#wip im working on to hopefully be done by azris week

[yourlazykitkat]

azris wip

“I can’t,” Azriel fumed, disgust settling over his body like dust in a forgotten home, “I can’t leave you alone.”

Good, Eris thinks hysterically, I’ve never wanted to be alone. “That hardly seems like my problem.”

And then, because Eris Vanserra is a selfish creature, he touches the skin- too cold- below Azriel’s left ear, fascinated by the shiver that follows. Icy repulsion is etched in the shadowsinger's stone face, similar to when the youngest Acheron sister had anxiously fretted over his wounds, when the Ilyrian’s sworn brothers had held him for warmth. But unlike them, there was no sudden uproar to try scare Eris away, no aggressive physicality to draw a line between them. Perhaps the shadowsinger already understood that if there were such a line, Eris would’ve pushed and pulled and pushed till he owned every space which Azriel left behind, left untouched. 

Why the man had surrendered to his touch and his alone- the thought made Eris giddy. Undeserving. Eris swallows inexplicable emotion as the wretched sight of Azriel, ashened and queasy, makes him let go.

A desperate whimper and suddenly, the shadowsinger is too close. His face is riddled with horror and shame, eyes wide as if he hadn’t understood what he had just done or why.

The Autumn Prince’s lips stretch wickedly and his hands return to their sanctum. There's a tightening ache in his own chest, “Are you brave enough to tell me why you want this? Is it simply solace from the cold?”

“Eris-”

And then, because Eris Vanserra is a cruel creature, he casts his fingertips alight with flame as he presses them into frozen skin like snubbing a cigar into an ash-tray. Azriel gasps, pain taut in his beautiful eyes. He shakes in anger but for all his protest and drama, he stays exactly where Eris can hurt him. 

“Good boy,” He coos, mean laughter escaping him when the trembling man glares at him- spiteful, humiliated, piercing. In mockery of an apology, Eris blows hot air on the pink blisters with his other hand on Azriel’s waist- locking the other in place. He shudders when the Ilyrian moans. Eris is tempted to kiss the skin a breath below his lips, deliberating between sadism, in which he wishes to see Azriel’s pained face when he’s kissed, and mercy- a dull knife to put a messy end to the shadowsinger's conundrum. Inexplicable emotion rises in his throat like bile.

“Put some ointment on those,” Eris says, stepping back. His fingertips are cold and sore now and he smirks before turning away, “Or don’t.”