided. He’d told you everything was already prepared, which had initially drawn some questions, but you suppose someone with such a vastness of wealth would always have his doors open to passersby—a different way of displaying opulence.

You settle on the simplest gown you can find, still obscenely intricate, with tiny detailed patches of embroidered lacing the hem and sides. The bodice fits nicely, easy to change into and resting comfortably over your now-dry skin. The skirts are held up by an in-built petty-coat, giving the illusion of shape by flaring out past your waist, grazing your ankles. While the rest of you has been ridden of the lasting effects of rain, your hair remains damp, so you decide to allow it to hang at your back—you’d hate to sleep on the crisp pillows with wet hair.

A single look to the clock reveals you have five minutes before dinner is served, so you decide to peer at the jewellery, making sure to leave time for finding the dining hall. Within the small armoire are a menagerie of necklaces, but you pick out a small string of pearls, the clasps rendered in gold to match with the cream of your gown. Heart beats with infantile excitement at getting to adorn yourself in such expensive clothing, enjoying the cool brush against your skin, the weight of the pearls as they skim your breasts—plumped by the front of the bodice.

The clock ticks, and you turn for the door, leaving no time to change from the slippers that had been offered as you swish out into the hallway, returning the way you had come. Surely the dining hall would be located upon the ground floor…

You head for the swirl of stairs, pausing at their peak—where the sharp-featured lord had stood, surveying his lonely kingdom. The glass pendants suspended from the chandelier glitter and gleam like diamonds, and you span your hands delicately across the polished wood of the banister, taking the time to drink in and admire the antique beauty of his home.

Startle when a palm slides around your waist, spinning fully upon turning to see who’s approached. The banister presses to the base of your spine as you lean to it, his hands lightly holding your sides, resting without squeezing. “I’m glad you were able to find your way,” he says lowly, no need for volume with the proximity you are to one another. “I had worried you might find yourself lost in my halls, and I would have to go searching.”

A polite smile plays on your lips, attempting to calm the flush his silken words inspire beneath your features. “I was admiring your home,” you murmur, one hand pressing atop your breast to calm your heart—maybe also to direct his attention to the softness of cleavage. “The chandelier is wonderful, with how it catches the light. For a moment I thought it was winking at me,” you laugh quietly, demurely ducking your head, casting your gaze away from the sharpness of his own.

Rhysand chuckles lowly, “you have the eyes of a magpie.” Hand lightly raises to the set of shining beads at your throat. “Seemingly the taste of one, too.” He threads his fingers with those atop your breast, bringing your knuckles to the softness of his lips. “May I say, you look positively regal,” he purrs, pressing a kiss to your skin. You’re surprisingly relieved at the coolness of his mouth, soothing the fire that’s thrumming wildly in response to the delightful liberties he’s taking.

This time you can’t bring yourself to look away. Enchanted by the swirling depths of violet.

“If I look regal,” you breathe softly, “it is thanks to your exquisite taste in dress.” He raises a single, neatly groomed brow, and you’re rather glad to have the banister to lean back on. “A raw gem is beautiful even before it’s refined,” he purrs, cool lips skimming your knuckles with each word. “The clothing merely enhances what was already there.”

Open your mouth to deny his flattery, but once again he beats you to it, as if able to read minds. “Now,” he says, standing to his full height, “shall we?” He guides your arm to link with his own, hand pressing to the firmness of muscle beneath the fine fabric of his jacket. All you can manage is a dip of your head in acquiescence before he’s gracefully guiding you to the stairs, leading the way to the dining hall.

“In the mean time,” he says casually, “why don’t you tell me what you were doing, traipsing through the woods on such a morbid night?” Clasp your skirts in one hand, descending the case on his arm, quietly enjoying the gentlemanly mannerisms even if you’re undeserving of them. “It’s all hallows eve,” you answer, honestly, “I found myself yearning the company of the forest.”

“So you decided to play at red-riding hood,” he drawls, mirth coating his teasing words. You manage to shoot him what you hope is a playful glance. “There are no wolves in these forests, Rhysand,” you smile, returning your gaze to the steps. “Besides, these robes are white, not red.”

The two of you reach the base, and he moves to escort you through the archway on your right, leading away from the entrance hall. “That’s the lovely thing about white though, isn’t it,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “So open to change.” Your brow dips in a subtle show of confusion, narrowing. “What do you mean by that?” Lips carve themself into something distinctly vulpine, sharp canines gleaming beneath the warm light. But he shakes his head, murmuring a “never mind” before continuing through the ornamented room.

“Tell me more about this so-called yearning for the forest,” he goads, drawing you through yet another exquisitely decorated hall, rugs a shade darker now you’ve strayed from the entrance. It’s your turn to shake your head, unsure how to describe it without sounding utterly off your rocker. “It’s hard to say really,” you say truthfully. “The temperature was crisp but not biting, and the sky was overcast without promising a storm— well, I had thought not, though I was clearly mistaken,” you smile, though there’s an intensity to his gaze you hadn’t noticed before. You quickly avert your eyes, peering instead at the large banquet table you’re swiftly approaching.

“I think, if I’m being quite plain, the quiet suited me in that moment,” you admit softly. “I didn’t know those forests were capable of being quiet,” he mutters, “they must like you.” You shoot him a questioning look, but he simply smiles, again shaking his head. “I was merely thinking out loud,” he clarifies, pulling out your chair. You politely take the seat, smoothing out your skirts as he tucks you in. “I’d be interested in hearing more of your inner thoughts,” you say, “they sound quite intriguing.”

Rhysand pauses, hands resting atop the back of your chair, “would you now?” Spine stiffens when you feel icy air brush your temple, tilting your head to figure where the stray breeze came from. Freeze when his lips graze the shell of your ear, fingers halting in your lap. “Would you like to know what I’m thinking right now?” He inquires lowly, startling heat simmering in your lower abdomen. Manage a slight dip of your chin in tense confirmation. Lips trail lower, ghosting below your ear, brushing your neck. But then he pulls away, standing straight, offering a charming smile. “I’m thinking it would be a shame to be seated so far apart from you, and that I will have to move to be at your side.” Then he’s striding to the end to retrieve the crockery laid out, cutlery held in his free hand.

While his back is turned, you take the moment to try and calm your racing heart, startled by the vivacious beat being drummed against your ribs. You should be better equipped to face him, yet he’s seamlessly pulling you apart, stitch by stitch. All effortless charm and debonair grace. By the time he’s returned, you’ve managed to reach a state of near relaxation, just an edge of tension still gnawing at your spine.

“So, Rhysand,” you say quietly, nervous to intrude too deeply into the air of the castle. “Does your family live with you?” When he begins taking food to his plate, you follow suit, assuming the dinner has commenced, and that it will be fine for you to now start on the delicious meal laid before you. “Occasionally they fly by,” he answers with that playful smile, its reflection mirrored upon your lips. “I have two brothers who will visit from time to time, though they have their own hunting grounds to preside over.”

He hunts? You would have thought someone dressed as finely as he is would have little interest in such a superficial task. Particularly if there’s no one to converse with during the process. An image of him dressed in hunting leathers flashes through your mind, as if put there by an encouraging hand. “Preside over?” You ask, raising a forkful of food to your mouth.

Rhysand nods, smiling faintly as he watches you. “Indeed. They require a surprising amount of attention. Making sure the game are well-kept so none are driven from the lands,” he elaborates, and you nod along, surprised to find yourself interested in the subject. “What counts as being well-kept?” You ask once done with the food in your mouth, eagerly moving to the next piece. “Making sure they are well-fed,” he answers with a playful smile, “that generally keeps them happy.”

You blink, then smile. It’s nice to know he takes care of the animals on his land. That they’re looked after before their death. More humane than some of the things you’ve seen in your small hamlet. “I take it you hunt for pleasure?” You asks, eager to learn more about the charming lord. But he shakes his head, “not regularly. Or rather, not as regularly as some others I know.” A frown seems to dip his brows, and you wish to change the subject. His knife slices through the meat on his plate, carving it up into neat little squares for polite, bite-sized snacks. “Besides, I fear if my game notices it’s being picked off, it will run for the hills.”

Laughter bubbles across your breast-bone with his little quirks. The idea that his prey would be at all self-aware is rather amusing, while also strangely heart-warming. “If hunting is not a hobby of yours, how do you spend your time?” You ask, relaxing into the pleasantly stimulating conversation. “Welcoming rain-soaked women into my castle, of course,” he drawls, a wide smile spreading across your lips, quickly raising your hand to cover your mirth-filled grin. “You’ve given me no reason to doubt, yet I haven’t laid eyes on a single other soul here,” you reply, peering at him.

Lips quirk, and he reaches for his glass of red wine, thoroughly opaque, darkened in the flame light. “Everyone else has gone home for the night,” he answers, sipping at the thick liquid. “It’s just us, my lady.” Flush at the title, returning to concentrate on the meal. “I am no lady, Rhysand,” you respond softly, cutting into the rich meat on your plate. “And yet if I were to walk through those doors and find you dining alone, I would not think you looked even a spot out of place in my home,” he says, equally hushed.

Cutlery stills in your hands, raising your eyes to swirling violet. It strikes you then what a spectacular colour it is. Manage a shy smile, “your flattery is outrageous.” He’s quiet for a short spell, before also lowering his cutlery. “Do I look like I’m lying to you?” You’re surprised by the sincerity of his tone. Throat rolls as you observe him, head still lowered shyly. “I’ve known you for not even a night,” you murmur, unable to quite pull your focus from him. “You could,” he answers lowly, voice pitched down a few keys.

Blink, taken aback. You must be misunderstanding. Swallow thickly, making to return to your plate, but— “Don’t look away,” he instructs softly, coaxing your eyes back to his. Mind swims through heat, the world dimming around him, as if blanketed by a thick fog. “I…I couldn’t say,” you manage, a strange wariness prickling at the nape of your neck. Hairs rising with the intensity of his gaze.

The lord is quiet again, watching you with those strange, wonderful eyes. But then he pulls away, spearing a sectioned piece of meat with his fork. “Forgive me,” he says, “I shouldn’t have been so crass with you. I find myself so rarely with civilised company my manners are often forgotten.”

You shift in your seat, a bout of cold icing your skin in the absence of his attention. “No, it’s fine,” you say, finished with your meal, gently setting down the knife and fork. “I was simply caught off guard. The truth is I would feel as though I was taking advantage of your generosity, Rhysand.” You notice he’s also finished, but are unable to recall at what point. “What’s mine is yours,” he reminds lowly, eyes glinting.

Pulse spikes in response, something dark in that look that has you urging to run. The question is: in what direction?

“You seem tired,” he observes, glancing at the grandfather clock. Brows raise as he reads the time. “Appropriately. It’s nearing midnight,” he drawls. Lips part in surprise, how has it been that long? It feels like you sat down to eat less than an hour ago, yet it’s already beginning the ascent into morning. “Nearly midnight?” You echo, following his gaze. The clock indeed reads twelve, the hour hand raised as if poised to strike down.

Rhysand stands from his chair, refolding the napkin before stretching out his hand. “I would hate for you to sleep poorly because of me. Allow me escort you back to your room,” he asks quietly, all traces of previous heat removed, replaced by well-mannered charm. You manage a nod, arm once again overlapping with his own, making to follow him through the labyrinthine halls.

It hits you then, the vastness of his castle—how desolate the space must be. Especially with how rarely he apparently gets to meet with anyone he cares for. “You know, before tonight I had thought your castle was abandoned,” you say absently, taking in the elaborate decorations with more appreciation. “I’ll admit, it sometimes feels that way,” he replies, deep voice tracing down your spine. Push the heat aside for the moment, turning to glance at him. “Do you ever get lonely?” You ask quietly, aware of the ice you’re treading.

He hesitates, momentarily meeting your gaze before continuing onward, reaching the stairs. “Quite possibly,” he answers, “it would certainly be reason for my appalling lapse in manners earlier tonight.” His lips are lifted at their edges, yet you can’t quite manage to return the smile. It must be difficult, having all this space with only his self to fill it. Then again, with the intensity he’s occasionally pinned you with, that doesn’t seem like a particularly hard task.

“Tell me about your own hobbies,” he requests, breaking from your inner thoughts. “I feel as though I’ve spoken more than enough for tonight.” But you’re shaking your head before you can help it, speaking before you can stop it. “I like the sound of your voice,” you admit quietly. Violet eyes flick to you, weighing on your cheek…your neck. “It’s soothing. Like a lullaby.”

You don’t know what’s gotten into you.

He stares, and heat blossoms beneath your skin. That was incredibly uncalled for on your part.

“I hope not,” he says at last, humiliation burning at your insides as you hastily look away. But then he comes to a stop, hand reaching for your jaw, drawing your helpless gaze to lock with his own. “Because putting you to sleep right now is the last thing on my mind,” he breathes lowly.

Oh.

Chest rises and falls steadily, becoming aware of how breathless you feel, how utterly bare you are beneath that look of his. Tongue flicks out over your lower lip, mouth parched. “Tell me…what’s the first thing on your mind then, Rhys.” Attention pierces to the plushness of your lips, and you’re suddenly in need of that banister from earlier. “You want to know what I’d do with you if you let me?” He asks, voice rougher than it was moments before. Pulse spikes beneath that intensity, breath shallowing, but you manage a nod.

He groans lowly, hand dropping to your waist, lightly resting along the seam of the bodice. Cool fingers stroke away a lock of hair, pads grazing the heat of your cheek as he stares down at you. “I’m not sure such things are for your ears, magpie,” he grits out, applying a light bit of force to your waist. “Tell me anyway,” you breathe, hands raising to the fine lapels of his jacket, more eager to put them in his hair.

A rough sound of conflicted pleasure rumbles in his chest. “Such lovely things,” he promises, violet darkening with desire, swirling and dancing as he drinks you in. “So lovely you wouldn’t be able to pull away once I’d started.”

Heat numbs rationality, mind melting as the words warmly splash over your bones, sinking into marrow as you become soft and supple beneath his touch. Step into the lines of his body, feeling as his fingers press to your sides with tension. “Do it,” you breathe, quietly. “Please.”

Cunning satisfaction releases through the male, pleased with how quickly you changed your mind once he applied himself to the task. He’d gotten a sense of your taste before dinner, when he’d pushed you in, and it had been enough to convince him even though he’d fed not even a week ago, he would have to sample you. Now here you are, head tilted, eyes having fluttered shut, offering yourself to him for an entirely different set of wants. Maybe he will indulge your desires—if you satisfy his, that is.

You’ll be on the floor colder than ice if you fail to do so.

He moves in, hand cupping the nape of your neck as he lowers his mouth to yours. Lamb had been served over dinner, and he finds the taste pleasant on your tongue, stoking the embers of his hunger as he presses himself against the soft shape of you, partially hidden by the blasted dress and pearls. A small sound gets caught in your throat, and he revels in the feeling of your fingers tightening on the lapels of his jacket. As if you’re experiencing even a fraction of the hunger he has for you.

Works his way down your jaw, taking his time as he descends to your neck. Nosing at the pronounced pulse, liking how you tilt your head to one side, freely gifting him access. Lips graze the spot he’s chosen, tongue flicking out to drag along hot skin—so hot it practically burns.

Razor-sharp canines scrape, and he feels the exact moment you go rigid in his arms. But by then it’s too late, his teeth piercing your throat, injecting his philtre-laced venom into your bloodstream. The familiar taste of adrenaline and arousal spills on his tongue, bursting from the small puncture marks he’s made, quick to heal over with the aid of saliva. Drinks you down, savouring the richness of your blood, sealing his lips over the incisions, taking more, and more, and more—

He forcefully drags himself away, vision turning hazy, the scent of your life-force spinning his mind. Breathes heavily, the rich and spicy tang still prominent in his mouth, sapid and hot. Tongue darts out to wet his lips, gathering up faint traces that remain there, and then he’s being pulled back, already so deeply enamoured.

Canines re-pierce that same spot, reopening the incisions as your blood burns his throat, inspiring heat in his long-dead body. It’s as if he’s returning to life, having it shot through his veins, snaring him in the addicting flavour. Lips seal over the puncture marks, drinking deeply, swallowing down more and more.

He should stop.

He knows he should stop—he’ll bleed you dry, and then he’ll never have another taste. Arousal coats his tongue, and heat spreads across his skin, bone-deep aches making themselves apparent, as if forcefully dragging him to you. Your hands have dropped from his jacket, instead weakly rubbing at his shoulder and chest, unable to do much more than hold yourself up.

But the taste—the sheer heaven you’ve put into him again. If he stops drinking, it will pass, and he’ll return to that permanent state of death, cold and solitary. But you’re bleeding sunlight into him, sunlight that’s dappled and controlled instead of the unrestricted blaze that would incinerate him in the blink of an eye.

A quiet gasp slips from your lips, fingers losing their grip on his clothing, beginning to slip, but just a little more…one more gulp…one more sip…

“Mercy, devil,” he breathes onto your neck, as if in pain. “What God-damning angel are you?” He growls, trembling hands cupping your cheeks, sharp violet eyes locked on the small marks to your throat. “You’ve bewitched me. I must…” Then he’s surging forward, slamming you against the wall with inhuman force, hand gripping your jaw as he roughly tilts your head to the side. Groans, hot tongue licking over the soft skin, elongated incisors pricking as they again pierce.

Pulse spikes beneath his grip, growing dizzy as he drinks deeply, hands pressed to your shoulders to pin you still. Vision blurs, lips parting as you raise your arms in attempt to push him away, but end up desperately clinging to the finely spun fabric cloaking his back. Limbs go weak, turning limp in his hold as he feeds, a pleasurable spin overcoming your mind, turning pliable beneath his teeth.

He groans, pulling away only in favour of going lower, suctioning now-hot lips over a new, unmarked patch of skin. Blood bursts on his tongue, rich and spicy, not yet too ripe but void of the sour bite that’s present in the young. Heaven and hell blend together in his mouth, mixing so appetisingly he could never—

“Rhys…” you whisper, pleading. Less than a breath left before you—

Your body slumps, and his is trembling so violently the best he can do is go with you as you slide down the wall, blood trickling down onto the pure, white pearls. He knew they’d get in the way.

He hauls himself away, shocked at the utter lack of control you had subjected him to. How his discipline shudders in your presence, practically brought to its knees for a single drop more.

Earlier he had considered making a bottle or two out of you to send off to his brothers, ready for consumption.

Looking at you now, he can hardly stand the thought.

What’s mine is yours…and what’s yours is mine.

Your blood is his, and his only.

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

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rhys taglist: @azrielshadows1nger

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hannzoaks · 7 months ago

Text

Blood-borne

Azriel x reader

synopsis: When reports of attacks from strange beasts increase up in the desolate Illyrian Steppes, both Azriel and Cassian are tasked with clearing out the malicious creatures. But when Azriel is bitten by one and sweats break out, the High Lord realises perhaps he should have put more time into investigating the ancient species. More specifically, why the attacks started after a millennia’s worth of peaceful cohabitation, and what the consequences will be of their venom once again mixing with Illyrian blood.

warnings: blood, illness, eventual vampire! Az, generic healing descriptions

a/n: so this started off with I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead, then switched to Lust For A Vampyr, and finally ended with Sour Switchblade. Who knows where the next one will start 😔

word count: 7,975

It’s the dead of night. Peaceful.

The moon is high in the sky—a gleaming, crooked, slash of a smile—and the city is dark, revelling in the beloved starlight far above, twinkling like millions of glazed, porcelain teeth, cast into a murky black sea and stitched into the heavens. Your windows are ajar, a cool night breeze circulating your chambers, keeping the air fresh and crisp even while you sleep.

Azriel and Cassian will return in the early morning, eager to be rid of Illyria as soon as possible. Between the two of them Azriel will likely be the one more insistent on a swift departure, though you can’t imagine him ever voicing his distain. Luckily Cassian will be there to pick up on his non-verbal signals.

You’ll have to check in with Feyre too, make sure she’s recovering well after her birth. Physically, the damage was extensive—if it wasn’t for the healing blood in her veins and Nesta’s intervention… Your fingers pinch the bridge of your nose, rubbing to soothe the growing headache before your arm slides across your face, elbow hanging crooked over your brow. She’s been on the mend but it’ll be a long while yet before she can even think about shifting again; longer yet before she can fly. As for her son…he’s healthy. Practically brimming with life. Everyone’s seen the twinkle in his round eyes. You’re certain he’ll grown into a menace soon enough.

As for Elain…

Guilt is a ball of iron in your chest. With everything that’s been happening as of late there’s been little time for either you or Madja to keep a proper eye on her. You just hope the two of you haven’t been too preoccupied with the more obvious matters to disregard the internal ones. It’s hard to gauge where she’s at, and you often have to rely on Nuala’s reports to hazard a guess at what might be going through the young female’s mind. Externally, she’s doing exceptionally well—keeping herself busy: baking, reading, walking, gardening, knitting, sewing, stitching, studying. She keeps herself fresh and put together, skin healthy and strong, hair lustrous and long, a vivid glow about her. No eye-bags nor sallow complexion, she communicates with the twins fine and only has rare days of reclusion where she retreats to her bedroom. By all means she’s doing well.

It’s worrying.

There’s so much to keep an eye on within this family, so many minor tensions to understand—more so than any other setting you’ve been placed in. Each day has its own set events to overcome, a new detail to examine, whether that’s a shift in expression as another family member enters the room or as blatant as the simmering hatred that so nastily permeates any room the High Lord and his eldest sister-in-law, Nesta, are placed in.

Inhaling a dragging breath, your focus slips to the raindrops glittering over the window pane, the piercing light of the moon shimmering like tiny stars, the inky darkness of the city itself reflected upward from below like tight, vicious pupils, hundreds of tiny eyes pressed up to the glass.

A thunderous crash comes from the floor below, the thump pulsing once through your chest, jerking you awake.

At once your feet find the cool wooden floorboards, a nightgown strung over bare shoulders, not a second of movement wasted before the glowing faelight is cupped in your palm and the cold iron of the door handle is twisted, opening up into the yawning darkness of the corridor. A gust of rain-soaked wind funnels down the hallway, whipping hair from your face and the faelight flickers, shuddering once before pushing back against the looming shadows crowding the space.

You hug your thin nightgown tighter, hurrying barefooted down the hall to the staircase, skin tightening to gooseflesh as a second gust of icy wind flushes through the house, howling from the front door that is cast wide. The rug is soaking beneath your feet as you press it closed, following the low light at the far end of the corridor to the kitchen, tiles colder than ice and soaked in puddles of water.

Blood roars through your ears, pausing only for a second of analysis as you take in the rain-soaked scene. Shards of ceramics scatter the floor, a body splayed across the dining room table, two figures stood either side. It’s all you have time for before rushing forward, only now catching the sickening tang of iron in the air, the wind having previously blown the scent away and you tap the fae light twice in your palm before releasing it high above the slumped figure on the table. It’ll have to do for now.

Sour, pale-yellow light fills the dining room and blood gurgles from Azriel’s mouth, wet gasps bubbling up from his chest. Rhysand is stood at one head of the table, hand clutched tight around Azriel’s, the High Lord’s towering figure curved crookedly over his brother’s, close enough their brows are touching and it’s clear enough Rhysand is doing what he can mentally, relieving pain, sorting through panic and adrenaline to find his shadowsinger some order to cling to.

“What happened?” You ask Cassian, darting forward to closer examine Azriel’s state. As far as you can see there are two main wounds, one on the thigh of his left leg and a second having broken into his ribcage on the opposite side. By now the blood flow has already begun to wane, a countdown to his life force bleeding dry. If the wound had been gushing you would have felt more reassured. There’s far too little blood coming from wounds as deep as his.

“There were more than we anticipated,” Cassian grits out. “Their nest was supposed to be on the far side of the mountain. Most of them got cleared out but two we’d already cut down must have been playing dead and bit on our retreat.”

“The chimeras?” You ask, noting the splay of teeth marks that are puncturing the right side of Azriel’s torso, the fleshy grey of broken bone visible through one of the upper gouges.

Cassian nods grimly and you seal your mouth shut to prevent from cursing. It’s bad luck to hear a healer curse—your job is to know what’s going on and get things better, not worse. Adrenalised panic only helps in temporarily keeping pain away. For now you have to do what you can, sealing the wounds, and hope that there’s no fractured enamel trapped inside.

“Has he begun healing yet?” You ask, pressing the second and third fingers on both your hands either side what you guess must be the puncture mark of the beasts’ canine, two significantly larger than the others.

“No. I think he’s lost too much blood to manage anything like that. He wouldn’t stop bleeding the entire flight down,” Cassian replied, voice raw. You wonder how long he was shouting to Azriel over the screaming storm outside in order to keep him conscious. Cassian’s dark eyes shift to his brother’s face, thick brows growing heavy as they stitch together, chest still heaving as adrenaline doubtlessly begins to seep away, leaving stagnant fear to lean on. “I thought he was going to die,” Cassian murmurs, so low you doubt either other male can hear.

“He’s not going to die,” you assure, pushing growth into the surrounding tissue, guiding his open flesh back together like shaping clay. “Hold the wound on his leg until I can let these ones breathe.”

A pulse of rejection seizes Azriel’s chest, blood flecking his sour-toned skin, Rhysand’s own knuckles turning bone white as he grips tighter to his brother. You’re lucky he’s here, or else things would be much worse. You don’t linger on the thought, your own breath beginning to labour as you move to the second puncture gouge in his chest, bone protruding from deeper in the flesh.

A twinge of fear pieces your mind.

Azriel groans on the table, wings deathly still where they’re splayed off the sides, the joints at their ends beginning to curl inward like a spider’s legs on the verge of death. Breath whistles in his lungs, blood no longer gurgling from his chest—barely moving at all.

“Rhys!” You shout, pulling him from that mental bridge he’d been tending Azriel upon, gripping his shoulder roughly. “Pull away! Pull away!”

The High Lord’s chest heaves as he forces himself back, releasing the soothing hold he’d had on Azriel’s mind, hands still clutched together.

The Shadowsinger jolts on the table, body writhing as fresh pain blazes through flesh, senses no longer muted. It’s probably going to be the last thing he can hold onto.

He’s fading.

You look at Cassian, bloody fingers still pressing down on the wound, the miniature, magical stitches sewing tissue back together slowly making their way back to the surface, flesh returning to its healed state. “Fetch Madja,” you instruct, “We’ll have a better chance with both of us. Quick. And Rhys, I want you to find-”

A gasp comes from the doorway and the High Lord’s expression drains. It’s far from ideal to have her within such a high stress environment but it’s really a last resort.

“Feyre, your blood,” you request urgently, feeling the weight as violet eyes cut into your side, but it’s necessary. It’s the boost that will save Azriel’s life, or at least sustain him until Madja arrives. “Only a small amount,” you say calmly, “he just needs enough to keep him alive until I have Madja to help.”

Feyre swallows only once before she’s hurrying forward, blue-grey eyes rushing over the male on the table, tension in her jaw. “How much?” She asks, taking the blade Cassian hands her before he heads out into the night. “A slice across your palm. If you feel faint stop immediately.”

She doesn’t hesitate, an excess of blood swelling in her hand before spilling into Azriel’s open mouth, pale lips soaked red. His throat works and you rush round to his other side, now pressing one palm to each gash.

There’s no time to pace yourself in this encounter.

It’s a one-time brawl, not a long-spanned battle.

————

Come morning your hands are aching, lungs tired and stretched, throat parched. You haven’t had such a long night since the end of the war.

At least now you have free access to water, which you’d taken full advantage of when returning to your room.

By the time Madja had arrived you’d had all the immediate injuries patched but there had still been little colour to Azriel’s complexion. Pallid save for the blood staining his open mouth. If Cassian hadn’t flown so swiftly; if Feyre hadn’t been there; if Azriel hadn’t the strength to hang on… It’s a small miracle he’s still alive and breathing.

As soon as the sun touches the horizon you get yourself up, preparing to take over Madja’s shift after she’d seen him through the night. There’s still a drained pit where your magic should be, the small amount of sleep you’d managed to grab doing little to aid its replenishment, but it should be enough for today.

It’s only upon seeing the bloodstained bandages wrapping Azriel’s body and leg that you realise all the rainwater from the night before must have been blood, soaking the rugs, the tiled floors, the bare skin of your feet. It’s a good thing those clothes had been stripped down and tossed into a pile before falling into sleep the night just past.

“How is he?” You ask, stepping into Azriel’s room. The thick curtains are drawn, but even so it’s too light.

“Asleep, for now,” Madja replies, raising from her chosen seat at the bedside. “Once I administered the pain reliever he settled down and hasn’t stirred since.” Worried eyes flicker over the male’s body, dark hands tucking her pencil away. You step forward, hand cupping her elbow carefully, “You deserve some rest, too.” Brown eyes don’t leave Azriel for a few moments, but eventually she nods, meeting your gaze, returning the touch on your arm. “You’re a competent healer, you know. You did well last night.” Madja smiles, nodding. “Good work.”

The words remain in your mind all morning while you’re overseeing Azriel, routinely checking his temperature, keeping an eye on his breathing patterns, and pulse, but it’s not until well past midday that he stirs.

You sit silently at his side. It’s his breathing that changes first, a deeper breath than the ones before bringing air deep into his lungs, lips peeling themselves apart. Then it’s a twitch in his brows, lifting once then furrowing over his eyes which screw themselves shut. A low groan rumbles in his throat and you allow yourself a subtle sigh of relief. His eyes are next, blinking open by less than a hair’s breadth, pupils gradually contracting to filter the light away until he can look around freely. It takes him longer than usual to get his bearings, but that’s to be expected.

You wait until he’s ready to speak.

“How bad is it?” Azriel rasps, his vocal cords chewed up. A smile curves your eyes, “You aren’t dead.” Air rattles in his lungs, a wheezing cough stuttering once from his chest and you offer the glass of water from his bedside. Azriel tilts his head to the side, and you retract the glass.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions,” you tell him, turning to the notebook Madja had left for you. “First of all, what’s your name?” Azriel is silent and you look over to him, concern welling in your chest, but instead his mouth is pursed, expression flat. You sigh, fondness pushing up into your voice, “Come on. It’s routine.”

“Azriel,” Azriel answers, giving you a deadpan look. You nod. “Do you remember where you were going yesterday?”

A pause, then, “Illyria. Cassian and I were returning.”

“Good, but you’re jumping ahead,” you warn, making hazel eyes brighten within the shadowy room. “Can you tell me the names of your two brothers?”

“Cassian and Rhysand.”

“Do you know where you are?”

This time Azriel pauses, eyes darting around the room, his brow furrowing. “The River House?”

You nod, “You’re in a guest bedroom since it was closer. I’m afraid it’ll probably be some time before we can move you to your own room.” But Azriel tips his head to the side again, “It’s fine.”

“Alright,” you reply quietly, keeping your smile to yourself. “Next question. Just a few more,” you add when Azriel exhales heavily. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

“Cassian and I were supposed to be investigating the recent attacks up in Illyria. There was supposed to be no contact.”

You nod, smile faded. “Do you remember how you got your injuries?”

“We thought we’d cleared out the ones that had found us, but we hit their nest by chance and there were too many. On the way out one that had been dead bit me.” You wait for him to continue but he stops, looking back to you.

“Is that all?”

Azriel nods.

You note down his story, along with the point his memory cuts out. “You don’t remember the second bite?” You inquire. Azriel tilts his head, no. “Do you remember getting here?” Azriel tilts his head again, no.

You nod, sitting straighter. Pushing a reassuring expression to your features. “Well, the good news is you aren’t dead, as you’re aware.” Azriel rolls his eyes, then hisses, groaning as something hurts. “Your wings are also unscathed, which I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear.” The Shadowsinger grumbles something you don’t hear. Of course you’re glad he’s okay.

“Right,” you announce, pushing the glass of water to him again which he drinks from reluctantly, “Are you feeling right enough to answer a few more questions for me, or would you like to rest?”

“What time is it?” He asks.

You glance at the clock on the wall, “It’s coming up for four in the afternoon.”

“I can answer a few more questions,” he decides, allowing you to take the glass from his hand once he’s done.

“Firstly, how are you feeling? Any pain or numbness? Changes in temperature? Aches?” You prompt, pencil at the ready. “My head is pounding,” he answers, eyes remaining only half open though you doubt it’s entirely from fatigue. “My lower body is numb, but my left foot feels cold. A dead cold.” You nod, pencil scratching. “My throat is sore, but my eyes and teeth are the most piercing.”

Your brow furrows, “Eyes and teeth, huh… Are your eyes hurting as a part of your headache, or do you feel it’s different?”

“It’s like I haven’t slept in two weeks, and something’s trying to suck them from my skull,” Azriel rasps. Scritch scratch. “And…you mentioned your teeth are hurting… Toothache? I’ll ask Cassian whether your jaw might have had a collision.” You glance over to Azriel who’s still pale. But alive. “What does it feel like? Bruising? Broken?” You’d know if it was broken, though.

Azriel tilts his head. “More piercing. Here.” Azriel guides his tongue to his left canine. “And here.” He touches the right one. Your brows furrow then you remember to keep your face neutral. Azriel wheezes a sound that might have been a chuckle. “Anything else?” You ask, moving quickly past your error. Azriel tilts his head again, no.

“Alright then. It would be best for you to try and rest for a few more hours—think you can fall back asleep?” You ask, closing the leather-bound notebook and setting it upon the side table. The Spymaster sighs, tilting his head. You aren’t surprised. “You should try. Your body needs the rest.” You pause, considering. Then, “Do you feel well enough to try eating something? It would be good for you.”

Azriel’s eyes slide shut, lips curling miserably and you have to muffle your laugh. “I don’t want to be eating plain chicken for the next few days,” he mumbles.

“We need to be careful of your stomach, and your body needs nutrition. Protein.” You reason, “Be happy you aren’t having to drink your meals after mentioning that toothache.” Hazel eyes crack open just enough to send you a piercing glare, but it only results in an upward twitch of your lips. “Would you like me to fetch you anything in the mean time?” You add, knowing it’s not nice to be resting when there’s work that one could be doing.

“My notebook should be on my desk—can you bring me the stack of reports that will be in the uppermost drawer on the right hand side? There’ll be the first thing you see when you look inside.” You raise a brow, mouth pursing. “Already trying to get back to work?”

His lips twitch. “I have a lot of work to do.”

“Well it’s going to have to wait,” you sigh, standing from your chair. “I can fetch your notebook and a book of your choosing—so long as you promise it won’t be work related.”

“All my books are work related.”

Your eyes narrow on the bedridden male, waiting for his mask to slip but it remains firmly in place. “Seriously? Not one?”

Azriel shrugs. Or tries to. It’s more a light twitch of his wings.

You sigh, nodding to yourself. “Alright. I’ll find something.”

You turn to leave but a small shadow stirs in your periphery, dragging your attention back to him. Hazel eyes twinkle as the darkness lifts the silky dark hair from his brow, damp enough to appear like ink even in the shadowed room. You roll your eyes, pacing back over to his side, gently laying the back of your fingers across his brow. A beat passes, then Azriel’s eyes slide shut the rest of the way. Your touch lingers on his forehead, taking longer than necessary to gauge his temperature.

“Your fingers are cool,” Azriel murmurs. Eyes only opening once you pull away again, silky hair flopping back into place.

“You’re still a little feverish,” you tell him quietly, wary for his aching senses. “Hopefully it’ll pass swiftly enough, but if not your recovery will only take a few extra days.” A pause passes through the room, and you should really be writing that temperature down as your hourly mark.

As if on cue, a warmed plate appears on the bedside table, and a look of sorrow dims Azriel’s already dismal features when he spots the plain, boiled chicken.

You offer a pitying smile which earns you a grunt of displeasure before you’re turning for the door, pausing on the threshold. “I’ll make sure it’s a good book,” you offer.

Azriel’s expression turns dour, brow pinched, mouth thinning, and you can practically see his shadows beginning to brood.

‘It had better be,’ he mouths, voice too worn out to reach you across the room.

————

The next morning is the same routine, waking up as soon as the sun bleeds over the horizon, trickling pale gold into your bedroom on the first floor. It’s a swift execution of movements, washing, combing, and dressing before you’re out into the house and heading down the hall to Azriel’s temporary room.

The handle twists before you have a chance to lay your hand on it, Cassian stepping out from the interior. Hazel eyes shift to you, worn and fatigued—usually it’s Azriel who accessorises with the hints of mauve beneath his eyes. “Did you get to speak with him?” You ask, voice kept low in case Azriel’s resting inside. The General nods, leathers stretching as he pushes the dark hair back from his brow, not yet tied back for the day and curling around his shoulders. “Thank you for keeping him alive,” Cassian says, equally quiet.

“It’s my job,” you smile. “Besides, it wasn’t just me. If you three hadn’t been there it could just as easily have turned bad.” You nod to the door, the room where Azriel’s staying, “You helped more than you think, Cassian.”

Cassian offers a stiff nod, then he’s straightening, about to leave.

“I wanted to ask you something about that night,” you say, catching his attention. “Azriel mentioned his teeth hurting, specifically his canines—do you know if he might have collided with the floor after the first bite?”

“Not that I remember,” Cassian contemplates. “He stayed upright and ambulatory until we reached the tunnel exit.”

You nod, thinking. “Alright… Well, we’ll be keeping an eye on him anyway. Hopefully it’s just a side effect of sinus pressure or headaches.”

Cassian nods his head once, then you’re going your separate ways.

The curtains are still drawn, and Azriel still appears pale despite the shadows dimming colours. He’s asleep however, which is good, at least.

After a brief exchange with Madja over how the night went you’re all ready and seated at his side. The plate from yesterday had been removed but the book is still on the side table, no sign that he started it that you can see.

Like the previous day, Azriel doesn’t wake until long past midday, only rising to consciousness around sundown.

His eyes are thick and heavy as they blink open, a darkened tinge to the whites that you can’t quite make out the colour of in shadow. The skin of his lips is cracked, peeling at the bow of his mouth, pulling back from his teeth. Despite the long bouts of sleep the dark smudges beneath his eyes don’t seem to be going anywhere, only further deepening, contrasted against the waning colour of his skin—the once rich brown now turning grey and ashen. The fever will be surfacing, regardless of suppression and attempted appeasement.

His temperature had begun rising overnight, just tipping into the twenties as the moon slipped away. A sure sign the burning flesh is on its way.

Azriel’s chest lifts and lowers shallowly, breath rasping from desiccated lips. A sheen runs across his pale features, brows appearing closer to oil than ink. Heavy lids slide shut as you guide the slick hair over his forehead to the side, the backs of your fingers laying tenderly down—it’s nowhere yet even near the breaking point.

“Azriel?” You whisper, “Can you hear me?”

The restless flutter of his lashes alerts you to his awareness, eyes stirring beneath near translucent lids, mauve capillaries webbing through the thin flesh. He creeks himself apart—he’s gotten abruptly worse. Bloodshot hazel tries to shift about the room but he groans, eyes choosing to remain stagnant in his skull instead.

“How are you feeling?” You murmur, fingers retracting, splaying the notebook across your lap, pencil in hand. “My head…” Azriel rasps, voice more ragged than when you last heard it, like something’s come along and ripped it to shreds, “…it’s splitting.” Your brow furrows—Cassian reported he hadn’t received a blow to the head. He seemed appropriately injured yesterday, but for some reason he’s so much worse. Could the meat have been off? Surely not.

“Madja told me she administered a balm to your skin before dawn, is the rest of your body aching?” You inquire, considering applying a fresh layer to ease the pain that’s begun to bubble back up.

“My stomach’s starving…” Beneath the cream cotton covers his arm passes over his abdomen, resting. “It’s like someone’s grinding me up between stones.”

“Okay hold still, the balm might feel cold but I’ll apply some more.” Already you’re pulling back his covers, preparing to begin warming the cream between your palms to encourage its goodness to act swiftly but something catches your attention. While there’s no need for bandages over his torso, his thigh has been wrapped and sanitised, now mottled with something dark and not-quite blood coloured. More concerning is the black tissue stitching together the sections where his stomach had been gauged open, thin threads of necrotic flesh lacing his surface.

Your jaw bites itself together, cold overtaking your spine. Whatever’s happening to him is different from general infection.

Lips part as a soft curse slips out—venom? Impossible. The beasts have never been reported to posses glands like that. But it’s the only explanation.

Considering explanations though…was the reason for their seemingly random switch in nature ever understood? Before now the chimeras never bothered the Illyrians, cohabiting up in the steppes peacefully, as far as you’re aware. What catalysed this sudden shift in nature?

Another noise of deep-rooted pain groans through his chest, oil-black brows condensing to a point in the middle of his forehead, skin shining with the movement as feverish sweat breaks across his features. Your own brows furrow, heart beating frenetically, “Azriel…?”

His teeth grit, jaw grinding as if in pain, and his breathing becomes ragged; irregular and torn at the seams. Again you lay your fingers across his brow, and he’s noticeably hotter than before, almost burning in comparison.

Water. He needs water.

“Azriel,” you try but his eyes are shut tight, the fabric of his sheets darkening in a close perimeter around his body, sweat staining the cloth. “Azriel I need you to drink some water,” you urge softly, taking the glass and sliding your palm beneath his head, inclining him from the pillow and bringing the chilled glass to parched lips. He drinks deeply, polishing off the water swiftly and you stand to go in search of a rag to lay across his brow. It brings only a temporary reprieve before he’s panting once again. Teeth worry your lower lip.

Whatever’s happening, it isn’t normal.

“Azriel, I’m going to speak with Rhysand briefly. I’ll be back in three minutes,” you tell him gently, pressing the glass back into his palm. “Drop this on the floor if you need me sooner; I’ll hear it.”

Then you’re off into the hallway. Either male will do, but something was wrong with those creatures, and your instincts are telling you it needs to be gotten to the bottom of, and swiftly.

A life might depend on it.

————

It must be the goodwill of the Mother than allows both Cassian and Rhysand to be at that moment in the latter’s office, heads turning when the door is thrown wide.

Apology passes briefly through your eyes but as soon as you step foot in the room it vanishes, door clicking shut as you hurry into the room. “Cassian, I need to you get me one of those chimeras. Dead or alive, but preferably dead. Something’s wrong with Azriel and I think it’s to do with the change in behaviour we’ve been seeing from those animals.”

Violet eyes flicker, “What’s wrong with Azriel?”

“I don’t know,” you inform, expression hard. “His flesh is turning necrotic in places around the wounds and his fever isn’t breaking. Madja reported his temperature increasing around two o’clock this morning and the way he is now makes it seem as if he’s on the third day and untreated.” You turn to Cassian. “I need one of those Chimeras to examine, as quick as possible. They aren’t supposed to carry venom but it seems a mutation is the only reasonable explanation, in which case we need to figure out what that means and fast, or else we won’t have enough time to figure out what that means for your brother and to cure it.”

The General glances once to the High Lord, sharing a nod before Cassian’s making a swift departure, urgency underlying his movements in a way you hope won’t get him wounded. It makes you call after him. “Whatever you do, don’t be reckless. If you get hurt up there or bitten then both of you will be at risk. This isn’t a time to be cutting corners.”

A muscle in his jaw feathers. “I know.”

Then he’s gone.

Sweat glides down your spine, if he’s as swift as he was the night they returned then the journey there and back should take under an hour. Add on the time to locate and kill a chimera…a few hours, tops. With the rate Azriel’s fever is developing, it’s all you can spare.

Violet eyes are strained when you next meet them, but you’ve little time for further apology as you ask, “How is Feyre doing?”

“Resting,” Rhysand replies, the stern grit of his voice telling you he already knows why you’re asking. Your jaw tightens, shoulders tensing at that tone, something inherent wanting to turn away from that fiercely protective look in his face, warning you not to suggest what you know you have to.

“If worst comes to worst,” you say, quietly.

Rhysand’s expression doesn’t give for a long while, and you fight to keep firm. Until tension flickers through his violet eyes. “It’s her choice,” he relents, tension taut, the whites of his knuckles disagreeing with his words. “But if she tries to give too much, if you don’t stop her then I will.”

You nod grimly, understanding the order well enough.

If Feyre tries to give Azriel more blood than she can afford, you’re to pull her back.

Even if it costs his brother’s life.

————

The sun is down, and Cassian still isn’t back.

The rain lashing at the windows and snarling round the house feels like an omen, shadows dancing like snakes across the floor every time a bolt of lightening fractures the sky. Deadened leaves whip through the howling winds, a deluge crashing down on Velaris.

On the bed, shivering and drenched, is Azriel, pallid skin glistening with a deathly pallor. His surrounding sheets have been doused in sweat, a sour, sick smell filling the room, the stagnant odour of the ill. The black threads of flesh have begun spreading further, thickening into sluggish stumps, streams of necrosis reaching across his stomach; snaring his far leg.

If Cassian isn’t back soon, you’re going to have to try and cut it out from the roots.

Madja lays her hand over the slope of your shoulder and you exchange glances; she’s come to the same conclusion you have, her normally warm features for once showing a grim set. You turn your body from Azriel, dipping your head so he won’t be able to hear, though you doubt he’s in any state to eavesdrop.

“How much longer?” You whisper lowly, eyes glued to the dark floorboards, unable to lift them any further. Madja glances once over her shoulder, a heavy silence filling the air. “Minutes,” she answers. “He has minutes to get back here.” You swallow—those are near impossible chances. The odds were steep enough without the crashing storm outside hindering visibility.

“You’ll take his stomach?” You whisper, pushing past the lump in your throat. Madja nods, “Fetch two bowls of water. I’m going to speak with Feyre; see how she’s holding up.” She’s probably quickly becoming the last gleam of hope to give Azriel a fighting chance of surviving until Cassian arrives.

Or until he bleeds out from the incisions you’ll be forced to make to cut away the rot.

Azriel stirs in the bed once you return from the washroom, setting the second bowl down and approaching his side. Once more, you lay the backs of your fingers across his dampened forehead, sticky sweat smearing your skin but it’s nothing compared to the fierce heat radiating from his skull. His temperature has been teetering into the forties for a while now.

Something like a groan strains through his chest, the tendons in his throat flexing as he swallows, and you lift his head from the pillow, bringing the chilled glass to his peeling lips. He’s too weak to push the drink away, hardly strong enough to swallow, and a cool trickle slips from the side of his mouth, streaming over his jaw and into the cushion. Azriel tilts his head when he’s done, and you pull away, setting the glass down upon the cramped side table.

Hazel eyes crack themselves open, except now they’re a mix of yellow and black—pupils blown so wide they’re practically swallowing his irises, the whites of his eyes souring to a sickening yellow, like the congealed scum of rotten milk, red rimmed and watery.

‘Hot,’ he mouthes. Barely. It’s the near silent touch of his tongue to the roof of his mouth that gives the word away.

You don’t know what to do anymore. There’s nothing else you can do, besides offering water.

“Azriel, can you hear me still?” You ask, crouching down to be by his side, mixing your hand with his. He groans, fingers weakly flexing around your own. It’s a small piece of hope, that he isn’t yet completely gone. You lean closer. “Just a little longer, Az,” you whisper, thumb swiping back and forth gently over his burning skin, “You need to keep going. You can’t leave them behind.”

His hand is silent in your own.

Where is Cassian?

A shadow careens past the window and a flashing red thud slams into the front garden, the doors being blown open a few moments later as fresh rain and howling wind whips inside, sparing not a second in removing mud-caked boots or blood-slicked leathers before he’s marching into the house. From the floor below you hear his name called out, but there’s no cause for relief.

Voices murmur and footsteps hurry, boots clumping about on the lower floors and you hurry to the bedroom door, looking just in time to see Rhysand near the top of the staircase. “Does he have it?” You call, the pound of your heart making your voice breathless. Rhys nods but his eyes are dark and unusually shadowed, “He has it.”

It’s only when he descends the case that you spot the thick book he had clutched beneath one arm on his far side, as if anxious to keep it as hidden as possible. You want to follow, to see the chimera for yourself, lend Madja a hand in trying to understand what’s mutated within the beast to cause such a drastic shift but that’s not your job at the moment. Your job is to look after Azriel. Even if all you can do is sit by his side and watch as he dies.

Tension stitches your jaws together, but you force yourself to turn away, shutting the door once more to return only for a scream to claw and rip from your throat.

Blunt teeth are digging into the flesh of his forearm, biting and gnawing as blood paints his lower jaw, spilling down onto his chest, trickling along his arm. You run forward, trembling fingers searching for that point that will spasm the muscle enough for his jaw to unlock.

“Azriel!” You scream, “Azriel stop! You need to stop it!”

Thick blood oils your fingers, his teeth releasing the bitten flesh only to clamp down a fraction of a second later, locking themselves in place as muscle flexes in his jaw, straining beneath the pressure he’s clamping down with. You fumble, hands shaking as he tries to rip himself apart. You search again, fingers digging into his jaw but he writhes on the bed, wings flaring wide enough to send everything on the side table smashing to the floor, throwing you to the ground in a mess of fractured glass and gushing, freshly bloodied water.

The leather-bound notebook is soaked, ink bleeding across the pages but that’s not what you currently care about. Instead you grip the book from the floor, flying to your feet as you surge forward, nails screaming out in pain as you try to forcibly pry his teeth apart, pushing the spine of the book forward.

“Azriel…!” You hiss, straining against his sudden display of strength. “Bite! Bite down on this…!”

For a few dreadful seconds it looks like he’s going to bleed himself to death, but then his teeth release just long enough for you to shove the hard leather of the thick notebook into his mouth, vicious canines stabbing through the outer layer in one swift bite. Clamping down firmly.

There’s no time for relief, no time for fixing the jagged mess on the floor, nor for celebration, as you take in the fresh blood staining his lower face. Azriel’s wounded arm tries to lift from the bed but more blood gushes out and you have to pin it down until the message reaches his pain-twisted mind and he uses the other to change the positioning of the book in his mouth, angling and biting, slowly chewing the leather to pieces, digging his canines into the notebook repeatedly as if he’s teething.

Footsteps pound along the corridor just as you finish forcing Azriel’s flesh back together, door flying wide as Madja bustles through, a glass vial of pure black liquid grasped in her weathered hand, Rhysand just a step behind. Neither ask what’s happened, why there’s so much blood staining sheets and flooring and sallow skin.

Dark brown eyes flash once over the Shadowsinger before Madja’s figuring her order—one both you and Rhys know before it even leaves her mouth—“Hold him down.” Rhysand takes the side the Azriel’s leg wound is on while you stick where you’ve remained, but even with you leveraging all your weight over his bloody, shredded arm it’s near impossible to keep him down.

The book comes away in tatters when Madja manages to pry it from his mouth, jaws snapping, black ruby teeth glittering wildly as he searches for something to bite, all the while the storm roars on outside, thunder rumbling through miserable grey skies, so deep it’s in the floorboards.

“Rhys,” you hiss out, “can you do anything?” If he can slip inside and provide even a temporary moment so Madja can get the remedy down the Shadowsinger’s throat. The High Lord’s jaw tightens with the effort it’s taking to keep his brother down, teeth gritting as he shakes his head, “there’s nothing to go into. It’s just wind and shadow in his mind.”

“We have to do something,” you force out, looking between them. “He’s not going to drink it like this-”

“And we can’t waste this vial,” Madja finishes grimly.

Rhys’ head lowers, hair falling over his brow like dozens of spider legs, tension gripping his shoulders, then he’s bellowing Cassian’s name, the roar so loud you’re surprised the room doesn’t collapse in on itself, heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. A few moments later heavy boots are lopsidedly clumping up the stairs, the General swaying as he hauls himself through the door. “Take her place. Keep him down,” Rhysand orders through gritted teeth. It seems Cassian’s barely keeping himself conscious, but still he manages, no time to pause.

As soon as Cassian’s hands have taken over you retreat, darting around Azriel’s thrashing wing to be at Madja’s side. His blackened eyes are wild, back arching from the bed as pain lances through his body, teeth still flashing with furious hunger.

“Azriel,” you yell, crusted palms laying either side his mouth, cupping his jaw as you attempt to still the wild thrashing of his body without losing any fingers. “Azriel, look at me. Look at me.” Blown out pupils stare up at you, yellowed eyes sore and so, so wrong. “That’s it,” you manage, forcing your voice to calm, “You know us. You remember us.”

His upper lips curls in a snarl and blood seeps from the broken skin, so dried out and desiccated that it splits at the slightest stretch.

“You remember us,” you repeat, thumbs stroking back and forth, swiping the edges of his mouth tenderly, “Don’t you? Remember Cass and Rhys? They’re your brothers.” Oil-black brows narrow, but the two other males are having better luck holding him down than before, so you push forward.

Your hold tightens and you lean closer, almost sharing breath. “Do you remember your name?” You ask softly, soothingly stroking his cheeks, ignoring the blood soaking your hands. “It’s Azriel,” you whisper, “You’re Azriel.”

His eyes shutter, struggling again but you hold firm. “You just need to hold on a little longer, Azriel. We have a remedy, but you need to drink it first.” Sharp, black eyes scan your features, cutting back and forth across your expression, his face still twisted in partial fury, shadow and wind roaring outside but his struggling has lessened enough for the antidote to be administered.

Yet as soon as you pull away his wings flare outward, the bed creaking as the powerful limbs thrash, a vicious snarl ripping from his throat and both Cassian and Rhysand are nearly knocked back from the force of his retaliation.

“Azriel…” You plead, nails digging into his cheeks, dragging his attention back. “Azriel, please,” you beg, “hold still.” Icy breath repeatedly hits your chin, his panting becoming shallower and shallower by the second, yet he shows no signs of giving in. Pure panic drips down your spine, hands shaking as you hold onto him for dear life.

“We have to try,” Madja whispers, not directed at you. In your periphery, Rhysand nods in agreement, but it won’t work. He’ll send the vial flying, just like the glass and the bowl, shattering on the floor, destroying the precious cure with it.

A hot tear splashes down onto Azriel’s bloody cheek, a second droplet falling soon after, soundless compared to the raging storm outside. Thunder and lightening zeroing to silence as you look at him.

Thumbs swipe back and forth across his skin. He can’t die.

You swallow, sparing a moment to look at Madja. “Give it to me,” you whisper.

Madja hesitates.

“Let me give it to him,” you plead, able to feel Azriel’s sluggish pulse beneath your hands.

Silence hangs in the air, then Rhysand nods. “Try.”

Beneath all of you, Azriel begins to stir again, the soothed state you’d gotten him into already so quickly slipping away. Slipping through your fingers.

Madja offers you the vial, and in one movement you’ve poured the contents into your own mouth.

The liquid is thick and congealed across your tongue, vile and putrid but then you’re pressing your mouth to Azriel’s, his bloody lips freezing beneath your own, peeling and ripped in places but they part for you, your thumbs still stroking as you tilt yourself over him.

Your mouth opens for his, and the remedy flows into him, spilling down his throat.

This time both Illyrians are ready and braced as Azriel writhes and thrashes on the bed, lip curling in revulsion as the foul tasting liquid is swallowed down his throat, wings flaring and flapping, knocking back and forth so violently the bed groans like it might finally give way. Fury twists through Azriel’s features and you recoil as his fangs sting at your lips, hot, fresh blood bubbling into his mouth before you can even realise he’s bitten you.

You pull away, forcing your hands over his chest, Madja now beside Rhys as you all try to keep him down. Heaven knows what he’s mad enough to do with the pain carving his mind apart.

By the time he settles, you’re all breathless. But it’s done. He took the remedy.

Slowly, you stand, each of you bracing as if he might start back up at any second and you need to be ready to jump back into place. But he remains still. Dead still, but you can pick out the small pulse in his throat. You cling onto that pulse, desperately.

At last you all pull away, and Rhysand drags a hand down his face, you and Madja glancing to one another with a mix of emotion. To your left, Cassian sways, then his legs give out, body thudding as his knees his the floor, the rest of him giving out now the task is complete. You’ve each done everything you can; pushed to the limit, and possibly beyond.

“Mother’s grace,” Madja whispers in thanks, and you do the same, sending a prayer to the sky, hoping it will be enough. She nods to herself once, twice, three times. Easing in a few steadying breaths before straightening, swallowing. “Cassian,” she names, addressing the body on the floor and you don’t fault her for her breathlessness, “we need to find him a bed.”

You nod, panting. “Rhys and I can manage,” you breathe, exhausted. “Can you take cleanup in here?” You ask, moving with Rhysand to grip Cassian beneath his arms, only now spotting the blood on his leathers, though it’s too much of a mess in here to judge who it belongs to.

Madja nods solemnly, and between you and the High Lord, you manage to lift the fearsome General from the ground, hefting him out into the hallway, taking the room immediately next door and laying Cassian on the bed there.

You slump against the wall, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand when you realise the foul taste is still there, having been obscured by the metallic flavour of your own blood.

Rhysand remains stood over Cassian, looking down at his brother with an expression you can’t read. It’s none of your business, either way.

Your nose wrinkles, pulling your sleeve over your hand and spitting into the fabric, wanting to rid yourself of the vile taste. “Fuck. What was in that?” You gag, looking forward to a glass of water to clean your mouth out and a wash.

The hairs at the nape of your neck prickle, and you lift your head to find dark violet watching you from across the room. You’d apologise for cursing, but that doesn’t seem to be the reason for his look.

Tentatively, you straighten. “Do you know?”

Silence hangs in the air. Then he relents.

“Blood.” Rhysand murmurs. “Chimera blood.”

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

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hannzoaks · 8 months ago

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DISCLAIMER* Episode 3 "III"

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hannzoaks · 8 months ago

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hannzoaks · 9 months ago

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Spreading You Open Series

Part 1 (smuttyish)

Part 2*

Part 3*

Part 4* (updated 2/27) (final part)

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hannzoaks · 9 months ago

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The Offering

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Kinktober 2024: Knife Play

Description: Two spymasters of different courts get sent on the same mission. What could go wrong?

Warnings: Smut, knife play, a bit of blood, enemies to lovers, dirty talk

Word Count: ~3k

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

People were filtering out of the banquet hall bit by bit, you almost wanted to sigh in relief, this had felt like the longest night. The corset was eating at your skin - it really shouldn't have been something you did by yourself, you tightened it far too much, - and the wine would have started getting to you if this night carried on much longer, something that you couldn't have let happen, especially with him here.

The Night Court's Spymaster had scarcely looked at you this whole time, pretty much ignoring your presence as your disguise called for, but even a quick glance was enough to make your skin burn. Maybe it wasn't such a good thing the banquet was ending, it meant you had to face him sooner. The thought makes you down the rest of your wine, drunken cheers erupting from the people around you.

Cozying up to rich and presumptuous nobles was unfortunately one of your strengths, you could talk almost anyone out of their secrets on nights like this, which is why Eris sent you here last minute, not wanting to lose ground on the Night Court.

You have been Eris' unofficial spy since before he had become High Lord, you considered him one of your closest friends really, and that's exactly why he had appointed you as his Spymaster when he took the throne. Over the years his and the Night Court's alliance had grown and shifted, never quite losing their initial animosity but working towards common goals. This meant you've had the displeasure of working with Azriel on multiple occasions.

Just as the last few attendants stand up, you mix in with the crowd, walking behind them for most of the way before turning a corner and disappearing from their sight, carefully making your way back to the banquet hall where the shadowsinger is waiting with his back turned to the door, powerful wings now on full display after being hidden behind a glamor.

As soon as you close the door, letting your exhausted body fall against it, he turns to you, hazel eyes dragging over your body untamed. You take this moment to study him as well. It will always take you by surprise how unbelievably beautiful this male was.

The two remaining candlesticks barely illuminated the room but Azriel always thrived in the dark. The dark blue suit he wore looked more expensive than anything you had ever seen him in, and Gods did it look downright sinful on him. He had to send his shadows away during dinner, but now they had returned, swirling around his form, making him look even more imposing. If you didn't know better you would have thought he was the High Lord of darkness himself.

Your eyes meet at last after studying each other's bodies and choices of attire, the tension in the room making you swallow as you struggle to fall back into your role as spymaster, your role as his reluctant ally from a court he had made quite obvious he despised with passion.

“I'm not sure how this alliance is supposed to prosper when you keep hiding things from us, shadowsinger,” you start, walking closer to the table in between you.

“I'm here on private Night Court business.” He tracks your movements, hazel eyes studying the way you hold onto the back of a chair as he continues, “It doesn't concern you.”

“Really? From what I gathered this affects the Autumn Court too.”

“It won't affect anyone if we stop them in time,” he dismissed you easily.

“They want to summon a God, Azriel,” you remind him, your glare sharpening.

“After I share all my findings with Rhysand I'm sure he will call a High Lord meeting and inform everyone accordingly.”

The more your mood soured, the more his shadows stretched out towards you, braving the lights on the table in favor of reaching your body. They were powerful weapons, powerful beings, but you've learned they can give away their singer's emotions and intentions if unchecked.

“You know what I think?”

“I'm sure you'll tell me anyway.”

“I think this need you have to always be the one to figure everything out on your own and making yourself useful comes from being that insecure little kid who couldn't even fly.” The vile words fall from your mouth far too easily, it's almost like you're always trying to prove the rumors about you right. “Scared they'll throw you away? Find someone better than you?”

You thought his shadows would crawl up your body at the verbal attack, maybe even try to hide his if you truly crossed a line, but much to your surprise they scatter around the room instead. Azriel's head tilts to the side, a smirk falling onto his handsome face as he starts walking around the table, slowly making his way to you. It takes far too much self control for you not to back away, years of training and experience rendered null in his presence.

Azriel wouldn't hurt you, that would compromise the alliance between your courts, and, as cruel as your words had been, they were also true, - he would be too scared of the repercussions of failing his brother far too much, - but that wasn't what made your heart race so. You were scared of what else he could do to you, of what you would let him do.

His hand reaches to cup your face, and you struggle to keep up the glare as you take in the hunger in his eyes. Azriel hums when you make no move to pull away, eyes dropping to your chest for a moment before meeting yours once again, letting you know he could hear the way your heart was trying to escape through your ribcage.

“You really don't know how to do anything else but bite when you get backed into a corner, do you?”

His voice sounded deeper as he whispered so close to you, his breath hitting your face as you looked up at him.

“What else am I supposed to do?”

Azriel lets out a cruel chuckle, leaning in until his lips brush against yours. “I thought you already knew you can drop the act when it's just me,” he murmurs, “guess I'll need to show you again.”

His lips fall over yours as soon as the words leave his mouth, your hand coming up to hold the back of his neck, pulling him in even closer. It had been far too long since you had last tasted him and you needed more, needed to drown yourself in him.

His own hands start trailing down your body, pulling up the skirt of your dress until it gathers at your waist, lifting you up onto the table and standing between your legs before you have the chance to react, always getting so lost in him.

“What are you doing?” You ask, pulling away as you try to remember yourself, remember your role and where you are. Anyone could walk in this room and find you like this. You don't know what would be worse: everyone figuring out you were spies working to uncover their whole operation, or someone seeing the spymasters of two opposing courts tangled up like this.

“As long as we are in this house we need to keep up our cover,” Azriel explains against your neck, unwilling to let you hold on to your sanity, “Can't you hear them upstairs? We're the odd ones out.”

You had been so caught up in him you hadn't even noticed the mingling scents and wanton moans traveling all the way from up the stairs. It almost sounded like the universe was working against you. Tightening your grip on his silky hair as he moves lower, kissing your skin all the way down to the neckline of your dress.

He stands up suddenly, eyeing your covered body one more time, before pulling out his trusted dagger, Truth Teller, and running its tip down your throat lightly, the cold blade barely touching the skin. Your eyes widen a bit, but the way his track the blade's movements makes you relax against it. It looks like you're in for an unforgettable night.

“This is a beautiful dress. It was incredibly hard to keep my eyes off you the whole night,” he says, eyes meeting yours for a split second, “but it's getting in the way now.”

“It's an expensive dress, Azriel.” Your voice was far too breathy for this to sound like a heartfelt complaint. He humors you all the same.

“I'll buy you a new one,” he promises just as the sharp blade starts cutting at the corset holding your dress tight against your skin, destroying the fabric far too easily. Gods, he could cut your skin so easily if he wanted to.

He throws the offending corset aside, making you finally breathe properly for the first time tonight. As you take a deep breath, his scent assaults your senses, making the wetness gathering in your underwear grow even more. You bring his lips back to yours but he only allows you a short kiss before he's pulling away again.

Just as you go to protest, he gets back to work with his knife, running the cold blade over your heated skin, sending shivers down your spine, gasps escaping you when he actually cuts through fabric after caressing your skin with the deadly weapon for so long.

By the time your dress was in shreds at his feet, and you were finally naked to his eyes, you were unbelievably turned on, so wet you think he could slip right in with no resistance.

“Lay down for me.”

It takes you a moment to fully think through what he wanted you to do, studying the shadowsinger intently for any sign of deceit. He lets you, simply staring back into your eyes, as open as you've ever seen him. The knife in his hand didn't feel threatening, not after he ran the blade all over your skin without so much as a scratch, and you fear you would never actually feel threatened by it as long as he was the one holding it.

You obey him, falling back against the table you had just been eating at, surrounded by a dangerous cult who was still lingering inside this very house, and could very well catch you both in this vulnerable state. He was right though, you couldn't help but at least show your teeth.

“Are you interrogating me now?”

Azriel hums, a dark, excited look falling over his eyes, one that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand, whether because of fear or anticipation you can't be too sure.

“We can do that,” he starts, running Truth Teller's hilt down your sternum, “It's not often I get the Spymaster of the Autumn Court under my knife after all.”

“And what do I get in return for answering your questions?”

The smile on his face grows, laying the knife down your torso, the blade fitting perfectly between your breasts, and spreading your legs apart further, helping you plant your feet on the table too, keeping you nice and open for his greedy eyes. “I think you know.”

“Did Eris send you here to spy on me or on them?” Azriel asks as he leans over you so he can meet your eyes properly.

The problem with this position is that you can't really keep your eyes on him, only seeing his shadowy figure through your peripheral vision unless he leans over you or you strain your neck. You felt completely at his mercy.

As if hearing your thoughts, - something you were sure only his High Lord and Lady could do, - his shadows gather under you, bringing in a rolled up table cloth so you could hold your head up, and meet his eyes. Being confronted by his hazel eyes again makes you clench around nothing, momentarily forgetting everything else.

“Both,” you answer honestly. It's not like you both didn't already know the truth. “You keep hiding things from us so what other choice do we have?”

“Your High Lord isn't entitled to know about everything that happens in Prythian,” he scoffs, his disdain for Eris so obvious it almost makes you flinch when he touches you again, his thumb running down your stomach, from the tip of his knife to where you needed him most.

“Neither is yours.”

Now it was his turn to glare up at you, leaning over your body and looking down with sharp eyes. You almost think this would turn into another argument before he keeps running his thumb down your folds, collecting your wetness and spreading it around, not quite giving you what you needed.

“Tell me,” he starts, picking up the dagger once again, “have you told your High Lord you keep letting a bastard like me fuck you?”

It's only when blood starts dripping down his wrist that you notice he had grabbed the dagger by the blade. Just as you go to get up and stop him, not wanting to see him hurt, he runs the hilt of his favored dagger over your folds just like he had done with his fingers, getting it coated in your wetness, and making you stop in your tracks as a gasp escapes you.

“Would you tell him how easily you fall apart on my cock?” His intentions were becoming clear in your mind, and for some sick reason it was only making you wetter instead of scared. “Need an answer, little spy.”

“No,” you confess, eyes staring back into his, silently begging him to do something.

“Embarrassed?”

“Not of you.”

The problem wasn't him. You were embarrassed of how easily you forget yourself when he so much as looks your way, even though he's more enemy than ally and makes his hate for your court and High Lord well known every time you meet. You're embarrassed at how you still let him touch you like this and be a constant presence in your thoughts knowing he would kill the person that saved and gave you the opportunity to be someone of importance in a heartbeat.

A shadow passes by his eyes, you're not sure what it meant, but luckily he doesn't linger in unwanted thoughts either, spreading your folds apart with his thumb as he starts feeding your cunt the hilt of his dagger. You tighten involuntarily around the unfamiliar material, even though you were so wet you were dripping down onto the table under you.

Azriel lets out a sigh at the sinful sight, circling his thumb around your clit. “Relax for me,” he murmurs, “I promise I'll make you feel good.”

And as usual your body listens to him immediately, allowing him to slowly insert the hilt of the dagger completely inside you. The scent of his blood mixed in with your arousal was making your head spin, and you can't help but call out his name, ready to beg if that was what it took. It seems his patience was wearing thin too as he starts pumping Truth Teller inside you, slowly fucking you with his dagger.

“Fuck, you look perfect.”

You should definitely feel a bit ashamed at the noises erupting from your lips, but if you did it was only adding to the pleasure, a high building inside you far too rapidly. You stand no chance as he leans down and sucks your clit into his mouth, circling his tongue around and speeding up his thrusts, your hands falling to his hair, tightening around his curls painfully, keeping him right there.

Your orgasm almost takes you by surprise as you let out an untamed moan of his name, the Spymaster's name echoing around the room like it couldn't get you both killed. Your legs dangle over the table again, trembling slightly as your body works you through the intense pleasure.

Azriel's mouth only abandons you when you start pushing at his head, too sensitive as you come down. His dagger follows, the sound of it being placed on the table next to you making you open your eyes and look at it, heat spreading to your face and ears as you do, still soaked with your cum on its hilt and his blood on the blade.

You look his way to find him studying it as well, his bloodied hand holding onto your hip, staining your skin as well. He was so focused that the shadowsinger didn't even notice you sitting up until you grab the back of his neck and pull him into a passionate kiss, feeling even needier now than when you first started even though you just came so hard you had seen every star in the sky.

Azriel returns the kiss with the same intensity, both of you getting lost in each other's taste and touch. Time seemed to stop around you. His hand travels up your body, painting his blood over your skin, making your scents mix completely into one, until you were anyone that walked into this room wouldn't be able to tell them both apart.

You feel him tense up against you suddenly, lips freezing against yours, prompting you to pull away, scared something had happened. Your eyes fall on the door immediately, thinking one of the cult members had wandered in, hand reaching for his dagger, but when you find the door still closed and no one even close to this room your eyes fall on his questioningly.

What you find in his wide hazel eyes scares you more than anything else could, ice running through your veins, snuffing out your fire as you see an inescapable fate come alive, shackling you together. His dagger drops onto the table once more, slipping through your fingers.

Azriel was your mate.

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hannzoaks · 9 months ago

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poly

POLY!ROWAELIN POLY!MANORIAN POLY!ELORCAN

single

AELIN ASTERIN MANON ELIDE ROWAN LORCAN GAVRIEL FENRYS DORIAN NEXT GEN

multi/mix n' match

MANON x READER x ASTERIN

think for yourself ↳ you did learn pretend* lifeline on the edge*

ASTERIN x READER x ELIDE

cinnamon

LORCAN/FENRYS/ROWAN x READER

the arrangement*

LORCAN x READER x FENRYS

track 32

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hannzoaks · 9 months ago

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Salt On My Tongue[***]

Dark!Azriel x Vanserra!Reader

warnings: themes of somnophilia, bdsm, dacryphilia; implied use of an aphrodisiac and sleeping medicine; noncon; masturbation; fingering; cum play; (arguably) incorrect use of underwear; spying?

word count: 8,118

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

The sun is still rising from the horizon, casting a deep orange gold across the tiles of the kitchen floor when Azriel enters, shadows gliding in his wake, and you’d guess he likely hasn’t slept.

“Morning,” you greet, a faint smile on your mouth, watching him hopefully as he makes his way to the teapot sat in the middle of the small table, pouring himself a cup. It isn’t often he visits since he’s kept busy with his own work, dealing with who knows what in the dark shadows that cling to him. That and the whole point of you being here is to keep your existence under wraps. It’s unlikely anyone would get suspicious, particularly since you’re convinced he and his brothers are the only ones who even know the location of this safe house, but he still keeps the visits to a strict minimum. Not like anyone would come looking for you, after the bargain that was struck between your eldest brother and the High Lord of the Night Court. The only reasons Azriel has to visit at all, are either to get a semblance of peace and quiet—he’s never said so, but you’ve gathered that’s the case over the decades—or…

Azriel takes a seat at the table, wings shifting at his back as he stretches the tension-tied tendons, powerful muscle flexing as he spreads each wing in turn, already pulling a notebook from a shadowy pocket. His tea steams nearby, pencil already scratching over paper and you glance to the calendar on the wall, hopes steadily becoming more and more substantial, but he’s continuing with his work.

You try to wait—he’s busy, he has work to do, he doesn’t enjoy your company—but when he’s one of the only people you really ever get to see, restraint is difficult. Most of your discretion and discipline slips the leash when he visits, jumping and bounding with exhilaration at seeing someone again, even if it is someone so cold.

It’s only when his tea boils over, steam fluttering in simmering ribbons from the teacup that he raises his gaze to yours, expression disagreeable. “You’re a grown woman,” he says, pinning you with a cold look, “behave like one.”

“Sorry, Azriel,” you reply quickly, getting a hold of your magic, leaving his tea alone. Your lips press together, hands in your lap while your fingers wring impatiently beneath the table, waiting expectantly. But he watches you for a few moments more, dragging out the silence, as if daring you to speak out of turn, before going back to his notebook, pencil once again scratching over the paper, and you could bite your tongue from frustration.

Instead you swallow thickly—you’re entirely justified in interrupting him, in this case…—sitting straighter in your chair, fingers hooking over the edge of the table where he can see them. “Azriel,” you try, wanting to get his attention. He makes a low noise of acknowledgement, but his pencil continues scrawling neatly across the narrow lines of the paper. “Eris is visiting today isn’t he?” You blurt out, unable to contain it any longer. It’s the only other reason he would be here with you, other than for his own reasons that you’ve long given up on trying to understand, and the timing is aligned, too. Your oldest brother usually visits some time during spring, as preparations are less hectic in the Autumn Court, magic just that little bit more tame while the rest of the world passes through the opposing season.

“He can’t make it this year,” Azriel replies, not looking up, “he’ll visit next year.”

You blink, the words hitting like stones against your skin, bruises already flourishing in their wake. “…what?”

Azriel doesn’t reply, knowing you heard him the first time and unwilling to repeat himself, but you push forward regardless. “Azriel, what do you mean he can’t visit this year. He always visits. What’s in his way?”

“How should I know,” Azriel replies, pencil scratches grating against your ears.

“What reason did he give?” You push, leaning forward in your seat, forearms crossed beneath your breasts to brace yourself. “He would have said something. What was it?”

“He didn’t say. Probably busy scheming.”

“He wouldn’t,” you insist, but he looks like he’s hardly listening to you. “Azriel,” you say, a little louder and a little harsher than you should really be speaking to him.

He doesn’t take his attention from his notebook, continuing with those frustratingly neat scrawls of writing, not even bothering to recognise the pain that’s undoubtedly written across your features. Your jaw works, throat rolling, before your brow is narrowing, pinning his mug with a look, watching as the steam becomes thicker, fluttering more violently, swiftly bubbling from a gentle simmer to an obvious boil, scalding water splashing in places across the table in less than a fraction of a second. Sharp eyes flick to the cup, then slice up to you, his brows narrowed in mild displeasure, before a cold, silky darkness snatches your sight away.

You inhale sharply as his shadows coil over your eyes, acting as a blindfold so you have no control over the direction of your magic, powers draining away as the darkness smothers your flame with little effort.

Azriel watches with a passive look on his face as a tear drips from beneath his shadows, spilling down your cheek but evaporating before it hits the table. Good. He tucks the visual away, carefully prying it from his immediate memory and locking it up somewhere dark and depraved.

“Has it crossed your mind that maybe he doesn’t want to see you?” Azriel asks from across the table. “If he missed you so much, he would find the time.”

“You’re lying. Tell me why he couldn’t make it.” You’ve never spoken like that to him before. Always tried to keep a tone of respect when interacting with him, since you’re in his lands, in his house. Your life arguably in his hands, in a way.

“He’s the one who sent you away in the first place,” Azriel replies coldly. “He’s the one who sent you here, right into his enemies’ hands.”

“He’s the one who made the sacrifice,” you argue back, tears simmering as they burn at your cheeks, “all you’re doing is lending a house to someone. There’s hardly any downside on your end of the deal. He’s the one giving things up.”

“And he’s the reason why you’re so lonely,” Azriel replies, ice creeping into his voice as you advocate for your brother. “And now you’ll be even more on your own, since he couldn’t even be bothered to find a few hours for you. We’re the ones looking after you. Tell me again how much he loves you?”

“Like you’re any better?” You manage back, voice wobbling, because you are alone here. So, incredibly isolated. Sure there are the animals, the birds and the insects, the constant chirp and chipper from the outside, but it’s nothing like interaction with other people. And there have been times you’ve resented your brother for that. For keeping you safe only by putting you in a cage.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

Azriel’s icy voice breaks through your thoughts, and if it weren’t for his shadows blindfolding you, you’d be staring at him.

“You barely visit,” you manage hoarsely. “And even then, you make no secret that you loathe my presence. You hardly tolerate it.”

“I need to concentrate on my work. It’s basic respect I’m asking for,” he replies, yielding not even an inch of ground in this one-sided battle. “I’d be happier if you didn’t visit at all,” you shoot back, heart aching in your chest.

Silence stretches, and your ears strain, searching for some kind of sound.

“Those words would hold more weight if you actually meant them,” Azriel replies at last, and your head tilts to the side, turning to the right where his voice came from. “But as it is,” he continues, voice lowered to a near whisper, flinching when his lips brush the shell of your ear, “you’re easier to read than a picture book, and a liar—just like your brother.”

Then he’s stepping away, shadows pulling with him, and your eyes wince for a second before they adjust, watching through blurry vision as he sits back down, pouring himself a fresh cup of tea.

You’d boiled the last one down to the pit of the mug.

————

You’re sat on your mattress, back pressing into the full pillows you’ve stacked together, a small, yellow-tinted light clipped to one of the posts of your bed to give enough illumination while reading, when Azriel knocks on your door.

You keep your attention glued to the pages of your book, purposefully ignoring him the way he had done to you this morning. “Dinner’s ready,” he says, causing you to pause. He’s caught you off guard with that one. Even when you were first transferred to this hidden away safe-house, without knowing how to cook or prepare meals for yourself, having always had cooks or servants deliver food to you, he’d rarely helped you, leaving you to struggle and learn on your own. Mostly from watching him prepare things.

And occasionally giving yourself food poisoning.

“I can cook my own food, thank you,” you reply, wishing you had the spine to drop the pleasantries at the end, but you’re too scared of pissing him off. He’s your only real connection to the outside world, the only constant you have in your life at the moment. “Well you haven’t tonight, and you’ll be going to bed soon, so make an exception.”

“I can decide when to eat, and when to sleep, on my own, too, thank you,” you reply, a little more tersely, wondering how much he’ll allow. You’ve got to be careful in this battle—you don’t know how to read him, don’t know if you’re pushing too far and he’ll suddenly wage war on you.

“You can’t, by the looks of it,” he replies, eyeing the clothes you’re in—definitely not your usual sleepwear. “Are you planning to try and sneak out later tonight?”

“No,” you respond, primly. You don’t want to tell him you’re out of night-gowns to wear. Most of your clothes have been piled up, supposed to be washed. You haven’t been in the right headspace to do much though, having been too excited, and then recently too sad to. “Well get changed, and then we can eat.”

That gets your attention, eyes locking over the top of your book, your legs being drawn tighter to your chest, watching him warily. You swallow—you’ve never eaten together before. “Is this about earlier?” You ask, forcing your gaze back to your book, away from his penetrating eyes, feeling as though he can read you like a…well, like a picture book.

Azriel is quiet for a pause before answering. “I could have been less harsh,” he relents, and you meet his gaze again, surprised. “You’re…apologising…?” You ask, a piece of your apprehension swayed. “No,” he says firmly, voice cooling to that icy sharpness again, swift enough to have you doubting the previous gentle tone he’d used. Not exactly gentle, actually, but anything compared to this tone will count as gentle in your mind.

“Well, I’m tired, Azriel. I hope you sleep well,” you say, as much as a dismissal as you can force yourself to say, too worried about stepping out of line to say anything truly harsh. But he doesn’t take it, remaining in your door. “You’ll eat before bed.”

“I’ve lost my appetite,” you lie. Half lie. You’re in no mood for eating after this conversation.

“Just come and eat. You’ll feel better when you’re no longer hungry.”

“I can make my own decisions, Azriel,” you reply sharply, irritation simmering gently in the pit of your stomach.

His hazel eyes harden at the tone, at the flame you know is probably flickering in your gaze, shadows darkening unpleasantly as a merciless look crosses his features. “Stop being a brat and eat. I’ll be in the living room.”

And then the door clicks shut.

————

You keep the woollen blanket pulled over your shoulders as you quietly and reluctantly make your way to the kitchen, hoping to take whatever you can find back to your bedroom, and eat there. You haven’t decided whether or not it’s a cowardly decision or not.

The kitchen table is empty, and you glance about, but can’t see whatever food Azriel had mentioned. That’s fine though, you’re more than happy to put something together for yourself, make to do so, when a presence gathers at your back. You stumble forward, spinning around to find the exact male stood silently at your back. “I— You scared me,” you stammer thoughtlessly, before remembering you’re trying to hold your ground against him. Some ground, at least.

“Food’s in the living room,” he says sternly, watching you with that cold gaze of his, icy enough to have the small, soft hairs rising up the length of your back, prickling at the nape of your neck. You swallow, raising your chin a little higher, keeping yourself calm as you level him with a somewhat composed look. “I’m going to eat in my room,” you say, trying not to let your apprehension show, steeling your spine to hold firm. But—

“You’re eating with me.”

You blink. Blink again. “I’m— I’m eating in my—”

“With me.” He repeats, pinning you to the cold tile floor with a look worthy of the Winter court. Glacial, and commanding. “Okay…” you mumble, glancing away from the hard look.

Azriel seems to be satisfied with your adherence, turning in the doorway a few moments later, obviously expecting you to follow.

And you do.

————

Your breaths have turned somewhat deep, chest rising and falling evenly, but he’ll keep you here a little longer before waking you.

His book is sat—finished—on the arm of the sofa, his wings draped over its back, empty plates discarded in the sink where his shadows had carried them once you’d both finished. You’re a pleasant change to the personalities he becomes accustomed to in his own family, stubborn and sometimes standoffish. It’s pleasant to simply have to apply a slightly cold look to you, and have you fumbling beneath it, acquiescing to his demands.

Azriel glances to his side, and takes you in.

At some point between finishing your meal and starting on your own book, you’d become lethargic and dozy—he’d known you’d be going to bed soon, and there’s a kernel of satisfaction in his chest that he would know you so well. That he was right, rather.

Your head had tipped onto his shoulder, fingers clasped greedily between the pages of your book, begging to be read for only a little longer but lethargy had stolen you away. Your lips are mostly shut, a small parting between the centre points where your upper lip rises from your lower one, and you look quiet. A little later he’d been stumbled by his instincts, lithely wrapping an arm around you so your cheek smushed against the crook beneath his shoulder, and you’d seemed almost more contented, fingers sliding out from the home of your book to lazily grapple across his stomach, delicately snaring their way around his side, arm strewn across his lap as you huddled into his warmth. Your comparatively small figure instinctively yearning for the physical company of another.

Azriel dips his head, taking a soft inhale of your scent—you smell like the sun, and grass that’s been freshly cut, something thick and blossomy laying beneath it. His nose brushes your hair, but he hardly registers it, pressing closer so you’re flush with his side, his hands splaying across your soft and supple form, dipping beneath the blanket you’d carried with you from your bedroom. His fingers glide subconsciously up your arm, wrapping over your shoulder as he brings his lips to graze the crown of your head.

Hazel eyes snap open, and he pulls himself away, heart beating hard in his chest.

Azriel tries to cast his gaze elsewhere, anywhere aside from the lovely female curving herself into his side, like a small animal nestling during hibernation. Her scent is in his lungs, in his body, in his blood, wrapping itself securely around him, but he knows he can’t allow himself any further. You’re Eris’s sister—there’s enough baggage in that title alone to keep him far, far away.

There should be enough, anyway.

Shadows brush a strand of hair from your face, and you shift in your sleep, hand briefly clutching at his side as you shift, practically pressing your face into the crook of his shoulder and neck, each teasing breath tickling the sensitive skin. Azriel clenches his jaw, and lightly grips your hair, plying you back so he can see your sleep-softened face. He swallows thickly when he sees your lips are parted a little wider, his blood heating as he stares quietly, intently. His breathing becomes a little shallow, and he finds himself leaning forward ever so slightly, as if drawn in.

But then he looks away, brows narrowed in deep disgust at himself. He will never see you through a romantic lens—you’re Eris’ sister. Those affectionate touches that sometimes seep from his fingertips into your skin cannot happen.

Ever.

Azriel glances back at you, before firmly shoving you down into the sofa.

He knows can be a little rough with your body without having to worry about any consciousness surfacing.

Your head is tipped over the far arm, exposing the elegant length of your unmarked neck, spine arched to fit the curve of the furniture and he presses his lips to the small swell in your throat, pressing firm, rough kisses down to your collar bones, pulling your scent down in deep lungfuls. His roughened palms guide your thighs apart, and his hips press tight between your own, firmly grinding against the soft heat of your sex as he satiates the wicked desire curling down his spine. It’s been months since he last saw you, and he denies himself any sort of sexual relief if it is not like this—with you with him.

He still remembers the searing disgust he’d felt after the first time one of these thoughts had shown to have such a firm grasp on his desire. But then he’d understood it was fine to play with you sexually, to dangle you across his fantasies, flip you into various positions so long as he kept his lust under control. He’d come to understand that it was better this way, to contain you within his mind through such an objectifying lens.

To reduce you so fundamentally to something he could toy with.

Azriel stiffens when a small noise slips from your throat. Beneath his lips he can feel the fluttering beat of your pulse, erratic and wild, like a butterfly caught in a web. Desperate to escape with the trembling stutter of its lovely, delicate wings.

He shifts his weight onto one arm, allowing the other to slide between your legs, palm cupping your heat, and he groans softly, head hanging so his brow is resting between your breasts. His breathing becomes laboured, lips grazing against your skin as his fingers splay across your underwear, able to feel the small bump at the apex of your thighs beneath the knuckles at the base of his fingers.

Digits press tentatively against your entrance, and he exhales heavily, lust building in his chest, but…

Azriel pulls away from your body, his muscles soaked and groaning with lethargy and strain.

His jaw works, steadying himself while his shadows rearrange your disarrayed limbs, closing your legs and bringing the blanket to wrap across your torso again before returning to him.

He takes a steadying breath, calming his arousal before settling himself at the furthest part of the sofa, allowing his shadows to creep back over to you, waking you from your sleep.

————

You blink wearily, eyes peeking open and then you’re squirming gently against the cold brush of something swirling over the intimate expanse of your throat, brushing beneath your ear.

With some effort, you manage to sit upright, spine hurting from being curved over the arm of the sofa, and you gain awareness swiftly enough to spot the darkness darting away back to its master. Your lips part slightly as you inhale for a sigh, limbs stretching, shoulders pulling back to relieve the tension that’s stitched them together. You look about, a yawn rising from your throat and you cover your mouth as you rub your eye. “I…did I fall asleep?” You ask, trying half-heartedly to blink away some of the sleep and get your bearings.

“You fell asleep,” Azriel confirms, not looking up from his book, apparently nearing its end. “How long for?” You ask, pushing back as another yawn seeks to rise from your chest, fatigue weighing heavily on your eyes. He turns a page, attention following along the lines, reaching the sentence’s end before responding. “Half an hour.”

You glance up at the clock on the mantle piece, realising how late it’s gotten. You hope this won’t make it difficult to fall back asleep once you get to bed.

Pulling the blanket a little closer across your chest, legs bending further at the knee to curl into yourself, you glance to where the empty plates should be but realise he must have already put them away. “The food was nice…” you hedge, feeling a thinks is in order, even if you didn’t ask for it. Azriel makes a sound of disinterested acknowledgement, and your lips press together in a thin line. Wasn’t the reason behind making food to supposedly ease the tension between you?

“You know, I’m not sure there’s any point in saying this, since you’re so stubborn,” you say, trying to get his attention. Hazel eyes pause over the page, before his gaze is shifting to rest on you, his lips slightly downturned with displeasure. You swallow, but persist. “It wouldn’t hurt you to be less cold to me, Azriel.” You wait, tension tightening in your throat for his reply, but he remains utterly silent, and you gather he has nothing to say to you.

You incline your chin. “You know you’re the only person I really get to see.”

“You get to see your brother,” he replies evenly.

“Really, Azriel? What was the point of even making this meal? Of visiting me? You could do it all without me even aware, but choose to make your presence known,” you argue, clutching the blanket tighter. “It’s like you’re trying to make this as miserable and as isolating as possible. It’s like you’re trying to punish me for something I’m not even guilty of.”

“I don’t owe you my time.”

“No…but you don’t owe me coldness either.”

His hazel gaze sharpens, heavy brows narrowing to darken the hollow atop his eyes. “Very well. Come here.”

Your shoulders stiffen, lungs tensing as you look at him, lips parting subconsciously in question. “…What…?”

The Illyrian raises himself from the sofa, his towering, lethally muscled body unfolding, talon tipped wings flaring slightly at his back, shadows seeping from his skin, slithering onto the floor. His arms open threateningly, an icy glint in his eyes, palms open as if poised to wrap around your throat should you step too close. “Come here,” he repeats lowly, a sinister drag grating in his throat, a look like detest tucked between his brows. “If you want comfort, I can give you comfort.”

His shadows deepen as they pool on the floor, obscuring the rug from sight, making it appear as though he’s stood atop inky black water that will swallow you beneath its icy surface the minute you get too close.

And yet despite every obvious warning, every fibre of your body prickling at the looming danger, you can’t help the tremble in your fingers, or the feeble flutter of your heart as anticipation filters through your veins.

The shadows are even colder than they look, an ice more piercing than the sharp bite of the air that settles across the land in the dead of winter, but when your arms tentatively wrap around his waist, he’s warm. Perhaps the only comfort you can find in his Illyrian-trained body—the jutting press of his hip bone; the way a handle of a blade is digging into your leg from where it’s strapped on the outside of his thigh; the sense of threat that wraps itself around you when his arms close in and you know you wouldn’t be able to escape should he choose to end you right there.

You lay your brow against his chest, head lowered slightly as you memorise the feel of touch, skin tingling beneath the contact points, and you don’t want to let go.

“Is this really so difficult for you?” You whisper.

————

Would she cry if he kissed her?

If he laced his destructive fingers through her hair so she was forced to look at him, and roughly set his mouth over hers?

Or would she lean into it?

Would she be so desperate for the feeling of touch against her skin, the taste of sweat in the air, the sound of lips and tongue and teeth meshing, that she would curve into it?

Would the smell of iron bother her, if he chained her to his bed?

————

You look up at him silently, but his features are hard and set, an impenetrable wall behind his eyes and you sense you won’t get anywhere with him. Your brow falls back to settle on his chest, taking in the last moments before you have to pull away.

But his scar-toughened fingers lace through your hair so you’re forced to incline your head to look at him, and his lips are parted as if to speak, but he pauses. Watching you.

Your eyes scan his features, but he’s unreadable.

His thumb shifts ever so slightly against your scalp, as if to stroke across you, but he doesn’t. Instead his grip loosens, and it’s time to step away.

“Get to bed,” he orders quietly. Releasing you. Lightly pushing you away.

“You need some rest.”

————

You’re thrown off by the encounter. He’s so contradicting.

Why be so cruel about your brother only to turn around and offer you a warm meal? Why the cold attitude only to allow you to sleep peacefully at his side? Why so threatening when he lets you so close?

And now this, too.

You don’t know how to feel, and it scares you.

Laying atop your bed are three folded shirts, a cut of square paper laying atop the stack.

‘Use these for now. More will arrive next week.’

You remain at the edge of the bed, fingers turning slack as you stare at the small script, blanket sliding down one shoulder. Blue, dark blue, and black. It’s easy to tell they’re far too large. It’s easy to tell they’re probably…

The blanket pools on the floor, shaky fingers raising the dark blue fabric from your bed, the shirt unfolding. You bring the collar to your face, pressing your nose into the material, inhaling softly.

They’re his.

Your lips part on a trembling exhale, heart fluttering as your fingers stutter in the fabric, inhaling deeper, trying to memorise the scent. It’s the only comfort you can get, kept so far from the world.

It’s an effort to part with the newly discovered comfort, worried he might change his mind and remove them by the time you’ve emerged from your washroom—but they’re still there, exactly where you left them. From the sound of it you’ll only have these for a week, and then he’ll take them back. Is it worse to give comfort then take it away, or to never give it at all?

You can’t help but feel this is the crueler of the two options.

The linen is somewhat rough against your freshly softened skin, rasping over your arms, shoulders, breasts. The hem settles at your mid-thigh. The sleeves are too long but you don’t roll them—the size is comforting. Like you’re wrapped up and looked after. You’re on your own for so much of your life, you rely on yourself the overwhelming majority of the time—you can permit this dependence.

Maybe you can permit a little more, too.

Crawling onto your bed, you carefully unbutton the black shirt, laying your pillow on the interior, before buttoning it back up. You pause, looking down at the make-shift body. Teeth push against the inside of your bottom lip, tugging on it in thought. Is this okay? Is it weird?

You can’t let him see, is all. You’ll unbutton it in the morning. Fold it up and put it with the blue one. Hide any evidence.

But for now, you settle atop your mattress, still unaccustomed to the rasp of linen against your skin, the presence of his scent filling your room, infusing into your sheets, and pillow. It’s dark enough outside for you to feel safe enough to admit that it’s heavenly. It’s dark enough to settle beside it, wrapping your arms around the soft ‘torso’, pulling it to your chest. It’s dark enough for you to not feel ashamed as you treasure the safety his scent brings, easily sending you off into sleep.

It’s dark enough for you to not have seen the shadows lurking beneath your bed.

To not have felt the eyes watching you intently.

Just waiting for you to let down your guard.

————

The house is dark, and the house is silent.

You’re asleep, and there’s oil in his veins, burning like liquid fire, making him soar.

It’s just you, him, and his shadows. Not a soul in sight.

The Mother might even look away, turning her gaze from what he’s about to do—the wrongs he’s about to commit, and the decision he’s going to repeat. By all means you’re under his protection after Rhys decided to put you here, in his safe-house; he can make whatever call he likes. You’re his.

Azriel moves like a wraith down the hallway, closing in as his hunger grows, starvation licking at his bones, threatening to turn them porous should he deny the need in his body for much longer, being drawn to you by an invisible thread that gleams resplendently within the darkness of his heart. As though a tether is guiding him to you. Calling him to you.

Your bedroom door doesn’t make a sound when he enters; his pause is caused by an ulterior reason. A sickening satisfaction unspools in his gut as he paces to the foot of your bed, his shadows curling with glee at the sight they greedily hoard, stuffing their memory full of the view before them. How you’re curled beneath the duvet, a pillow clutched to your front, hugging it between your thighs, cheek pressed to the swell of the cushion where your arms have pushed the feathers to each end. The dark blue collar he can see peeking out from the floral-patterned duvet.

He allows his hand to palm himself through his leathers once, needing to take the edge off before continuing. Reminding himself stimulation is yet to come.

Shadows seep forward onto the bed, crawling across the pale coloured sheets, clutching at their edge before slowly dragging the coverings away, revealing your sleep-softened form.

Azriel pauses. His breathing quickens, pulse spiking as his lips part, pupils surely dilating to take as much of you in as they can, the world noticeably brightening as he makes room for more light to filter in. Better to see you with. And the—

He inhales deeply, dragging a laboured breath into his lungs in attempts to steady himself, spotting the black shirt wrapped around the pillow you’re clutching. Your thighs wrapped around the cushion you’ve draped in his shirt, saturated with his scent, chosen to keep so close to your body when you’re at your most defenceless.

You shift in your sleep, squeezing ‘him’, nosing at the collar of the shirt.

It’s like you’re doing it to entice him. For the sole purpose of keeping his attention, provoking his arousal. Even in the depths of unconsciousness.

Azriel swallows, shadows rolling the thick duvet to the side to make room for their master on the bed, before softly trickling toward you, making to wrap around your legs… He changes his mind, calling them back at once as he settles on the mattress, not a single sound to be heard as he infiltrates the safety of your bedroom.

You skin is soft and hot beneath his hands, hands that wrap around your calf, cupping the interior of your knee to bring them apart, shadows afforded the job of removing the pillow, rolling you onto your back.

His breathing has deepened, arousal thoroughly distorting his scent as he takes in the way the fabric drapes over your form. The hem has ridden up your thighs, revealing your hips and the pure white cotton covering you; the collar is undone, teasingly exposing the length of your throat to him, taunting him with something he can’t have; the dark blue fabric settles perfectly over your breasts, erotically draped to hint at form without the crudeness of nudity. He doesn’t want or need the aid of sight, of nakedness. Keeping you hidden, and wrapped in darkness is much more enticing.

Azriel reaches forward, having settled between your legs—bent at the knee and propped up by his shadows—daring to coast his palm up your front, gliding between your breasts in a show of ownership, fingertips lightly settling on your sternum. Feeling the rise and fall of your chest with each regular, even breath. His eyes trail lower to where the hem of the dark blue shirt meets the bare skin of your thighs, and he takes a peek at what’s beneath. Dragging the hem up by only a few inches, just shy of your navel. Azriel’s thumb skims the area, fingers grazing with a feather-light touch across your abdomen. Imagining what it would be like to feel his outline beneath his palm.

His eyes roll with arousal, before he’s retracting to attend to himself, gripping his cock in his hand, hot and heavy and aching.

Azriel swallows, giving himself the reprieve of a few dragging strokes to alleviate the tension before lazily swiping his thumb over his tip, gathering the precum that had begun leaking. He looks at the creamy liquid beaded on his thumb; looks at the cream colour of cotton; looks back. Azriel reaches forward, focus glued to your cunt as he rubs his thumb against the apex of your thighs, cotton darkening as the damp saturates, pressing his arousal into you. He bites down on a groan.

It’s been so long—he can feel it in his body, the want, the need. He’s deprived himself of you for far too long, getting caught up in court matters—with your father finally dead, and your eldest brother assuming the throne, times have been turbulent, alliances on the constant verge of crumbling, but he’s seen it all through. And now he gets to destress. Away from Velaris, away from Windhaven, away from the Hewn City. All that tension, all that strain, and a week or so confined to this house with you.

He wishes he could put bruises into you, rub your wrists raw from iron shackles, litter your thighs with his teeth marks and imprints of his fingertips, just so he could truly break the new High Lord of Autumn. He finds his lips curved at the thought of Eris discovering even a fraction of the nightmarish things he’s done to you…

Azriel remembers the first step he’d taken on this path. How he’d wanted to see you squirm.

You hadn’t shut up when you’d first been moved here, constantly nagging him for updates on what was happening, pawing for details about your brother, testing his patience. He’d wanted to knock you down a peg or two, give you reason to fumble when looking him in the eyes, so he’d taken to slipping small doses of an aphrodisiac into your tea just to have the pleasure of watching you squirm. Trying to pretend nothing was wrong when he was watching, not wanting him to know the instincts occurring within your female body. He remembers how he’d provoked an argument, making you believe you’d started it…how he’d stared you down then, and you’d buckled. Skin hot, pulse fluttery in your throat. He’d wanted to grip you by your soft cheeks and force you to look at him…the satisfaction would have been worth it. Seeing how ashamed you would be, thinking the arousal was your own fault…thinking that he thought the arousal was your own fault.

That would have been good to see Eris’ reaction to.

Or the time he’d released into his hand, then spending minutes patiently watching the slow drip, drip, drip of cum as it fell into your mouth. The last of it smeared across your lips. Salt on your tongue in the morning.

How would the High Lord of Autumn react, how far would he break to know that all he sacrificed had been for nothing? Risking torture if their alliance had been discovered, the bargain made Under The Mountain, leading the rest of Prythian to believe you dead for the sake of keeping you safe. And instead you’d been tossed straight into the Spymaster’s cruel and crooked hands, free to twist and warp and break.

And with Eris out of the way, he could…

Azriel’s eyes go briefly out of focus, centuries of discipline slipping as he settles over your sleeping form, tentatively lowering himself to your throat. Shadows tip your face to one side, your cheek laying against the pillow, exposing the tendon keeping your head on your shoulders. Hot breath fans across your skin, lungs trembling with desire, exhaling puffs of yearning that he has no right to possess.

His wings shift before turning lax, settling across the bed as he gently drags the flattened end of his tongue up the skin of your neck.

His cock twitches against his stomach, almost painfully hard from the arousal burning in his blood.

Like before when you’d fallen asleep in the living room, he shifts his hips to rest between your own, the thick length of him resting bare against the pale cotton. His breathing becomes laboured as he rolls his hips, precum leaking from his tip, drizzling down the underside of his cock, smearing down his length and saturating your underwear. Rubbing himself against you, the pressure created between your bodies like liquid heaven. Relief bottled and stored, ready for him to take from whenever he pleases.

He needs release. He doesn’t want to wait any longer, and he doesn’t have to either. You’re right here, legs open and ready. Won’t your underwear look pretty with his cum dripping over it? Where he can rub more of it into the material? Let you unknowingly sleep with his release tucked so intimately between your thighs.

Gods, the mental image has him panting for breath, sitting back as he wraps his hand more roughly around his cock, affording swift, hard strokes to himself, keeping that picture in his mind. But what if…

Azriel forces himself to stop, panting heavily now, his eyes widened marginally from the idea that happened to pass into his mind. Hazel eyes flick down to your underwear, his hand squeezing his cock as he pauses. He swallows, skin feeling hot and flushed. Maybe he could…

He swallows again before he releases himself, ignoring the shake in his hands as his fingers slide beneath the cloth at your hips, latching onto the band before slowly, carefully inching it away. Parting it from your body, pulling the cotton up your thighs, cresting the curve of your knees, delicately removing it from your legs, pulling the underwear from beneath your feet. Azriel stares at what’s now in his hands. Hazel eyes flick to your bare heat, then back to the underwear.

Breathing deeply, he raises the white cotton to his face, nosing at the fabric before taking a lick. His hand moves on its own, stroking his cock as he pulls the scent of your sex into his lungs, wanting it to disperse into his bloodstream, become part of his body. His discipline is slipping, and fast. He doesn’t want to obey it. He doesn’t need to, here.

His heart jumps with relief at the stark realisation. There’s no need for him to keep his discipline—so long as he leaves no trace of himself that you’ll find, he can do whatever he likes. Whatever his mind can conjure up. It’s a dangerously freeing thought.

Azriel shifts closer, his heart pounding as he settles between your thighs, inhaling deeply when he guides the head of his cock to nestle at your entrance. Not going in, just resting there, slotted nicely between your lips. You feel so warm. So warm, and wet, and inviting. Gods, you’re wet. Not enough to make an entrance smooth—not by a long shot with his size—but he can still feel the tell-tale signs of arousal.

Uncaring for dragging this out any longer, he spreads your underwear over his palm so the dampened gusset will rub against his cock, stroking himself repeatedly, wanting to see what you’ll look like with cum splattered over your bare pussy. Gods, you’ll look divine, with release wetting your cunt. How pretty it’ll be, getting to rub it into your clit.

Azriel gasps deeply, biting down on a growl as the high hits him, muscles turning taut, bucking into his hand as pleasure overrides his senses. He opens his eyes to watch as he spills onto your heat, spurting thick ropes of cum between your legs. Fuck, he can’t help himself. His hips buck just as the thought passes through his mind, the head of his cock slipping inside of you and he refuses to let himself pull back, emptying the rest of his cum into your cunt.

It takes a while for him to realise what he’s done—the mess he’s made on you and inside of you.

Fuck.

Azriel heaves a sigh of frustration, realising he’s also made a mess of your underwear, strings of cum already sticking the fabric to his cock. He needs to clean it up.

Discarding your underwear for now, he reaches forward, applying a gradual pressure to your abdomen in attempts to begin squeezing his release out of you. Azriel licks his lips when he watches it begin to drip from your entrance, scooping it up with his middle and forth finger. More slides out after. So wasteful. He needs to get it all out. Azriel slides his fingers inside of you, curling them to try and guide his release out.

A quiet sigh slips from your lips.

Azriel turns rigid. His cock twitching.

Hazel eyes flick down to your bare heat, and he repeats the motion, this time watching you. Your features scrunch faintly, and he realises he can make out the pinch of your nipples through his shirt. He leans forward slightly, shadows attentive as he slides his thick fingers in further, his attention narrowing entirely onto you as he presses upwards. A noise gets caught in your throat. Something sweet sounding, and wanton.

Azriel presses deeper, fingers sliding in further, curling lightly, pushing and rubbing at different parts until…

You flinch in your sleep, a softly startled moan slipping from your lips.

He curls the pads of his fingers into that spot, bending them at the knuckle so the digits slant into the part that’s dragging these reactions out of you. He pushes against it, hungry for more, thumb habitually settling on your clit, oscillation made easier by the slippery cum splattered across your cunt…that he’s feeding back into you.

Azriel bites down on a groan as he scoops more of it up before pressing his fingers back to your entrance and shoving it in, pushing what was already released inside further, tucking it away as he searches for that spot again. He needs it to be kept inside of you. It’s not enough to have it coating you, he needs you to unknowingly have it within your body, perfectly storing it away. A secret shared between him and your cunt that you’re oblivious to.

The rise and fall of your chest is much more pronounced, and he wants to push the shirt out of the way so he can lay his mouth over your breasts, flick his tongue over your doubtlessly sensitive nipples. How would you react to that? With his fingers hitting that spot, his thumb over your clit, his tongue and shadows pinching and licking at your breasts?

You’d come on the spot.

————

You jolt awake, panting and breathless. Far too hot, and…fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck… Mother above…

Your hands scramble, shoving the duvet away as you roll on top of ‘him’, thighs straddling the pillow as your hips buck frantically. You cry out as one of the buttons scrapes across your clit, teeth pushing into your lip to muffle the moans working up from your chest, grinding down against the clothed cushion, dragging your hips across the plush comfort, aiming for the buttons.

Panting and flushed, you stiffly roll onto your back, flopping down into your mattress trying to regain your breath.

You glance down at yourself. Thighs parted, bent at the knee. The shirt riding up your stomach that you hastily push back down.

Teeth prod at your lower lip, toes curling as your fingers explore between your legs. Slipping beneath the band of your underwear. They come away glistening, a thick, creamy strand connecting your digits to your cunt.

You flush, hurriedly drying your fingers on your inner thigh, trying to get rid of the evidence.

Cauldron boil you, that’s never happened before. Sure, you’ve had hours of heightened sensitivity, when you could feel every hair on your body, every scrape of fabric across your skin, horribly aware of the clothing touching your shoulders, your arms, your breasts, but never something so intense. Never…this.

It’s always when Azriel’s around.

Shame sparks, and you tug your hand away from your heat. Rolling quickly onto your side to pretend it away.

You clutch the pillow tighter to your front, soothing your erratic pulse with that scent. His scent. Maybe because you’ve just woken it feels stronger, thicker…heavier; more concentrated than you remember it being. Probably your own arousal mixing with the remnants of what he left of the shirts.

Gods, you’re not going to be able to look him in the eyes tomorrow. Not without thinking about…

You beg your mind to shut up.

He’s the only male you’re getting to see. It makes sense your body might instinctively want him.

You just wish you didn’t feel so guilty for thinking of him, when you were on top of that pillow.

————

It doesn’t take long for you to nod back off, and Azriel internally relaxes.

His skin is too hot, arousal spiking his temperature to an almost unbearable degree, but he’d had to escape quickly when he’d felt the high rising in your body. A sixth sense telling him you were there. Maybe he can’t be as rough as he thought with you.

He knew he should have stirred in some of that sleeping powder with your meal.

Next time.

First, he needs to deal with the heat radiating from his body, the remnants of arousal still prominent in his blood. The still aching weight of his cock. But he’s done for tonight. That was a close enough call on its own; he doesn’t yet want to resort to ties and blindfolds and gags. Even if that sixth sense tells him you might enjoy it, if done right. With how eagerly you’d pressed yourself against him, how you’d nuzzled up to the pillow, how quickly you’d come on his fingers…

This time he doesn’t deny himself the pleasure of imagining what it would be like having you move for him. Getting to see how you might arrange yourself under or over him. What you might like to touch, and suck, and ride.

The steamy heat of your bathroom isn’t helping with his temperature.

He should leave.

But next time…

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

dark!az taglist: @honeyandhalfmoons

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hannzoaks · 9 months ago

Text

feel the wind in your hair

Pairing: !BikerAzriel x !BikerOC

author's note: reader has she/her pronouns, this is literally my first fanfic ever and i lowkey didn't want to post it but i figured it couldn't hurt LMAO. i dont love it and any constructive criticism is welcome, just don't be mean i'm sensitive :') lmk if a part 2 is wanted, okay enjoy!

word count: 1.2k

Dana

As soon as I walk into the university library, I feel multiple pairs of eyes on me. Wearing biker gear and carrying a helmet around tends to draw attention, both wanted and unwanted. My “biker gear” is just aramid lined jeans and a leather jacket, but combined with the helmet in my hands, I look totally decked out. I ignore the stares, as I always do, and look for an open desk. It’s the beginning of the semester so people are actually in the library instead of giving up and going home right after class. I walk through the lines of students and computers, glancing at students already in study groups or students sitting by themselves with headphones on, ignoring everything going on around them. There’s some open seats but I keep walking to the back of the library, wanting to be as isolated as possible. As I get closer to my favorite corner, the one with booths and whiteboards, I hear loud and rambunctious laughter. I’ve been in uni long enough to know that it’s a group of rowdy boys, most likely frat guys, not taking education seriously and riding on daddy’s money. My steps falter as I seriously consider finding somewhere else to sit, but after driving an hour and a half on the back of my bike, my body is screaming at me to just sit down. I pick the booth in the farthest corner, a couple tables down from the group of guys being obnoxious. My helmet clatters on the table as I practically fall into the booth, groaning as I take my backpack off my shoulders. I slip my leather jacket off and throw it across the table in frustration. I was only wearing that to ride, it’s the middle of August and I’m sweating so bad I’m not so sure I don’t look like a drowned rat. My head plops down onto the cool table and I take a couple deep breaths before sitting up and opening up my bag. I pull out my laptop and begin to sign into it when the table of boys explode in laughter again. Frustration rises in me quickly and violently and I bite my tongue before I lash out. I’m so overstimulated, I’m hot, sticky, my ass hurts from sitting on that damn bike, and my shoulders feel like they’ll fall off from how heavy my backpack is. I just wanted to come to my quiet corner and start my assignments. I pull out my headphones and sigh in relief when the room around me muffles into quiet background noise. I open up my assignments and click on the one that I’ve been putting off until the last second, it’s due tonight and I’ve barely even looked at it. Of course it's a tedious assignment that should be considered busy work, I sigh and pull up the necessary tools to complete it. After a while I actually get a majority of it done before deciding I want a quick snack. I scoot out of my booth, looking up at the group of guys that are still goofing off. I immediately make eye contact with one of them, he has dark hair with striking hazel eyes. He has sharp facial features, and I can’t help but notice how appealing his lips are. His facial piercings stand out against his tanned skin, and I swear they twinkled in the light. He’s probably the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my life. Both of our faces remain blank, and my eyes flick down to the objects at his feet. A motorcycle helmet, riding gloves, and an armored jacket. My eyebrows flick up in curiosity and my gaze darts back to his for a second before looking forward and walking towards the vending machine at the front of the library. I feel eyes on me again, but this time it’s only one pair, and it’s impossible to ignore.

Azriel

Jesus the guys are so loud today. Every laugh out of them is like nails on a chalkboard. I can’t tell if it's because I’m actually annoyed by them or just hyper aware of the fact that they’re acting like this in the library. It’s probably both. At this point I think I’ve totally zoned out, only coming to when one of them says my name or when Cassian laughs too loudly at a joke I didn’t hear. Rhysand doesn’t seem to be concerned with how loud Lucien and Cassian are being, and Eris seems as zoned out as I am. I’m so deep in thought that I don’t even realize Rhys was saying my name until he punches my arm and I whip my head around to him.

“Dude what the fuck?” I mumble, rubbing my arm.

“Did you not just hear me? I told you to look at that biker chick as she passed but you didn’t look up in time. She already sat down.” He points to the corner of the room at a lone booth. I follow his finger and see just a shoulder and long brown hair in a braid thrown over it. There’s nothing there to suggest she has a motorcycle so I scan the rest of the area, looking for someone who has any biker gear.

“Where? I don’t see anyone.” I say, still scanning.

“You were just looking at her, the one with the braid. Her gear is tucked into the other side of the booth.” I take another peek, watching as she slumps onto the table. I turn back to the group of guys and see them all watching me.

“Why are you all looking at me?” I look back down at the notes we’re supposed to be studying. “Just because she rides a bike doesn’t mean anything.”

Cassian sighs dramatically, plopping his hands into his chin. “Yea but YOU ride a bike. Which means y’all are meant to be, which means you can ride off into the sunset together, which mea-”

“Cass shut up and get back to work.” I throw one of my highlighters at him while the table bursts into laughter. I cringe and glance around, noting a few dirty looks being thrown our way and sink down into my chair. We eventually got back to work and ended up getting some of it done. Definitely more than I thought we would. I see movement out of the corner of my eye and look up to see electric blue eyes staring back at me. She has her hair pulled back into a braid that reaches the tops of her hips, and her nose ring catches my attention. Freckles splatter her face and neck and she has bright pink headphones on. She looks so…unimpressed. I see her scan me and note the biker gear sitting at my feet. My heart thumps as she looks back up to meet my eyes but she turns away and continues walking towards the front of the library. I watch as she walks away, my eyes following her intently and swallowing up any details I can while trying not to look like a total creep. I glance back at her table and realize she left all her stuff, which means she’ll have to walk back this way to grab it all again. My heart races as I debate getting up and talking to her when she makes her way back, but with every second that passes my self-doubt takes over. And when she makes her way back towards her table, I don’t even look at her as she passes.

#acotar #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #rhysand #rhys acotar #cassian #cassian acotar #eris vanserra #lucien acotar #!bikerazriel #my first fic #i'm nervous #azriel x oc #azriel fanfic #idk what im doing #idk what else to tag

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hannzoaks · 9 months ago

Text

Thoroughly So

Pairing: Werewolf!Cassian x Witch!Reader

Kinktober 2024: Breeding, Knotting

Description: Cassian is always ready to help his friends, especially when it's his favorite witch asking for such a delicious favor.

Warnings: Smut, vaginal sex, breeding, knotting, werewolf sex, bit of size kink, dirty talk, kinda fluffy towards the end

Word Count: ~1,7k

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Notes: When I was making the list for kinktober I went back and forth between knotting and size kink for this story so it ended up being a bit of both. Also I didn't have time to proofread this so I hope it's alright.

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

“What's wrong? Is this more than what you bargained for, little witch?”

His hands held onto your hips, guiding his thick cock inside you, filling you up unbearably slowly as your own hands grasped onto the messy sheets, trying to keep your sanity as you were stretched like you've never been before. You knew he would be big, considering everything else about him was damn near gigantic, but nothing could have prepared you for this.

“Shut up, Cassian. Just-” Your voice cuts off, your cunt clenching around him, making the both of you moan out. “Just be gentle.”

“Don't worry, I have no intentions of breaking such a pretty girl.”

Whatever insult or smart comment you could have come up with dies down in your throat when he leans down, putting some of his weight on you, strong arms framing your body as he starts grinding into you, fucking the rest of his cock into you carefully.

When you asked Cassian to fuck you tonight, you half expected him to turn you down, even though you've seen the way he looks at you sometimes. Telling someone that you were merely curious about what having sex with a werewolf would feel like was not a good pick up line at all, but you always found being honest with him was the best way.

Things had started pretty awkwardly since you had never even kissed him before, your relationship always having been purely platonic, but the moment his lips touched yours and his hand traveled under your dress, you started melting into him. You couldn't quite put your finger on the exact moment he had taken control of the situation, but if you had to bet it might have been when you came around his fingers embarrassingly fast as he was preparing you, or when you let him flip you over, propping a couple pillows under your stomach, keeping your back arched perfectly for him, knowing you wouldn't be able to keep yourself up on your own.

He wasn't acting like the sweet friend you were used to. Cassian was a bit cocky and a big flirty, you had no doubt about that, but the filthy words leaving his lips and the way he handled your body was a lot more passionate than you anticipated, it was making you feel things you probably shouldn't.

It doesn't take long for his hips to meet your backside, finally managing to fit himself fully inside you. If it weren't for the special oil you had crafted, you wouldn't be so sure this would have been possible, even now as he sat still inside you, it was obvious he wasn't meant to be fucking someone your size.

“Tell me when I can move,” he says, voice clearly affected by the way your cunt swallowed him, spasming around his cock as you adjusted to the intrusion.

“I need a minute, Cass.” You needed more than a minute if you were being honest with yourself, but you were so unbelievably turned on that you couldn't wait so long to have him fuck you into the mattress. Your pride wouldn't let you either, you had made too much of a show about how you could easily take him when he showed some concern earlier.

Breathing in and out slowly, you focus on the way his warm body falls over yours, his own breath hitting your skin as he leans his forehead on your shoulder, dropping a few encouraging kisses here and there, long teeth scratching your skin ever so softly, mumbling sweet but sinful words against you.

He was doing his best to stay still, even though you were probably tightening around him like a vice and every single one of his instincts was telling him to take you and fill you up with his cum. One of the reasons you were so curious about werewolves was because they never quite parted from their primal urges, and they came out at moments like this.

“I'm ready,” you breathe out, shivering when he hums against you, feeling his mouth pull into a smile.

“Ready for me to fuck you?” You nod at his words, though you can hear the teasing tone in his voice. “Wanna beg me for it?”

“Cassian,” you whine, frustrated that you couldn't quite argue with him like usual when he was so deep inside you.

The werewolf lets out a hearty laugh, one you've heard multiple times, innocent despite the situation, and drops one last kiss on your shoulder before lifting himself up on his knees, hands back on your hips as he watches the way your cunt swallowed his cock.

“You don't need to beg. I can feel just how much you need me.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth he pulls out until only the tip of his cock stays snug inside your walls before plunging back into your cunt without warning, repeating the same motion as he sets a punishing pace, letting go of his last shred of control.

His hands were definitely leaving bruises on your hips, and even with the soundproof spell you had weaved around your cabin, you weren't so sure your moans and pleas couldn't be heard outside. You tried your best to hold onto something, fingers messing up the sheets as he used your body almost like a ragdoll, lifting you up to meet his thrusts like you weighed nothing.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

“So do you.”

Words couldn't even describe how deliciously he was filling you, hips hitting your butt with every thrust, thick cock drawing out the neediest moans past your lips. You had never felt so good, so full.

“Yeah? Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do this for? To feel your tight little cunt wrapped around me, hear you screaming my name?” He punctuates the sentence with a sharp thrust that has you doing exactly that.

You were too far gone to give him a proper response, but the sincerity behind his words make your chest feel warm. Maybe tomorrow you could talk better, about what happened and any feelings rising between you, right now you could only focus on breathing, and even that was proving difficult.

“I'm close. I'm so close, Cassian, please,” you try to warn him, cunt clenching wildly around his cock, barely holding on to sanity as he keeps hitting all the right places, toes curling with every thrust of his hips against yours.

“Fuck, I'm right there with you,” he groans, leaning back down, his chest falling over your back, “Gonna fill you up, and then knot you. Gonna keep you full, so full of me.”

Between the way his cock hits every spot inside you, and his filthy babbles right by your ear, you're sent over the edge, mind numbing pleasure overtaking you, making you forget yourself as you shake under him, sharp nails tearing up into the sheets and mouth falling open in a silent scream.

Cassian's hips start faltering, moans getting whinier as he grinds into you deeply, shuddering against your body, and spilling into you just like he promised, fucking you through your mind numbing orgasms. You were not in the right mindset to pay attention to much, but you could definitely feel how much cum he was fucking inside you, enough so that you swear you could feel it spill around his cock. Good thing you didn't forget to take your tonic.

When you start coming down, you feel his body still trembling against yours, tensing lightly with every breath, still grinding deep inside you, hips pressed against your ass, some of his weight falling on yours, keeping you trapped under him. It takes a moment for your cloudy mind to catch up to what was happening.

“Cassian-”

You knew this was going to happen, had even asked him not to pull out for this exact reason, but now that his cock was swelling inside your overstimulated cunt, forming a knot to keep his cum tucked deep inside you, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of fear that he wouldn't fit, that you couldn't do it, that he would break you.

“You can take it, you've been doing so good for me,” he rushes to reassure you, kissing your ear, teeth finding your earlobe as he continues with mind numbing praise as his cock keeps swelling, effectively plugging you up. One of his hands travels under your body, finding your clit and circling it with his fingers slowly, turning you into a shaky, whiny mess in a matter of seconds.

“Breathe,” he manages through gritted teeth. “Just breathe for me.”

Much to your surprise, the knot doesn't hurt at all, it feels good in fact, unbelievably so, and since his fingers never let up against your clit, your hips grinding into his hand chasing the feeling, you were cumming around his cock yet again, chanting his name, pleading with him not to stop, as if he ever would.

You were both lying in a pool of sweat and cum when you finally calmed down, his cock properly knotted inside you now. Your sheets were definitely ruined, stained with cum and tears, and you were genuinely surprised your bed had made it through in one piece, but as your body trembled against his and he nuzzled into your neck, hot puffs of air sending goosebumps over your skin, you knew you didn't regret any of it.

“Cass,” you mumble, leaning back into him as he kisses your cheek, trying your best to face him, fatigue catching up to both of you.

“Yeah?”

“How long will you stay like this?”

“A few more minutes,” he explains, voice turning more serious when he asks, “Why? Does it hurt?”

“No, just,” you trail off, biting your lip before admitting, “just wanna kiss you properly.”

Cassian chuckles against your neck, biting down softly on the already marked skin, before soothing it with his warm tongue.

“Bear with me a little longer and I'll kiss you as much as you want.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

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hannzoaks · 9 months ago

Text

An Exercise in Patience

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Kinktober 2024: Cockwarming

Description: Your plan to bother Azriel while he's working fails, or maybe it doesn't.

Warnings: Smut, cockwarming, implied vaginal sex, slight dom/sub dynamics, kinda bratty reader, actually kind of fluffy

Word Count: ~1,3k

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

You sigh for what feels like the millionth time, unashamedly acting like a petulant child who hadn't gotten her way, pouting against Azriel's shoulder as you felt his chest rise and fall against yours.

“I'm not sure what you expected was going to happen when you walked in this room wearing that, my love.”

“I expected my mate to bend me over his desk and fuck me.”

The disinterested yet somehow amused hum he offers makes you let out a huff of your own, straightening your posture so you aren't leaning on him anymore and can meet his eyes, trying to ignore the way his cock is filling you oh so deliciously, and only goes deeper with the change in position. If he wants to act unaffected, you'll do the same.

“Rhys needs these reports ready by tomorrow morning for his meeting with the High Lords,” he starts explaining, the sounds of his pen scratching against the paper the only sound in the room as he pauses, reading carefully through the pages, choosing the documents over you even now, “I told you all of this already.”

The way he was reading over your shoulder, not even meeting your eyes as he talked or acknowledging the fact that you were barely wearing any clothes at all, the sheer black lace not truly covering anything, was annoying you more than it probably should have.

It's not your fault you can't be patient when it comes to your mate. Not when he looks like a wet dream personified, especially when he focuses on something as he is now. It's also not your fault Rhys suddenly had a meeting the day after you bought such a beautiful set for Azriel to rip off of you and ruined all your plans.

It's not like you didn't understand how important his work was, but he had shut you down too easily, simply sitting you on his cock and going back to job like it was the most normal thing, like the way his mate was dripping and clenching around him didn't matter. It was especially vexing since you could barely form a single thought, his scent and warmth making the bond want to jump through your skin, lay him down over the desk and ride him until you were shaking on top of him.

“I can almost hear your thoughts,” he says, a hint of amusement breaking through the serious tone he put on earlier.

“Has Rhysand been teaching you new tricks?”

Your tone makes him pause, hazel eyes shifting to yours for just a second before returning to the task at hand. He doesn't say anything, but he wraps one arm around your back, pulling you in closer, making you wrap your own arms around his neck, hugging him to you once again, humming when you relax a bit against him, annoyance fizzling out in his arms. Your body was a traitor, and he knew its every little secret.

One thing you wouldn't admit is how impressed you were that you had been able to fit him all the way inside you so quickly and with barely any preparation, it usually takes you a bit of stimulation to be able to get to this point, not that either of you mind the need for some foreplay.

Unfortunately, these thoughts led to memories of how well he fucked you just about every day and every night, this morning even, on the bed, in the bathtub, on this stupid desk, and up against the wall. Another defeated sigh escapes your lips, your cunt clenching around his hard cock involuntarily.

“You know if I was a little more insecure I'd find it insulting that you can keep working while I'm sitting on your cock,” you mumble, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

“I was trained to not let anything distract me,” he answers matter-of-factly.

Your teeth find the skin of his neck before you could stop yourself, biting hard enough to leave the imprint of your teeth on the soft skin, his body tensing under yours - apparently he wasn't immune to every type of distraction.

Feeling bad for him, or just wanting to see what other reactions you could get out of the stoic spymaster, you lick over the mark, kissing and sucking on the skin until a deep red spot bloomed under your mouth. Sadly, it still doesn't keep him away from the papers, only giving you the satisfaction of feeling him tense up against you a couple times.

“Didn't know you could be so mean either.”

“Mean?” His voice sounded deeper, maybe your little plan was working better than you assumed. “I think I'm being quite generous, letting you warm my cock when it's the opposite of helpful while I have work to do.”

“Then why can't I move?” You grind into him softly, a harsh breath escaping him at the movement, it brings a triumphant smile to your lips even if his shadows rush to stop you from repeating the motion.

“Because you need to learn how to be patient.”

“So this is my punishment?”

“We can call it that if it makes you feel better.” It doesn't, not at all. “Now hush, the sooner I finish the reports on my desk, the sooner I can bend you over it.”

“Azriel,” you whine yet again.

“I'm almost done,” he shushes you softly again.

You watch his face for a moment longer, debating whether to try your luck or wait patiently like he asked you to, but a quick glance from him has your body making the decision for you, leaning back down against his strong body, waiting quietly, and mostly still.

With a hand falling over the back of his neck, you pet him softly, fingers combing through the curls on the nape of his neck, just how you know he likes, feeling him relax under you immediately. Azriel wouldn't let you move too much, but you could at least do this. You start dropping little kisses all over his neck, starting by his ear and moving down until you find the fabric of his shirt, unbuttoning it so you could tug at his collar and reach as much of his soft, unmarked skin as you could.

“What are you doing?”

His voice startles you, pulling back to meet his eyes, you had gotten so focused on covering every little bit of skin that you almost forgot he was even there. He did look a bit less in control than before as half lidded hazel eyes stared back at you, and you can't help the smile from spreading over your face at that, leaning down to kiss his cheek.

“Kissing my mate,” you answer, lips brushing against his skin as you did, his stubble tickling your lips, “or are you going to tell me I can't do that either.”

“That would be cruel,” he breathes out, eyes locking on your lips when you pull back just enough.

“It would,” you say, dropping a quick peck to his lips before kissing his other cheek, traveling down his jaw. “Don't mind me, you can keep working.”

“I already finished the reports.”

“What?”

“I'm done,” he says one more time, the smile growing as you look behind you to find the files neatly arranged and ready to be delivered to your High Lord.

“You're done,” you repeat dumbly.

Azriel lets out a chuckle and nods. “I'm all yours.”

“All mine?”

He hums in response, finally kissing you properly, his scarred hands traveling down your body, caressing the exposed skin at last, moving down to hold onto your thighs. Suddenly, every bit of calmness and patience leaves your body, the feeling of his hard cock sitting inside you the only thing you can think about once again.

You're both out of breath when he pulls away, the same hunger that has been eating away at your sanity present in his eyes as he lets go of all his self control.

“How do you want me, my love?”

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hannzoaks · 9 months ago

Text

Spoiled Rotten

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader x Rhysand

Kinktober 2024: Double Penetration

Description: You've had Rhysand and Azriel one after the other multiple times, but you can only imagine how much better it will feel to have them at the same time.

Warnings: Smut, vaginal sex, anal sex, double penetration in different holes, cockwarming (kind of), fingering, slight dom/sub dynamics, some rhys x azriel, dirty talk

Word Count: ~2,7k

Rating: 18+ MDNI

Notes: This is sort of a continuation for All Over My Skin, but there's hardly any plot in either story so it's not necessary to read them both. Hope you enjoy!

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

“You're stalling.”

There's really no reason for you to be feeling so impatient when you were sitting on Rhysand's lap as he leaned back against the headboard, his cock tucked in deep inside you, his mouth littering your neck and shoulder with wet kisses, while Azriel kneeled behind you, his fingers stretching out your other hole gently. This was something right out of a wet dream, but these males had turned you into an insatiable version of yourself, one that could never get enough of them no matter how many times they fucked you. That's exactly what led to this situation in fact.

“We're not stalling.” Rhys kisses a path up to your ear, biting your earlobe softly, a warning not to be so impatient. “We're getting you ready.”

“I am ready,” you argue back, wrapping your arms around his neck thigher.

“That's not up for you to decide, darling,” he easily dismisses you, one of his hands moving down to hold your asscheek, spreading it further apart for his spymaster.

“It's not up to you either,” you taunt.

If someone were to stumble into this room, it would only take them a handful of seconds to understand Azriel was the one in charge, not the High Lord, not in this bed. Which is exactly why you focus your efforts on the other male - he was always a lot sweeter and more receptive to your begging anyway.

“Azriel,” you whine unashamedly, turning around to face him as best as you could. He simply chuckled, leaning closer, his chest coming into contact with your back, supporting you as you leaned back. “I promise I'm ready.”

“You promise?” He starts kissing your neck just like Rhys had been doing, biting a mark of his own onto your skin. You nod in confirmation, clenching around his fingers when he scissors them slowly, getting rewarded with a soft groan of approval. “I think you might be,” he mumbles against your jaw.

Looking down at Rhys, you can't help the triumphant smile from taking over your features, a familiar fire burning in his eyes in response. “You're lucky I enjoy fucking the attitude out of you so much,” he says, grinding into you ever so softly. Good thing you enjoy that thoroughly as well.

Azriel's fingers abandon you suddenly, his mouth following suit as he moves away from you completely. You almost feel cold when he does, leaning forward into the High Lord's arms, instinctively seeking his warmth instead. He welcomes you despite your bickering, caressing your back lovingly.

Even though this had been your idea and you had been more than insistent, now that it was about to happen you couldn't help but feel a bit nervous. This wasn't the first time you had done anal, or even that Azriel or Rhys had fingered you like that, but Azriel was big, and taking either of them in your cunt always made you feel incredibly full. You might have bitten more than you could chew wanting to have them both like this.

It was also impossible to see behind you so every little noise left you wondering what was about to happen, the anticipation driving you crazy. Apparently that was easily remedied as Rhysand simply put his daemati abilities to good use and shared his view with you, showing the way Azriel coated his cock in that tonic of his that he also used when he was stretching you out. You drop a chaste kiss on his cheek, a small thanks for easing your nerves. He lets out a distracted hum in acknowledgement, too focused on the sight of Azriel fisting his cock as he stared at the way your cunt swallowed Rhys.

You can't help but tense up slightly when Azriel comes closer and reaches out to hold your hip, cursing yourself mentally. After insisting so much, you really didn't want to make them feel like you weren't ready or getting cold feet. You still wanted this more than anything. He simply leans down, dropping a soft kiss over your spine and mumbles against the skin, “I promise I'll take care of you, angel.”

Nodding, you lay onto Rhys' chest, who wraps his arms around you, and let them take the lead, focusing on taking deep breaths and letting the way they touch you relax your body, trusting they will make this amazing for you. The High Lord reaches between your bodies wordlessly, finding your clit and rolling it slowly around his thumb until you're melting into him, short puffs of breath hitting his heated skin.

The next time Azriel reaches for your hip, there's no room for hesitation or nerves as he thumbs at your hole before lining himself up properly, only a tremble passing through your body at the feeling, one that convinces him that you were ready.

“Need you to arch your back for me,” Azriel says, running a hand up your spine as you follow his command. “Just like that.”

A choked whimper escapes you as he manages to coax the thick head of his cock into you carefully. Knowing the adjustment you have to make just to fit him in your cunt, this almost feels surreal. He doesn't move for a while, letting you adjust as his hands fall on your sides, squeezing comfortingly.

“Let me see you, darling.” Rhys' voice breaks you out of your thoughts, abandoning the safe place you'd created for yourself in his neck, lifting yourself up on trembling arms so you could look up at his hauntingly beautiful face. He lets out a breathy chuckle, one strong hand coming up to hold your cheek as he takes notice of your half lidded eyes and the small pants escaping you, thumbing at your lower lip. “You look like such a pretty mess.”

No matter how much you love to argue with him, you can't even bring yourself to deny it. Everything felt too sensitive in that moment, and not only being stretched out in both holes but also the way his thumb kept abusing your clit were clouding your mind further into the abyss with each passing breath. He tilts his head as he watches the fight leave your eyes, a wicked smirk growing on his face.

“I wonder,” he starts, hand dropping to your thigh, “what will happen if I do this.” As soon as the words leave his mouth he pulls his hips back slightly and fucks his cock back into you, not giving you a chance to even prepare yourself. A gasp escapes you, nails biting into his shoulders as he repeats the motion, grinding into you.

“Slowly, Rhys,” Azriel warns behind you, taking advantage of your distraction to drive a bit more of his cock into you, letting out a groan of his own when he barely finds resistance, your tight walls fighting to accommodate him.

“She can take it. Can't you, darling?”

You felt close to insanity, the way they both stretched you out sending you to another realm of pleasure, hands grasping for Rhysand's face, bringing him into a messy kiss. He was right, you could take it, and despite feeling damn near overwhelmed between the both of them, you still wanted more.

A purr of approval echoes in your mind, the familiar sound making your toes curl, prompting yet another shaky moan past your parted lips. Need more? He speaks into your mind, biting your lip at the same time. Please. You would worry about how easy you had been reduced to begging another day, right now you were ready to do just about anything for them not to stop, and for Azriel to hurry. Tell him. Beg him to fuck your ass, nice and pretty.

“Azriel,” you breathe out, “I can take it.”

Rhysand's teeth sink harder into your lip, a light reprimand for not obeying him completely. It's not like you ever do, he can't be too surprised. He lets out a soft chuckle, kissing the corner of your mouth. Even if he wasn't privy to the mental conversation you were having without him, Azriel knew you both well and your body even better, he knew exactly what you needed.

“Keep moving,” he throws at Rhys, meeting his eyes over your shoulder. His grip tightening on you as his patience threatens to slip at the mere thought of finally fucking you. The High Lord follows his command obediently, both his hands grasping onto the sides of your thighs as he starts thrusting into you harder, hitting all the right spots.

It's a welcomed distraction, one Azriel is clearly counting on to keep moving inside you without a chance of hurting you, but the stimulation on your clit is missed immediately, prompting you to do it yourself, circling it between your fingers in time with Rhys' thrusts.

“Fuck. You're taking me so well,” Azriel lets out as he also starts grinding into you, thrusting his cock out slowly only to push it back in a bit deeper, repeating the motion a few times until he was completely seated inside you, stopping his motions to let you adjust, as your body trembled against theirs.

It was hard to wrap your head around what you were feeling. You had never felt so full, had never been so full, but Rhys doesn't give your mind a chance to linger, always wanting to see you absolutely wrecked. He starts fucking into you even harder, making you forget yourself.

An orgasm hits you unexpectedly a few thrusts in, after floating in calm waters for so long your body gives in at the first proper stimulation it receives. Your forehead falls on his shoulder, eyes rolling back, a choked moan escaping you, a scarred hand replacing yours against your clit intensifying the trembles running through your body as you arch into him and fall into darkness.

The fog doesn't disperse from your mind right away when you come down, barely registering the way Azriel wraps an arm around your waist, lifting you up until your back is up against his chest, the angle driving his cock even deeper inside, your legs still spasming softly as your hands move to hold onto Rhysand's waist.

“So fucking beautiful, all fucked out for us,” Rhysand praises, a purr in his chest as if he had been the one to cum. You can't do much but blink up at him, a shiver running down your spine at the hunger in his gaze. “Don't tell me you're already tired, darling.”

You swallow around a dry throat, trying to push past the haziness and find a good rebuttal for the High Lord's teasing when Azriel kisses your neck, stealing your attention and clouding your mind before you get the chance. The simple gesture sends a shudder down your body, making you clench around them, both males smirking around a moan at your reaction.

“Are you?” The shadowsinger whispers right into your ear, the teasing tone to his voice reminiscent of the menace watching the scene unfold in front of you. You shake your head in vehement denial. Azriel tuts, biting your earlobe. “Use your words, angel.”

“I’m not tired,” you rush to explain. “Still need you, need you both.”

“Want us to fuck you?”

“Wanna make you cum. Please.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, Azriel is pushing you gently back down closer to Rhys, both males maneuvering you until they have a good enough angle and start thrusting into you in tandem, tentatively at first, trying not to overwhelm you too fast once again, though it's easier said than done, especially when you were still trembling on the edge.

Even as they pick up their pace, you can tell Azriel is holding himself back. He has fucked you enough times for you to know the way he moves and rolls his hips by heart. It's sweet, incredibly so, and it's on occasions like these that make you doubt you will be able to keep this relationship platonic, but right now you needed him to fuck you until you couldn't think straight.

Moving your hips back against them as best as you can, your hand finds his, murmuring between harsh breaths, “Harder.”

A single word sends them both moving frantically, a drawn out moan echoing around the room along with sounds of wet skin slapping together and mindless praises. When you asked them to do this, you hadn't stopped to think that this would also be their first time, and that they would be into it as much as you were.

In a mess of limbs and sweat, tucked in between their strong bodies, you feel a familiar knot low in your stomach tightening rapidly. You don't even get a chance to warn them when Rhysand beats you to it, a curse escaping him as he cums inside you, milking himself dry, hips never stopping. Even if you hadn't been unbearably close already, watching the High Lord lose control, holding your body closer as he spilled inside you, would have certainly sent you over the edge either way.

This time you have time to prepare for it, to bask in the pleasure without feeling like you'd been drowned. Though this doesn't make it any less intense, nothing with these two is ever anything less than intense. You see stars bursting behind your eyelids, incoherent words and gasped moans escaping your lips as you fall forward, trusting that they will hold you and coax as much pleasure from you as they can.

Rhysand kisses you as you're coming down, parting from your abused lips to watch you struggle to catch your breath. He had long since stopped moving inside you, but Azriel's thrusts still moved you along his cock enough for oversensitivity to start biting.

“Holding back, Az?” He asks, staring into hazel eyes, his hands moving to hold onto your asscheeks, assisting him, and giving him an even better view in the process.

Turning your head, you try to watch him as well, the handsome male throwing a stupidly gorgeous smile at you when he catches you looking. As irresistibly handsome as the shadowsinger always is, this had to be your favorite look on him. Azriel leans over you while you're too busy gawking at him, letting some of his weight fall on you and Rhys.

“Just wanted to watch you first,” he murmurs, dropping two messy kisses to your shoulder and another to your neck, speeding up his pace as he starts chasing his orgasm.

His gaze locks on Rhysand's once again, their eyes never straying from each other as his hips start faltering, getting closer. When the High Lord grabs the back of his neck and pulls him into a hungry kiss, you feel a shudder running through him, his thrusts turning short and harder as he cums inside you at last, filling you up just like Rhys had done. You can't help but let out a needy moan, not only at the feeling but also at the sight. You wonder if they'd let you watch them like they so often watch the other fuck you.

Rhysand breaks away from the kiss with a small laugh, blinding purple eyes finding yours. “I really need to teach you how to think quietly.”

Rolling your eyes, you simply drop a quick kiss to his lips when Azriel moves back, hands splaying over your ass, thumbs pushing the fat apart, taking one last look at both of their cocks nestled inside you, at how full you were.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, pulling out of you carefully and helping Rhys do the same, turning you around gently, allowing you to properly see him again. “Are you alright?”

“More than,” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him, hugging his body as close as possible. You just about start purring when you feel Rhysand's hands fall on his waist, holding you both in his embrace. You almost wished you could freeze time right then, and stay in that moment forever.

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